Longarm on the Overland Trail (13 page)

A couple of townees in the crowd chimed in to back Smiley's words. One man offered the opinion that Sergeant Fagan had been asking for what he got before Dutch ever gave it to him.

Longarm still rolled his eyes heavenward and told them both they'd acted dumb as hell. "You could have just kept still and let some other idjet deal with him. This world is full of such idjets. Now you're both stuck here pending a hearing and Lord knows how many forms to fill out."

Dutch insisted defensively, "Hell, we couldn't just leave him be, after he told us right out he was gunning for you, could we?"

"I know you meant well, Dutch," Longarm said, "but this ain't the first time I've told you to leave my fighting to me. For one thing, I've a much sweeter disposition."

"You'd have had to gun this one," Smiley said flatly, "he was crazy-mean drunk and, drunk or sober, fast. He got that gun out after Dutch had already killed him."

Dutch nodded. "That's why I had to shoot him so much. It was the head shot as finally made him lose interest in me. He was so mad and so drunk he didn't seem to notice getting hit all over the rest of him. It's rare to see a man stay on his feet with even one.44-40 in him. But he was one tough hombre, with the body weight to soak up the shock."

An older man with a harassed look and a golden star pinned to his vest hulled through to join them, sighing, "Aw, shit, I knew this cuss wasn't long for this world, but we're still going to have a fuss with Uncle Sam about this. He was army, cuss his hide. Who gunned him? I don't have to ask why."

Longarm introduced himself and his sidekicks, and Dutch owned up to the shooting without any prompting. "It was pure self-defense, in front of friendly witnesses, and you are talking to Uncle Sam. All three of us is federal."

The county law looked worried. "I fear I'm going to have to bind you over to the coroner just the same, and I hope you all notice I ain't bearing arms. I just come from an after-supper lie-down and Lord knows where my fool wife hung my guns."

Longarm said, "You can't hold me and Smiley. We didn't do it."

But Smiley said, "I ain't leaving here without my little pard. I would have shot the bastard if Dutch hadn't beat me to it. He was asking for what he got, and I mean to witness that for old Dutch. So where do we go from here, Sheriff?"

The county law told them he saw no need to lock up fellow peace officers, as long as he had their word they'd stick around until the coroner's jury decided to let them go or bound them over to the grand jury, which hardly seemed likely.

Longarm was about to say he'd sit in, too. But then a kid from the telegraph office pushed through the crowd, gulped as he saw what they were all crowded around, and handed a wire to the sheriff.

The older man muttered, tore it open, and read it before he said, "Aw, hell, Lord, that just ain't fair. I got enough on my plate right now. You didn't have to serve me this as well."

Longarm asked what was wrong. The sheriff said, "Another damn killing. But hold on. I don't see why they tried to hand this one to us. It didn't even occur in Colorado, let alone my county."

"Who got killed where, then, Sheriff?"

"Blacksmith up in Scott's Bluff, Nebraska. Looks like it was done by that same little rascal with the fancy chaps. I sure hope it was. That means we're rid of him."

Longarm sighed. "Speak for yourself." Then he turned to Smiley. "You're going to have to wire Billy anyhow. You can save me some time by adding that our want is following the north fork of the Overland Trail, like I hoped he would, and that I'm on my way the same way."

"Billy sent us to back your play. You can't go on alone," Smiley objected.

"Sure I can. Just watch me. By the time you boys untangle your fool selves, here, I hope to have the little bastard, dead or alive. Tell Billy I'll try to wire from Scott's Bluff. I got some complicated railroading to work out."

He left before anyone could figure out how to stop him, and legged it back to the hotel. He'd left his saddle and possibles in the stable with Blue Boy in case of more local travel in a hurry. So he could have gotten clear without saying adios to old Myrtle.

He was tempted. Weepy women were a pain. But he knew that, even if he never had to watch her weeping, she figured to feel even more used and abused if he just sneaked out on her. So he toted his gear inside, where Myrtle was minding her desk again and, as she saw he was carrying his luggage, she looked kicked in the belly more than weepy.

He told her, "It ain't the way it might look, honey. I was sure looking forward to the sound of them bedsprings upstairs, but I just got a line on that young killer. I got to try and stop him before he kills again. This time he ain't got as good a lead on me, but he's still got a good one. So I got to go, and I don't want you to take my hasty departing personal, hear?"

She stared soberly down at the saddle braced on his hip and said, "You could have left by the back way, at least, you brute."

"That could have been took more brutal. I figured I owed a pretty lady a proper parting of the ways," he told her.

She looked blank at first. Then she smiled radiantly. "I'll be damned if I don't think you meant that, and you've made my day in more ways than one, even if the night ahead promises to be an awful letdown. God bless you, Custis Long, and try to remember me the next time you're back this way. For I doubt I'll ever forget you and the all-too-short time you made me feel so young and pretty again."

