by Tabor Evans
Longarm frowned and said, "This is likely another wild guess, but Fort Halleck is along the South Platte. So can we be sure such a mysterious traveler was a woman, and not a short gent dressed silly as hell?"
The older man laughed knowingly. "She was pure she, and built sort of tempting. I helped her out of the cart, and you know how a helping hand might grasp the situation sort of accidental. When I told the sheriff that he said I was a dirty old man. He should talk. Everyone in town except his wife knows about the sheriff and that young schoolmarm."
Longarm hadn't come all this way to listen to small-town gossip. "If your sheriff was so interested in that same young gal in that same pony cart, he must have had a reason. Did he say what it was?" he asked.
"Sure he did. He wanted to know if I'd hired any stock to anybody new in town, and when I told him I had, we got down to possibles. He said he figured some married man was carrying on over in the willows, too. The rascal who shot up Fort Halleck must have got out there on his own mount. There ain't a horse owned by anyone around here that can't be accounted for at the time of the shoot-up."
Longarm thanked him and headed back to his hotel, mulling over what he had been told. Assuming young Slade had been keeping that purloined army mount somewhere in Denver and had started riding just after he sung so awful in the Parthenon, it still wouldn't work. Following the South Platte and its forage and water all this way would have taken even a horse-killer more than the time they had to work with. Aside from having to ride faster than the Pony Express ever had, and then some, the country between here and Denver, while still mighty open, wasn't so open that a stranger of any description going lickety-split on a lathered horse would not get noticed at all.
By the time he got back all the way he had decided his want had gotten to Julesburg the way he had, by train. There was just no way to ride a horse, invisible, for a good hundred and fifty miles in less than three days, even if one hated his horse. Just as important, the rascal had ridden off, on something, after shooting up that army canteen. So unless he'd boarded a late-night train paying half-fare for a four-legged kid under twelve, which hardly seemed likely, he'd found a mount at this end of the trip.
Longarm went over that gal in the pony cart again. They had not reported a gal shooting up Fort Halleck. On the other hand, a gal could change into a cow outfit and likely pass for at least a short cowhand. But that raised more questions than it answered. The army could hardly have mistaken even a skinny little recruit for a gal, casual as some medical exams might be. While the sly old dog at the livery could hardly have mistaken a he for a she as he stole a feel. Black Jack Junior had to be a he. If he didn't want folk to know where he was or what he was up to, he'd only have to calm down. Nobody noticed a mousy little runt who behaved halfway sensibly.
Myrtle greeted Longarm in the lobby and asked how he'd made out. He said, "They didn't have a single horse for sale or hire."
"Well, I won't sell you my Blue Boy, but you can ride him all you like for two bits a day," she said.
He brightened and said he hadn't known she kept her own stock.
"I was hoping you'd be able to pick one up at the livery," she said. "I don't like to hire out my personal mount. Blue Boy has a tender mouth and he's used to carrying considerably less weight. But if you promise to ride him gentle, and look out for prairie-dog holes, I'll hire him out just this once."
He agreed to treat her Blue Boy like a brother and ran up to get his own gear as she called after him that she'd meet him out back. In his room he shucked his coat and string tie. It was going to get hotter before it got cooler. He lugged his gear downstairs and, sure enough, found Myrtle talking to an old steel-gray gelding in the stable out back. She was feeding the brute dining-room sugar cubes and telling it not to be afraid as Longarm joined them to observe mildly, "It's your horse, ma'am. But they like apples or even carrots just as well, and such treats don't rot their teeth as bad."
She said she knew Blue Boy was spoiled, but that she'd never been able to resist a pleading male. He was too polite to point out that a gelding wasn't exactly a male, once it had been cut. He told the sleek critter how much he Red it, too, and had no trouble saddling up. Getting Blue Boy's sweet teeth to accept the bit he'd brought along as well was more trouble. Myrtle said he was used to her own bridle and he agreed, grudgingly, since while it was in fact a bridle, it was silver-mounted sissy, and the bit was intended more for spoiling pets than serious riding. As he led the spoiled pet out into the alley, Myrtle followed, and as he mounted up she warned him not to lope too fast in the cruel, hot sun.
