Longarm and the Great Divide (12 page)

Longarm did not know if Franz complied with his instruction to notify Bobby's bunkmates or if someone else spread the word, but that afternoon the XOX riders, eight of them, came boiling into town with trouble on their minds.

When they arrived Longarm was on the Nebraska side making a show of being on duty. As soon as he saw the XOXs he hustled across to Wyoming. When he got there Garrett Franz was rather nervously explaining himself to the obviously unhappy XOX cowhands.

“There,” Franz said, pointing toward Longarm, who was just coming in the doorway. “There's the marshal. He saw it all. Your friend Bobby was going for his gun. Ask the marshal.”

“Well?” demanded one of the XOX crew, a short, sunbaked man with a Smith & Wesson break top worn cross-draw style.

“Who are you t' be asking?” Longarm returned.

“I'm Timothy Wilcox. I'm foreman of the XOX.”

Longarm nodded and introduced himself.

“Marshal, we know . . . that is, we knew . . . Bobby Reims. He wasn't the sort to gun a man down no matter the provocation. He was a good kid. We knew him though maybe you didn't,” Wilcox said.

“I got t' know him some while he was with me. I liked him,” Longarm said, “an' I was sad to see him pass.”

“What about what this man says?” Wilcox said. “What about him saying Bobby tried to draw on him?”

“Mr. Wilcox, I can't never tell you what another man was thinkin'. If Franz says he thought Bobby was drawing, well, maybe he did think that,” Longarm said.

“What about you, Marshal? What did you think?”

“Me, I didn't think so. But then I wasn't the one standing in front o' him there. If Franz was scared, that's up to him.”

“String him up,” one of the cowboys shouted.

That brought a chorus of loud calls for Garrett Franz to be hanged.

The storekeeper shrank back against some shelving on his back wall and reached under his apron.

“There will be no lynchings here,” Longarm said, his voice and his demeanor steely. “No one is gonna touch that man.”

The XOX hands all looked to Wilcox for guidance. Longarm was sure if Tim Wilcox gave the nod, his riders would do their best to tear Franz limb from limb and then hang whatever was left.

Wilcox, for his part, looked to Longarm. “Arrest him, Marshal. What he done was murder plain and simple.”

“I can't do it,” Longarm said. “I think he was wrong, but I can't say that was intentional. He ain't done nothing for me t' arrest him for. What I suggest you boys do is t' take your man an' bury him.” Looking squarely at Garrett Franz he added, “An' make sure he's wearing those fancy chaps he wanted so bad. The boy is entitled t' that much consideration.”

“I'll go get them,” Franz said quickly.

“Where is Bobby?” Wilcox asked.

“He's laying over in the jail. It's open.”

“We didn't come here to cause any trouble,” the XOX foreman said. “We just want our man. But I can tell you one thing. From now on the XOX will be doing its business across the way. Maybe we'll be treated better over on that side.”

“Every penny,” one of the cowboys put in.

“What about the whorehouses?” someone else asked. “Do we have to cross over for that, too?”

“I got me a special gal at Stella's,” another said.

Wilcox drew himself up to his full height and said, “Everything. From now on we give our trade in Nebraska.” He nodded toward Franz. “This slimy son of a bitch is partners in Stella's place. He won't be getting none of our pay, not from now on.”

“Come along,” Longarm said. “I'll walk with you over to the jail. You.” He pointed to one of the XOX hands. “You get those chaps from Franz here an' bring them over to the jail so's we can rig Bobby out proper.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal.” The young cowboy turned and got in Garrett Franz's face like he was hoping the storekeeper would refuse and give him an excuse to cause some mayhem, but Franz meekly ducked under his counter and came up with the paper wrapped bundle that had been the cause of all the trouble.

“Come with me, fellas,” Longarm encouraged as he led the XOX riders out of the store and up the street toward the jail. Which still had not had a prisoner inside its bars.

“You cleaned him up real nice, Marshal. We XOXs appreciate that,” Wilcox said. “Thank you.”

“I liked the boy,” Longarm told them.

