Longarm and the Great Divide (11 page)

Longarm whipped up a nice froth in his soap mug and used his brush to plaster it onto his face. He lighted a cheroot to fill the time while he waited for the shaving soap to soften his beard stubble.

His thoughts inevitably went to the girl who had come into his room during the night. It had not occurred to him until she was gone that he never got around to asking her name. Not that he supposed that mattered. She gave a great blow job and was a wildcat in bed. What more would a boy need to know?

He set the cigar aside, ran his razor several times back and forth across a strop, and commenced to carefully shave. When he was done with that he used a hand towel—whorehouses are well equipped with towels if with nothing else—to wipe the remaining soap from his face.

Taking a pair of small, sharp scissors from his bag, he trimmed his mustache, then dampened a corner of the towel, dipped that into a tin of salt and scrubbed his teeth. A quick run of a brush over his hair and he was ready to face a new day.

It would be nice, he thought, if he could get through it without being shot at.

No, he corrected himself, it would be nice if he could catch the son of a bitch who was shooting at him. So far he had no idea who that might be. Or why.

He pulled his shirt over his head—he really had to remember to send his laundry down today—tucked it into his trousers and slipped his suspenders over his shoulders.

Longarm buckled his gun belt around his hips and from long habit eased the heavy Colt out a few inches to make sure it was free in the leather, then carefully seated it again, ready for instant use if that should be required.

He quickly fastened his collar and tie, picked up his hat and put it on, then finally reached for his coat and shrugged into it.

Who, damnit? Why? The questions kept hounding him, but there was nothing he could do to satisfy them. Not at the moment, he couldn't.

Longarm went downstairs and outside, then turned toward the Valmere side of town, heading to the café and some breakfast, ready to start a new day.

“Marshal, there's a fight brewing over at the mercantile,” the nearly breathless boy shouted.

Longarm stood. “Which side o' town, son?” There were two general stores, one on each side of the line, just like pretty much everything else around here, and he had learned by now to make sure he was dashing off to the correct side of town before he did the dashing.

“Wyoming, sir.”

He grabbed his Stetson off the peg he had put into the wall beside the doorway and headed at a lope for Garrett Franz's store.

When he got there he found Franz facing off with a red-faced and obviously very angry cowboy. The cowboy was a good head taller than Franz, and his posture was threatening. Like most cowhands he carried a pistol on his hip when he was in town, although he might not have bothered with the weight and the nuisance when he was working. Franz was not armed, which likely saved him from the young cowboy's fury.

“You're a cheating son of a bitch,” the cowboy bawled, his voice cracking.

“Call me whatever you like,” Franz snapped back at him, “but you asked me to perform a service and I did so. It's too late now for you to balk at the price.”

“You deliberately cheated me, damn you,” the cowboy shouted.

For a moment Longarm thought the young man was going for his gun. Longarm's .45 was in his hand and ready to bark, but all the cowboy did was scratch his belly. He never actually touched the butt of his Colt.

Garrett Franz must have had the same impression as Longarm. Presumably assuming that his customer was reaching for his gun, Franz lashed out at the tall young man, burying his fist in the cowboy's belly.

Longarm expected the cowboy to respond by beating the crap out of the shopkeeper. Certainly that was what most rugged young men would have done. Instead the boy doubled over, holding his stomach with both hands and dropping to his knees.

That behavior seemed odd. Until Longarm saw the young fellow's blood spilling out onto the rough planks of the floor.

And saw the now-bloody blade of a knife in Garret Franz's fist. The shopkeeper had been hiding a stinger beneath his apron.

“You saw him, Marshal,” Franz said calmly. “He was going for his gun. I only defended myself. You saw. You were standing right there. You saw it all.”

The cowboy continued to clutch his stomach. He looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he said nothing.

“Put that thing away, Franz, an' help me get him over to the jail,” Longarm said, nodding in the direction of the knife that Franz continued to hold.

“What? Oh, uh, yes, of course.” Franz tucked the blade away somewhere under his apron, grabbed the cowboy by the arms and yanked the young fellow to his feet.

“Where do you want him, Marshal?”

“We'll take him over to the jail. I can stretch him out on one o' the bunks.”

Longarm got on one side of the cowboy and Franz took the other. Between them they half carried, half walked the cowboy out of the general store and down the street to the jail.

“In there,” Longarm said, pointing to the lone cell at the back of the little building. They took the cowboy into the cell and laid him on the crude bunk.