He assured her he'd keep to the shady side of the trail and as he heeled Blue Boy into motion--slow motion--it became obvious that, whatever they might be up to, even a brisk trot could not be what the lazy critter had in mind.
He waited until they'd strolled out of sight before he kicked harder and growled, "I know, it's almost noon and that there ain't no shady side of the Overland Trail But the sooner we get out of this sun the better, so move you otherwise total waste of sugar cubes!"
Blue Boy stopped dead in his tracks, turned his head back to roll one reproachful eye at Longarm, but decided not to bite his boot tip after all when Longarm stared back sternly and said, "Go on. Just you try it and I'll kick your sugar-rotted teeth up into your empty skull."
Blue Boy had some brains, after all. He heaved a defeated sigh and commenced to trot. That jarred a rider astride more than it might a lady seated side-saddle, but it was a mile-eating if uncomfortable pace, and it was, in fact, too hot at this hour to lope a critter he'd promised to return in good shape.
As they trotted the trail, raising enough dust for a Cheyenne war party, Longarm noted other drifting dust above the horizon all around. That meant the posse riders had split up to circle wide for sign on the flatter prairie this far east of the front ranges. Longarm doubted they'd cut much sign as he stared at the overgrazed range closer to the trail. The 'dobe soil was summer baked as hard as the bricks one could make from it, without having to fire. At this time of the year you could maybe cut it with a knife, but even a steel-shod hoof wouldn't leave a serious mark on it. The scrub-brush stubble of wiry dry short-grass would no more hold a hoofprint than a welcome mat on a brick porch. He glanced to the south, where the South Platte had to be running, if there was water in it. For water was the thing to consider when tracking Cheyenne or worse out here in high summer. But he saw by more rising dust that the others looking for Black Jack Junior had that bet covered. If he'd watered his mount over that way it would soon be known. So there was no need for side tripping, and the sooner he got to the army post the sooner they'd be able to fill in some missing facts for him.
It might not have taken that long by the clock but it felt like they'd been trotting on a hot stove all day by the time they got to Fort Halleck.
The name was sort of boastful. The army outpost had never been what one thought of as a fort, back when it had been built to keep an eye on wild buffalo and rampaging Indians pestering the Overland Trail. Since then both the buffalo and the Indians had been whittled down considerably, and there was only a modest post-operating company of army engineers stationed there.
As he turned off the trail running past it, Longarm saw they had nobody posted at the main gate, which was more like a gap in the three-strand bobwire around the quarter section or so. A sun-faded flag hung listlessly from a lodgepole flagstaff that sure could have used more whitewash. The buildings on the far side of the dust-paved parade could have started out most any color. Twenty-odd years of summer dust and winter snow had turned them all to what looked sort of like big gray pasteboard shoe boxes.
He spied a sign that had once been gold and red in front of post headquarters and reined in to dismount. As he was tethering Blue Boy near a watering trough nobody had thought to put water in of late, a burly sergeant came out on the veranda. "This is U.S. Army property, cowboy. Are you authorized to be on this post?" he asked.
Longarm moved up to joi
n him in the shade. "If I wasn't, I'd be here anyway, thanks to all the guards you have along your wispy fence. But don't get your bowels in an uproar, Sarge. I am federal, too. Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long. I'm here to look into that shoot-up you had out here last evening."
The sergeant said, "Oh, you'd best talk to the commander, then," and led him inside to talk to an overagein-grade first lieutenant. Longarm had to take their word about his rank. The poor red-faced cuss was sitting at his desk in his undershirt with a bottle of sloe gin, half empty, in front of him. He stared up morosely at Longarm. "They wired us some army investigators was on their way to look into the incident. We're under orders not to discuss army business with anyone else," he told Longarm.
Longarm said, "I know Colonel Walthers of old. We can work this out two ways. You can let me poke about and talk to any of your men who might have witnessed what went on or you can order me off your post, in writing, signed, so I can offer that as evidence that you refused the help of the Justice Department when it was offered."