Three of the XOX cowboys stepped forward to wrestle Bobby into his chaps and tidy up his clothing. There was practically no blood for them to deal with. Virtually all of the bleeding from Franz's knife had been contained inside the body, which was why Longarm had not realized the wound was a mortal one.

The only visible indication on the corpse was a small cut just below and to the right of his navel.

“He was a likeable kid,” Wilcox commented as Bobby's bunkmates were busy strapping his fancy chaps in place.

“He was that,” Longarm agreed.

“You sure there's no cause to arrest that bastard Franz?”

“I'm sure,” Longarm said. He raised his voice a little. “Something else I'm sure of. The man who tries t' get revenge on behalf o' Bobby will either hang or go down in front o' my guns. I'll make sure o' that my own self.”

“Point taken,” Wilcox said. He turned to his crew. “Little Bit, bring the wagon around. We'll take him home to bury him.” Glancing in the general direction of Franz's store he said, “I wouldn't want a good man like Bobby Reims lying in dirt anywhere near this place. Better he lays in the sod where he's appreciated.”

One of the cowboys, a large man with a mustache that hung down on his chest, touched the brim of his hat to acknowledge the order, then turned and hurried away.

“It will take him a spell to go fetch the wagon. Can we buy you a drink for being so thoughtful to our man, Marshal?” Wilcox offered.

“I'd be honored,” Longarm said. “In Nebraska?”

“Aye, though it will gravel us to go over there where we haven't been welcome.”

“I think,” Longarm said, “you'll find yourselves more welcome there than you might've been led t' believe. Come along then. An' let me buy the second round. That'd be an honor, too.”

“Where exactly did you get the notion that Wyoming cowboys aren't wanted on the Nebraska side o' town?” Longarm asked over the rim of a passable rye whiskey.

“Why, I don't exactly recall. It's just always been that way, long as we been on this range,” Wilcox said. To the others in his crew he asked, “Anybody remember how we was told we wasn't welcome over here on the Nebraska side?”

No one did.

“Interesting,” Longarm observed, taking another sip of the whiskey. It was not as good as the Maryland distilled rye he got back home in Denver. But this was not bad on the tongue. And that was just the first glass. Almost any whiskey begins to taste better the more a man has of it. Half a dozen shots and even Jacob Potts's horse piss might commence to taste good.

“Little Bit has the wagon parked outside the jail,” one of the hands said from his post beside the batwings.

“Then let's go get our boy and take him home,” Wilcox said. The foreman quickly downed his whiskey and chugged the beer chaser.

“I haven't had a chance t' buy a round for your boys,” Longarm said.

“Next time, Marshal, we'd be proud to drink your whiskey,” Wilcox told him as he headed for the doorway.

Longarm carried his drink to the door after the XOX boys left. He propped himself there and watched, hoping there would be no trouble, while the cow crew went into the jail and gently carried their friend and bunkmate out to the springboard farm wagon.

Then they all mounted up and followed the wagon out of town and off toward the northwest.

There was no trouble.

This time. Longarm was not so sure how they would act the next time they came to town wanting to blow off some steam.

Garrett Franz had damn sure better watch his step that day, Longarm thought, or he might find himself laid out in the back of a wagon himself. And with a sight fewer mourners than Bobby Reims had.

Only when the XOX crowd was out of sight did Longarm turn back to the bar and order another drink.

For some reason he was feeling lonely when he did that. He wondered what Elizabeth Kunsler had planned for dinner and whether she would welcome some company at her table.

Longarm was feeling considerably better when he left Liz some four hours later. Dinner had been good. Liz had been better. She went with him to the door, still naked and a little bit sweaty, and kissed him good-bye.

“You needed me tonight, Custis,” she murmured into his mouth when they kissed. “You really needed me. You can't possibly know how happy that makes me.”

He was not entirely sure what Liz meant by that, but if whatever it was made her happy, well, that was good. He kissed her and gave her butt a squeeze and headed out into the night.

He was still acting as town marshal, after all, and needed to make his rounds.

Since he happened to be on the Nebraska side he started there. Walked the board sidewalk in front of all the businesses, checking doors and windows, then swung around behind the line of buildings and did the same thing in the back alleyway.