When they stepped back out, leaving the cowboy there, Franz said, “For what it is worth, Marshal, Bobby there is banned from my shop. Permanently.”

“What was he arguing about?” Longarm asked.

“He wanted a pair a chaps made with his personal brand inlayed on the right leg and his initials on the left. I had to take the chaps out of my stock and send them down to Cheyenne to have the work done. I don't do it myself, you understand. I had the chaps made up to his exact specifications and paid the shoemaker . . . the fellow who did the actual work . . . out of my own pocket. Bobby became upset when I told him the price. You saw the result.”

“Yes,” Longarm said. “So I did.” He also thought, but did not say out loud, that he was anxious to hear the cowboy, Bobby something, give his side of the story.

Longarm saw Franz out, then returned to the cell where Bobby something lay curled up into a tight ball on the rough planks of the bunk.

“Sir?” The voice was weak but at least the young fellow was awake now. Longarm got up and went into the cell. He sat on the edge of the bunk where Bobby lay.

“Yeah, kid?”

“You . . . you're the marshal?”

Longarm nodded. “I am.”

“You'll tell me straight, won't you? Am I gonna die?”

Longarm smiled down at the worried youngster. “Hell, kid, we're all of us gonna die. Eventually.”

“I . . . I mean . . .”

“Oh, I know what you mean an' if I could tell you I would. But I just don't know. It all depends on what got punctured in there. I've seen a man shot in the gut with a .50-caliber Sharps an' live. On the other hand I've seen a man keel over an' die without no reason at all, 'least none that I could figure. How do you feel?”

Bobby reflected on the question for a moment before he answered. “Like I got a bellyache,” he said finally.

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad, sir. Can I have something to drink, sir?”

“I seem t' recall bein' told once that a man with a belly wound shouldn't have nothing to drink. An' you don't have to call me ‘sir,'” Longarm said.

“Whoever told you that didn't have a hole in his gut,” Bobby said.

“You have a point. I wouldn't think a little whiskey would hurt. Might help damp the pain down some.” He smiled. “I just happen t' have a bottle I brought over from the saloon.”

“Which side, sir?”

Longarm laughed. “You aren't so bad off, I'm thinking, if you can think about that. An' it came from the Nebraska side.”

“In that case, sir, I'd sure like to have me a drink.”

Longarm stood up and went out into the office side of the room to fetch the bottle he had purchased from Jason Potts. He got it and returned to the cell. “Can you sit up?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Bobby levered himself upright, still holding his belly with one hand.

Longarm pulled the cork and handed him the bottle. “I don't have a glass for you.”

Bobby smiled. “That's all right, sir.”

“Tell me something, kid. If all you cowboys know about the difference in the quality o' the liquor on the two sides o' the street, how's come you always stay to the one side or the other an' don't never cross over to get the best deal or the best liquor?”

Bobby took a healthy pull on the bottle, then shrugged. “I don't really know, sir. That's just the way it is. Our outfit always sticks to the Wyoming side. Always have.” He took another drink.

“Is that helping you any?” Longarm asked.

“Yes, sir. Some. It's easing the pain a mite.” He drank again, deeper this time, then returned the bottle to Longarm. “Here, sir. I shouldn't be drinking up all your whiskey.”

“Keep it if you like. I know where I can get more.” Longarm smiled. “From the Nebraska side.”

Bobby grinned. And took another swallow.

“Listen, I have a deck o' cards an' a board if you want to play cribbage or something,” Longarm offered.

The infectious grin returned. “I'll beat you, sir. I'm pretty good at cribbage. We play it in the bunkhouse a lot.”

“That ain't gonna happen.” Longarm laughed. “'Specially if I get you good an' drunk. Have another taste o' that bottle there.”

“I will. And you, sir, get your board so I can whup you at cribbage, drunk or not.”

Longarm went to get the makings of a game.

Come evening Longarm had Harrison McPhail at the Nebraska side café boil a bowl of porridge for Bobby and carried it to him on a tray loaded with sugar and canned milk.

Bobby cocked his head to one side and closed one eye as he peered at his supper. “To tell you the truth, sir, I was hoping for something a little more substantial. A steak, maybe, and fried taters.”

“Let's see how that belly of yours does. I don't want t' push your luck,” Longarm told the young cowboy. “How's it feel now?”

“Pretty bad, sir.”

Longarm had tried throughout the day to get Bobby to quit calling him “sir,” but it had been to no avail. The boy persisted with it. “Is it hurting any less than it was this morning, kid?”