The lieutenant looked even sadder. "I don't think I want to do that. I was taught my first day in the army to never be first, never be last, and never volunteer. I don't want trouble with any federal department. Why don't you just leave quiet?"
Longarm said, "I'll be glad to, if you order me off your post in writing. I don't like to be in trouble neither, and my boss is twice as mean as any colonel. He told me to come up here and investigate the shoot-up on this post. Your move."
The burly sergeant snarled, "You heard what the lieutenant said," and grabbed Longarm's arm to haul him outside. Longarm planted a left cross in his face, sending him to the floor. He whipped out his.44-40 and told the man rising on the far side of the desk, "That was not a good move. I know I can't lick a whole company of engineers, but I got five in this wheel and two more in my belly derringer. You ain't getting me to leave, alive, without a note to the teacher. So what's it going to be?"
The lieutenant sank back down, helped himself to an unhealthy belt of gin, and said, "Damn it, you heard me say I didn't want any trouble. Go over to the canteen and talk to the corporal in charge, if you must. But you'd better leave before Sergeant Fagan, there, wakes up again."
"Don't you have any control over him, Lieutenant?"
"I don't know. He's the bully of the post, and nobody's ever knocked him out before."
Longarm holstered his gun and left. He led Blue Boy to the long, and low building with "Post Canteen" painted above its door and tethered his mount on the shady side. He went in and found at least a full platoon lounging about at the camp tables scattered across the sawdusted floor. He bellied up to the smaller than usual bar and told the corporal behind it he wanted a beer and a rundown on the visit of Black Jack Junior, in that order.
The beer was the watery stuff the army allowed on post and the enlisted barkeep said he hadn't been there, adding, "Grogan, the regular man, here, never knew what hit him. I'm his replacement."
Longarm turned to brace his elbows on the bar as he asked if anyone there had seen the fight. A tall, skinny private who looked too old to be in the army said, "I was sitting right about here. I wound up in yon corner before the smoke cleared. The son of a bitching civilian kilt the man I was talking to, and two others, before he shot out the lamp and left, yelling like a banshee. Two others was hit, but not as serious."
Longarm glanced up to see that the shiny brass lamp now hanging from the low rafters was the only thing in the place that looked new. "Did anybody hear what the fuss was about?"
Another, more intelligent-looking soldier said, "Not every word. But as the conversation was short and sharp I suspect I can put it together fair enough. This sawed-off cowboy strode in like he owned the place and demanded a drink. Since this is a pure army canteen it's safe to assume old Grogan told him he couldn't serve civilians here. Then Grogan was dead and all hell was busting loose. The cute little rascal had two big.45s and they sure did echo under that low ceiling. I ain't sure Slim's right about him leaving with a banshee wail. It sounded more like singing to me."
"It was," another man said, "I heard it. It was that mean song the cavalry sings about us engineers. The one that goes, 'The Engineers has dirty ears, the dirty sons of bitches.'"
There was a murmur of agreement. Longarm nodded. "I can see why the post regulations against serving civilians is not in force right now. You say two of the men he shot was only wounded?"
The barkeep behind him said, "That was after he shot out the lamp. Grogan went down right where I'm standing, with his shirt on fire and his heart blown out his back. Murphy, standing about where you are now, took one through the heart as well. The other two was hit more casual but just as dead."
Longarm left his own gun holstered but raised his hand to aim at the new lamp with his index finger. "Yeah, the rascal is better, point blank. That couldn't have been much comfort to the boys he had to aim at. I suspect I know, but could any of you give me a good description of the killer?"
The one called Slim said, "Who could forget him? He was knee-high to a grasshopper, had on a big black hat meant for a bigger skull, and I remember wondering why on earth anyone would want to wear fur chaps in open country in such hot weather."
"Goat-skin chaps, black and white?" asked Longarm.
"They was black and white and hairy," Slim said. "I never got to ask him whether he'd skint a goat or not. Oh, he had on big Mex spurs. The kind that jingle."