Everything was secure except for the saloon and whorehouse so he crossed over to the Wyoming side and started toward the alley behind those businesses.

Before he reached the first of them the muzzle blast from a large-caliber rifle flared in the deep shadows behind Jacob Potts's saloon.

Longarm threw himself flat, .45 in hand before he hit the ground. He was blinded by the bright flare and could not see to shoot.

Then it was too late. He heard running footsteps recede somewhere ahead. Heard an angry shout although whether that was because the shooter bumped into someone or because it was the shooter himself unhappy for having missed his shot, Longarm could not know.

He lay there for several achingly long moments, blinking and rubbing his eyes, trying to will his night vision back.

It did return but not quickly enough for him to catch even a glimpse of whoever it was that shot at him.

A burglar interrupted in the middle of breaking into one of the closed businesses? Or perhaps an assassin who wanted no law interfering in the affairs of Valmere, Wyoming. It could have been either of those. Or something else entirely.

Eventually, his night vision restored, Longarm stood and shoved his .45 back into the leather.

“Shit,” he mumbled.

He meant that literally.

When he hit the ground he landed belly down on a pile of horse turds.

Now he needed to bathe and change clothes. But first he had to finish making his rounds of the businesses on the Wyoming side.

After that he could return to his room at Stella's to clean up and get some sleep.

Grumpy now, he headed deeper into the alley, rattling doors and checking for open windows as he went.

“Something's going on here, Otis, but damned if I know what it might be,” Longarm grumbled to the blacksmith when he went to get his horse that morning.

There was nowhere in particular that he needed to go, but he just wanted out of the confines of the border town for a little while.

“If you figure it out,” Reed said, “let us know. The folks hereabout will be interested.”

Longarm swung his saddle onto the gray, dropped the cinch, reached under the horse's belly to retrieve the loose end, and slipped the latigo through the steel ring woven onto the end of the cinch. He pulled it snug and let the near stirrup down before leading the horse out of the barn and onto the central road.

“If anyone is looking for you, when should I say you'll be back?” Reed asked.

Longarm shrugged. “Damn if I know exactly, but I won't be long. Just want t' get some clean air in my lungs. For sure I'll be back by lunchtime.” He stepped into the saddle and sorted the reins between his fingers.

The blacksmith nodded and touched his forehead in silent salute, then stepped back away from the gray. “Enjoy your morning, Marshal.”

Longarm touched his heels to the gray's sides, and the horse stepped out and then quickened to a smooth jog.

With no particular destination in mind he found himself once again wandering in the direction of the lake north of town. He passed Wallace Waterman on his way, the water carrier headed south with more barrels of fresh water to feed the needs of both the Wyoming and Nebraska towns.

“Mornin',” Longarm greeted. “Say, d'you mind if I water my horse on your property while you're away?”

“That'd be all right, Marshal, long as he bends down . . .”

“I know. As long as I don't lift it up to him,” Longarm said.

Wallace nodded emphatically. “That's the law.” While he sat there on the seat of his battered wagon he kept kneading his upper arms. “I know the law, Marshal.”

“Indeed it is,” Longarm agreed. “I won't lift any water to him, I promise.”

“That's all right then.” Wallace took up his driving lines again and shook them out to get his rig moving. “Have a pleasant day, Marshal,” he said by way of parting.

Wallace continued on south while Longarm rode north along the well-traveled path to the lake that supplied all the water for both towns.

He dismounted and led the gray down to the water's edge. The horse dropped its head and drank deeply of the cool water.

Longarm let the animal have its fill, then led it back up onto the crest of the low hill that lay just to the east of the lake. He lighted a cheroot and sat cross-legged on the grass, gazing out over the sparkling water while songbirds flitted back and forth among the cattails.

The scene was peaceful and serene, just what he needed, he thought. It seemed a shame the whole town could not . . .

Longarm jumped to his feet with an exclamation that was loud enough to startle some nearby birds.

“Son of a bitch!”

He tossed his cheroot down and swung onto the gray's back, wheeling the horse abruptly back around and spurring it into a gallop toward the south, toward the twin towns that were in his charge.