by Tabor Evans
“You’re sayin’ you want me to be your town marshal?” Longarm asked.
“Exactly.” Monroe smiled. “We don’t have a badge for you to wear, but I can order one out of the Sears catalog. In the meantime we could fashion something that would serve the purpose.”
Longarm laughed. And pulled out his wallet. “Something like this one here?”
Monroe leaned forward to peer at the badge Longarm displayed. Then he rocked back on his heels. “You are . . . ?”
“Uh-huh,” Longarm said. “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. I happen to be on vacation right now, though you wouldn’t know that from the way things are goin’ for me lately, but, yes, I am one. I work for Billy Vail down in Denver.”
“I guess you think our offer pathetic then.”
“Not at all,” Longarm told the man. “Fact is, I’m flattered that you would think of me, and I hope you’ll find someone to take the job and do it justice for you. And for Bedlam.”
Monroe sighed. “I will tell the committee, of course.”
“If there is anything I can do for you . . . short of wearin’ your badge, that is . . . just ask.”
“You already did quite a lot for us when you killed . . . defended yourself from Henry Lewis. Bedlam is a nicer place for it.”
“The man was, um, something of a nuisance, I’d guess,” Longarm said.
“That and then some,” Monroe agreed.
“Say, while I’m right here, d’you have any good jerky I could buy?”
Monroe the town committeeman immediately turned into Monroe the salesman. “I have some of the best,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Deer, elk, or bear. No beef, I’m afraid. No point in hauling it all the way up here when we can make all we need from the mountains around us. And for you . . . my best price.”
“Elk jerky then. Five pounds of it. An’ a sack o’ rice. And coffee. I’m a little low on coffee too. I’ll look around while you’re getting those together and see if I can think of anything else I need.”
Chapter 40
Two days out of Bedlam, and after three false starts into drainages that were not what he wanted, Longarm found the first of the claims noted on the Fort Collins land office clerk’s map.
It was a hardscrabble outfit if Longarm ever saw one. It consisted of a Sibley tent set up on a bench beside the waters of a small stream, along with a tarp strung on what was left of some tree trunks after the tops had been harvested for some reason.
The beginnings of a mine showed on the canyon wall above the camp. A trash heap of broken rock spilled down the hillside below the mine opening.
Longarm did not know how many men might have been inside the hole, but he clearly saw the one who set aside the pans he was busy washing and picked up his rifle at the first sight of a stranger approaching.
“That’s close enough, mister,” the guard called out when Longarm was about thirty yards downstream from the claim. “Halt and state your business.”
“Passing through, that’s all,” Longarm shouted back to the man.
The fellow was lean and shaggy. It looked like it had been weeks since he’d had a shave, longer since his last haircut. He was hatless and dressed in bib overalls but no shirt and no shoes.
“You’re alone?”
“I am,” Longarm shouted. “I don’t mean you no harm. Mind if I come in an’ climb down off’n this animal for a while? It would feel awful good to stretch my legs and have a human person to talk to. I ain’t had nobody but these two animals to visit with for days, and they don’t say much.”
The guard laughed and said, “All right then. Come ahead.”
But Longarm noticed that the fellow did not set his rifle aside.
Longarm nudged the mare with his heels and the sturdy horse moved forward. He reined to a halt near the tarpaulin fly and dismounted there. He tied the mare to one of the stakes holding a guy rope for the tarp and left the burro’s lead rope tied to the horn on his saddle.
He introduced himself—by name but not by occupation—and got back, “Charles Jones. I’m one of the owners here.”
One of the owners, Longarm already knew from the claim filing, along with Jerry Wilson, Thomas Wilson, Randall Oakes, and Cory Bettencort.
“Light and have a cup of calico tea if you like,” Jones offered. “We’re all out of coffee, but we have a little tinned milk left to make the calico tea.” He smiled. “It ain’t bad once you get used to it, even without sugar, which we also run out of.”
“Oh, I’ve been down to calico a time or two,” Longarm said. It was the truth. And the stuff was not awful. At least it was hot and filled a man’s belly. “I thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass for now. No offense, I hope.”
“None taken,” Jones said. “I don’t suppose you’d sell that burro, would you? Me and my partners walked in. Had us a burro of our own, but something took and ate it. Catamount, maybe, or a bear.”
“How do you figure to get your ore out when you want to sell it?” Longarm asked, genuinely curious.
Jones shrugged. “Pack it out on our own backs, whatever ones of us go down to civilization. That should pay enough that we can buy some animals. And some supplies. Say, you wouldn’t have any coffee or beans or anything you’d sell to us, would you? We don’t have much in the way of cash, but we’d pay what we could.”
“Reckon I could share with you,” Longarm said, looking around for horse droppings. Jane Nellis had made it clear that the men who raided their claim had come on horseback. She had mentioned something about their animals. And the fact that they had two packhorses with them.
That information pretty much ruled out Charles Jones and partners as the Nellis raiders.
“I have a little coffee here too if it would help,” he said.
“Coffee? Lord, mister, any one of us would kill for a cup of coffee,” Jones said.