He shook his head. “Worse, if anything.”

“We better hold off on the steak and spuds then.” Longarm smiled. During their afternoon together he had come to like the boy. “Tell you what. If you're feeling any better come morning, I'll have Harry fix you that steak and the fried taters, too. Maybe some of his dried apple pie t' go with it.”

“That sounds fine, sir.”

“But for now the porridge will have t' do. All right?”

“Yes, sir.” Bobby laced his oatmeal heavy with milk and sugar, then picked up the spoon and dug in.

Later Longarm asked him if he wanted to play some more cribbage.

“Thank you, sir, but if it's all the same to you I'll lie down here and kind of get my strength back. And, Marshal, there's something I want you to know. This afternoon over at Mr. Franz's store . . . I wasn't going for my gun, sir. I was mad, but I'm no killer. I wouldn't do a thing like that.”

“Hell, I already knew that, kid.”

“Yes, sir, I figured. But I wanted to say it anyhow. Just to like . . . get it on the record, sort of.”

“Do you need anything more, Bobby?” Earlier Longarm had walked over to the whorehouse and borrowed a pillow and two blankets for the boy to use. He certainly was not going anywhere for a while and would need them.

“No, sir, I'm fine.”

“All right then. I'm going to leave the door unlocked and this lamp burning. I filled it fresh with oil this afternoon so it should last you through the night. I'll put the bucket beside you in case you have t' go during the night. Don't try an' make it to the outhouse without me bein' here to help. Is there anything else you can think of before I leave?”

“No, sir, thank you.”

“I still have a job t' do here so I need to make my rounds an' stop in at both saloons to make sure everybody remembers to mind their manners. An' I'm hungry, too, so I'd best take care o' that while I'm out. I, uh, I might not have a chance t' get back here for a while. Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine, sir.”

“All right then, Bobby. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Longarm left the cell door standing open and set the latch on the outside door but did not lock it. That done, he tugged the brim of his hat down and headed back to McPhail's Café to take care of his own supper.

In the morning, Longarm found Bobby curled on the bunk where he had left him.

The boy was dead, his flesh cold enough to indicate he had been gone for some hours.

“Damnit!” Longarm cried out aloud. “Damn it all to hell an' gone.”

“Serves the little bastard right,” Garrett Franz said with a snort when Longarm told him about Bobby's death.

“It doesn't bother you that you killed a man yesterday?” Longarm said, incredulous.

“Of course not. He went for his six-shooter. You were standing right there, Marshal. You saw.”

“Yes, I did see,” Longarm said, “and what I saw wasn't Bobby reaching for a gun. What I saw was you committing murder with that knife o' yours.”

Franz puffed up like a toad in heat, stuck out both his chest and his chin, and declared, “You go to thinking like that, Marshal, and you'll find yourself out of a job. This town can fire you as easy as hire you.”

Longarm snorted. “Garrett, you've forgot somethin' here. This town never hired me t' begin with. I work for U.S. Marshal William Vail, not you. If Billy wants t' fire me, that's one thing. If you want to, well, lots o' luck with that. You got nothing t' say about the job I do here. Now I'm gonna give you a job. You killed that boy so you take care o' collecting his body from out of the jail an' seeing to his burying. An' while you're at it, see that his outfit is told that he's dead. What bunch did he ride for anyhow?”

“Bobby was a XOX,” Franz said.

“An' while I think about it, see that the boy is laid out and buried wearing those chaps he wanted.”

“Those chaps cost me—”

Longarm's voice was as hard as ice when he interrupted. “I don't give a fat shit what they cost, Franz, they're of no use to you nor anybody else, made up with Bobby's brand an' initials. So do it.”

“You can't tell me . . .”

“I just did. Now
do it
!”

The storekeeper did not look happy although Longarm could not tell whether the man was more aggravated by the loss of the custom-made chaps or by being told what to do by someone he obviously thought of as a town employee.

Not that it mattered and not that Custis Long gave that fat shit he had mentioned. Despite what Garrett Franz seemed to think, Longarm was not there to please the community leaders but to do the job of keeping the peace and enforcing such laws as there were.

“I assume the laying out will be here in the store. Dress him in those chaps an' lay him out this afternoon. Send someone to tell the XOX so's they can attend the buryin' if they're of a mind to. Don't do that until his compadres have had a chance t' see him.”

Franz looked completely taken aback to be given orders like that, but he said nothing more.

When Longarm left the mercantile he left Garrett Franz fuming behind him.