"Over high heels or low?"
"High and Texas, as I recall. It didn't make him all that tall, though, now that I picture him some more."
Another man offered, "I have a kid brother back home about the same size. He's twelve. The one as shot all them boys looks a bit older, but not much. I'd say you was looking for a crazy young cowboy about fourteen or sixteen."
Longarm knew Black Jack Junior was in his twenties, but the description fit the mean little cuss he'd had words with in the Parthenon, and two such critters running loose made no sense at all. So he finished his weak beer, thanked them one and all for their help, and went back outside.
As he was untethering Blue Boy, the burly Sergeant Fagan came around the corner, eyes glaring as well as swelling shut, by now. Longarm nodded pleasantly and said, "Howdy. I'm sorry I had to do that, Sarge. But don't never lay hands on a grown man unless you mean it."
"The lieutenant just gave me a direct order not to do that no more while you're on this post. Is it safe to assume you mean to stay in Julesburg long?" the bully asked.
"No longer than I have to. But I may be there the next time you're off duty," Longarm said.
Fagan said, "I'm glad. For the next time we meet I'll be in my civvies, wearing my sidearm. Consider yourself warned."
Longarm said, "Thanks, I'll keep your word of cheer in mind. I hope you know you're talking dumb, though. I'm packing a badge as well as a gun. The gun is double-action. So I'd be taking unfair advantage of you, even if you got lucky."
"Are you scared to face a man, fair, after cold-cocking him?"
"Sure I am. You're a lot bigger than the gunslick they sent me after, and you're talking almost as wild. I didn't cold-cock you. You laid hands on me first and, like I said, getting hit goes with the poorly studied move. I don't care if you're still sore about that. But I want you to listen to my own friendly word of warning. If you make me hurt you more serious, I'll no doubt be let off. I've met idjets like you before and, as you can see, they ain't hung me yet. If you take me, and I doubt you can, they'll hang you for murder and we'll both be dead."
"See here! A man has rights, and you just busted my nose."
"I said I was sorry, and you'd best see here as well. Things ain't the way they might have been in the bad old days, and even Black Jack Slade got swung when things might have seemed more casual out here. So you'd best simmer down. I know more than one lawman, less kind-hearted than me, who'd just love to add you to his rep. Fortunately for you, I ain't looking for a rep. But if you ever meet my sidekicks, Smiley
and Dutch, from the same Denver office, watch your fool mouth. They've often chided me for my more gentle manners."
As he swung into his saddle, Fagan bawled, "I ain't scared of any damn civilian. In my day I've fought Sioux and worse!"
Longarm didn't answer that he'd seen his share of Indian fighting. There was no sense wasting words on a pure fool. He could only hope the fool was only sounding off. He hated it when men told him in advance they were gunning for him. He never knew, when next they met, whether to say howdy or go for his gun.
CHAPTER 7
Having given fair warning before noon, the prairie sun was doing its best to kill everything in sight as it glared down from its inverted bowl of cloudless cobalt sky.
They were a little more than halfway back to town when Longarm spied dust rising from the trail ahead and told Blue Boy, "Easy, now. That ain't a whirlwind coming at us. Some other damn fool is on the trail in this infernal heat."
Blue Boy cocked his ears and broke into a happy lope toward what Longarm could now see was a pony cart coming to meet them. It had to be the one the livery hired out for women and children to ride in. It took him only a mite longer to see that the woman abusing the pony in front of her was Myrtle from the hotel. She was wearing the same polka-dot dress, but at least she'd had the sense to shade her head with a big straw picture hat.
As they met, Blue Boy sniffed at her like a begging pup and, sure enough, she fed him another sugar cube and patted his muzzle. She told Longarm, "I was getting worried about you two. All the other riders from town have been back a spell, and thermometers are starting to bust in the shade."
Longarm told her risking a sunstroke herself was no way to make it any cooler. "I watered this critter just before we left the post, and he spent most of the time out there in the shade. I wish I'd been made to feel as welcome. You say the posse riders have given up on Black Jack Junior?" he asked.