Longarm chuckled and said, “Let me dig some out o’ my pack then an’ we’ll brew up a pot. How are you fixed for eatables? I got a little rice I could share, I think, an’ some cornmeal.”
“Mister, you are a godsend,” Jones said, setting the rifle aside and coming eagerly forward. He turned, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, “Hey, boys. Coffee. We got coffee a-brewing down here. You’d best come quick or I’ll damn sure drink it all.”
He was grinning broadly when he turned back to face Longarm.
Chapter 41
Jones and his partners were a pleasant bunch. Young, all of them, and determined to make their fortune in mining. Longarm saw the quality of their ore—silver—and suspected this mine would not be the basis of anyone’s fortune.
But one find was not necessarily the end of the road for their hopes. When this claim petered out—and he suspected that it would—he felt sure these boys had the determination to pick up and move on. Searching. Scrambling. He hoped they would fulfill their dreams. Eventually. Not here, perhaps, but eventually.
He left them with half his coffee and a third of his rice but declined their invitation to stay the night in their camp.
That was only partially because he did not want to eat what little they had to offer.
Mostly it was because he was uncomfortable lying down to sleep among strangers. A man just never knew . . .
Longarm shared a cup of java with the boys, then wished them well and swung into the saddle again.
“I have an hour or so of daylight. Reckon I’d best use it. Say, you haven’t run across any other fellas out this way, have you?”
“We haven’t done any wandering,” Tom Wilson told him. Wilson was a lean scarecrow of a man, his brother Jerry looking like a twin despite a two-year difference in their ages. Wilson smiled ruefully and said, “If we wanted to walk, we’d walk down to Bedlam for some supplies. You said it’s a couple days by horseback? Think what that hike would be for us without no horse nor even a b
urro.”
“What you need,” Longarm said, “is mules, but they come awful dear. An’ that’s to say nothing ’bout feeding them.” He looked around. “There sure ain’t much for an animal to eat on around here. Nothing but rock.”
“Yeah, but rock is where you find the mineral,” the other Wilson said. “Are you sure you won’t stay the night?”
Nice fellows. But Longarm had the sneaking suspicion that they would like to have his horse and burro.
He touched the brim of his Stetson in farewell.
And touched a spur to the side of the mare. She and her fuzzy-eared friend moved out smartly, and the first of the four mines on his map was quickly left behind.
Chapter 42
The second mine was named the A.M., filed on and registered to a Jonas Morgan.
Once he became better oriented by finding the Jones outfit, Longarm had an easier time of finding the A.M.
It very quickly became apparent that this had nothing to do with Frank Nellis or the raiders who killed him. The M in the mine’s name stood for Morgan and the A for his wife Alva.
The outfit was being worked by just the two of them, Jonas doing the digging and Alva providing what was really a fairly nice home for him there under the canvas of their tents, one for sleeping and the other for storage and cooking.
Alva had fixed it all up. She’d even found some decorative leafs somewhere on the hills around them and arranged those like they were flowers.
There were no windows to put curtains on, but Longarm was sure the lady would have hung some if she’d only had windows.
Jonas was a husky man, probably in his late thirties. His wife was short and scrawny. Both had coal-black hair. Longarm hesitated to guess Alva’s age—it was something he did badly—but if held to, he would have pegged her at at least ten years younger than Jonas.
They were a friendly and welcoming couple, seemingly with no worry that they might be raided, just the two of them so far from any form of civilization.
Longarm was sure they had a rifle or a shotgun tucked away somewhere. After all, they had fresh meat that they were willing to share. But neither one of them reached for a weapon when he rode up on their camp.
He hoped that trust in their fellow man would not backfire on them sometime in the future.
“Light and set, mister,” Alva said. “I’ll call my man down to meet you.” She smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “We get to see so few folks out this way. Here, let me get him.”
She gathered up her skirts and scampered up the hillside to their mine, which even from down beside a thin, probably seasonal creek Longarm could see was properly shored up and well constructed. He noticed that Alva left their possessions unguarded and seemed to have no concern about that.
When Jonas came down with her to meet their visitor, the man was smiling and had his hand outstretched to shake before he was within ten paces of Longarm.
“You’ll stay and eat with us, won’t you?” the man said as soon as the introductions were complete. “Alva does wonders with venison pot roast and wild onions.” He smacked his lips and added, “Magnificent.”
“I’d be honored,” Longarm said. “Mind if I unsaddle and let the mare have a little relief.”
“Please do. Put her and the little fellow up the canyon with our boys, if you like. There’s some wild hay that I gathered. Give them each an armful of that. You will stay the night, won’t you?”
It was still no later than mid-afternoon, but Longarm found himself nodding agreement. He dropped his bedroll off his pack and considered what he might offer to them in exchange for their hospitality. He would have to decide that in the morning. This afternoon he probably could get an idea of what they lacked. Although at first look, Jonas and Alva Morgan seemed to have prepared themselves very well for a long and, he hoped, a prosperous stay.
The “boys” tied on a picket rope above a twist in the canyon proved to be three stout, handsome mules. Yes, Jonas had prepared well.
The mules gave him a curious look when he showed up leading the mare and the burro, but they did not offer to fight.
Longarm swept up an armload of wild hay from a large pile and dropped it in front of his animals, then stripped the saddle and the pack from the two of them.
He spent a few minutes currying them and checking their feet before returning to the Morgans’ tent.
Alva already had a pot of coffee on the fire and a larger pot of meat simmering.
“Welcome,” Jonas said. “Now, sit, please, and tell us what is going on in the world outside. We haven’t heard nor seen a thing in the past three months, so any news you can tell us would be greatly appreciated.”
Chapter 43
“You might be surprised,” Jonas said over the rim of his coffee cup—crockery, not tin—as he squatted on a homemade stool. “There are more people in these hills and more minerals claims than you might think. And not all of the claims are ever filed. It is too far down to the nearest land office for folks to file papers unless they are sure of what they have. Sometimes not then too.”
He pursed his lips and looked at his wife. “So many of these finds don’t prove worthwhile, you see. A man will dig for two, three months. Maybe the work will pay off. More often than not it’s a waste. But if you don’t try, well, you don’t hit your strike. It’s all a big gamble.”
“What about you?” Longarm asked. “Is this find going to pay out for you?”
Again Jonas looked at his wife, but this time he did not immediately answer.
Longarm smiled, suspecting what it was that made the man hesitate. “I haven’t seen cause to mention it before now,” Longarm said, “but I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. I ain’t after gold or silver or anything else that comes out o’ the ground.”
“Do you have credentials to prove that?” Jonas asked.
“Sure.” Longarm dug into his pocket and produced his wallet and badge. He handed them across the fire to Jonas and accepted a refill of coffee from Alva. He stirred some canned milk and a little wild honey into the coffee.
Jonas looked at Alva and got a nod from her before he handed the wallet back. Then he smiled. “This one will pay out,” he said. “In another year or so we’ll need to put a road in so we can haul ore down to a crusher and smelter. But that won’t be for a while, of course.”
“You seem to know your business,” Longarm observed.
“I should. I studied geology and mineral sciences at Pennsylvania State College,” Jonas said proudly.
“That’s where you’re from? Pennsylvania?” Longarm asked. He still had a nagging disregard for Pennsylvania due to his West Virginia roots.
“Both of us are,” Jonas said. “We’re from a small burg, more of a hamlet really, called Needmore.” He grinned. “Nobody’s ever heard of it except us and the folks who still live there.”
“Oh, that ain’t so. I heard of it. Used to know a fella that came from there.”
Jonas raised an eyebrow, so Longarm added, “His name was . . . let me think, it’s been a while . . . his name was Beavers. Loyce Beavers.”
“I don’t know anybody named Loyce, but I went to grammar school with a boy named Charlie Beavers. Likely they’d be kin. So tell us what you’re doing up here, Deputy.”
“Lookin’ for some men that raided a mining camp. They kidnapped a girl an’ likely killed the owner.”
“Oh? I don’t like the sound of that,” Jonas said.
“What are their names?” Alva put in.
“Nellis,” Longarm said. “The man’s name is Frank Nellis.”
“Does he have a wife named Jane?” Alva asked.
“Matter o’ fact, yes. She got away. Right now she’s down in Silver Plume recovering from a gunshot wound,” Longarm said.
“Oh, the poor dear. Jonas, you remember them, don’t you? Frank and Jane? I’m pretty sure
their name is Nellis.”
“You’ve met them?” Longarm began to feel a flutter of excitement in his gut, the excitement of the chase.
“Yes, we have,” Jonas said. “They passed through here a couple months back.”
“A lovely couple,” Alva said. “And that girl.” She did not sound so enthusiastic when she mentioned Sybil.
“Nice folks, Frank and Jane,” Jonas affirmed. But he did not mention the daughter at all.
“Do you have any idea where they were bound?” Longarm asked.
Jonas shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. They were on their way in when we met them. I can tell you where we advised them to go.”
“But we don’t know if they went there,” Alva said.
“It’s worth a try,” Longarm told them. He leaned back and accepted the steaming bowl of stew that Alva handed him. The scent rising from it made his mouth water. And the taste of it bettered the scent. “Ma’am, this has to be the best stew this side o’ Denver.” He grinned. “Maybe the best this side o’ Needmore, Pennsylvania.”
He meant every word of it.
Chapter 44
After supper, Longarm walked with Jonas into the side canyon so they could water the livestock and see that there was plenty of hay available to them. Then the two men sat beside the creek and smoked a pair of Longarm’s cheroots.
They sat there smoking and idly talking about Pennsylvania and West Virginia—neither had been back in years, Longarm not in considerably longer a time than Jonas—while the evening came down over the mountains.
A herd of seven mule deer drifted down to drink from the thin run of water.
“There isn’t an evening,” Jonas said in a subdued voice, “that I couldn’t knock down a deer or an elk or sometimes one of those curly horned mountain sheep. It’s fine up here. The only thing we lack is roads and people.” He smiled. “Which is one of the best things about it.”