He leaned across to kiss her and promised to visit, should he ever pass through Julesburg again. Then he got away before she could blubber up on him. He knew that last part had been a lie, even if it had been a white lie. He passed through Julesburg often enough on more serious business. But he knew it was best to break clean, with even good-looking women, if one wanted a clear conscience and pleasant memories. He figured a lot of good old gals he recalled wistfully enjoyed their soft place in his heart because he'd had to move on before they'd felt free to nag him about the way he just was. He wanted to remember Myrtle as a sweet old gal So it was just as well there were other places to stay in Julesburg, if he ever got stuck here overnight again.

He'd memorized the local timetable, so he wasn't surprised when he heard a distant locomotive moan at a crossing off to the east. He legged it to the depot, put his saddle on an empty baggage cart and started to light a cheroot as he noticed there were seven other gents on the platform with him. He took them for fellow travelers until his match light glinted on the dress sword one of them had hanging down his blue pants. The same match lit Longarm's face, of course, so the one with the sword marched over to say, "They told us we might find you here, Deputy Long. You can forget about that westbound train."

Longarm shook out his light and said, "Evening, Colonel Walthers. Ain't your corporal's squad two men short?"

Lieutenant Colonel Walthers, U.S. Army Military Police, was a man about Longarm's age and shape, in an army where fifty-year-old captains were not considered rare. Walthers was said to boot-lick his superiors with the same enthusiasm he bullied his inferiors, which included ninety-nine percent of the human race, to hear old Walthers talk. "You have to come back to Fort Halleck with us, Long. We're holding a board of inquiry on the death of Sergeant Fagan," he said.

Longarm said, "That's the army's business, not mine. I was nowhere near the idjet when he decided to commit suicide by slapping leather on a man I'd hate to mess with that way. There ain't no mystery for the army to solve. Your sergeant went down in front of a saloon full of witnesses, and the gent who gunned him has owned up to it. I'm headed for Scott's Bluff on a more important and less lawful shooting. So don't mess with me. I mean it."

But the officer told him, "I'm holding you responsible for Sergeant Fagan's death. I mean that, too."

Longarm snorted in disgust. "You know, every time I figure I know just how dumb you are, you have to prove me wrong by acting even dumber. This ain't a beauty contest between you and me. You'd be pretty as hell if You wiped that constant smirk off your fool face. We're both after a man who kills soldiers a lot more regular than old Dutch. He just murdered a civilian, for a change, in Scott's Bluff. If you and your boys would rather pick nits about an open-and-shut case that can only go one way, that's up to you. I see my train coming in now. It's been nice talking to you."

He picked up his saddle with his left hand and took a step toward the tracks. Walthers stepped into his path, stuck his chest out at him, and snapped, "If you won't come willingly we'll just have to disarm and handcuff you. Lieutenant Parsons, arrest this civilian!"

The U.P. westbound combo was rolling to a stop behind Walthers. Longarm clamped down on his cheroot with bared teeth, balled up his right fist, and planted it in Walther's superior smile, hard.

The short-colonel went down, his face a bloody ruin, as the nearest shave-tail gasped in awe and said, "You can't do that!"

Longarm drew his six-gun with the same lethal fist. "I just did. Before anyone else gets hurt, I want you boys to add up the odds here and... Keep that gun hand polite, Trooper. I mean it!"

The enlisted man who'd just unstrapped the flap of his holster had noticed Longarm seemed to be a man who meant it, when he said he meant it. So he froze, looking sort of sick.

Longarm threw his saddle aboard the nearest rail car's loading platform, but kept them all covered. He smiled thinly and said, "That's better. I know it's six of you to five rounds in this wheel. So I know at least one of you would surely nail me no matter how the other five made out. I'm only human. For all we know, I might not take all five down with me. So place your bets and let the game commence."

Nobody moved or said a word, save for Walthers himself, who was rolling about on the platform with both hands to his face, demanding they arrest his attacker.

Longarm climbed the steps backward, gun muzzle trained on the sullen but smart soldiers. After a few tense, awkward seconds the locomotive up ahead sounded its whistle, the platform under him jerked into motion, and Longarm was on his way west.

As he holstered his gun and picked up his saddle, a conductor Longarm knew came out to join him, saying, "Evening, Longarm. You don't have to show me your U.P. pass. I've seen it often enough. What was that all about back there? It sounded sort of serious."

Longarm shrugged. "I reckon they weren't as serious as me, after all."

CHAPTER 9

Following the Overland or any other old wagon trail by rail was complicated. Rolling west the hard way, the pioneers had been more anxious about getting there alive than getting there in a hurry. The old trails had been laid out with water and easy pulling in mind, following streambeds and avoiding steep grades as often as possible.

The stage lines that followed the first covered wagons had tried to sell more speed to both passengers and the post office. So while the Overland Trail had to more or less follow the trend of the earlier Oregon and Mormon trails, it tended to cut across river bends and top more rises with its lighter coaches.

The railroad builders had wanted to sell even more speed and, having machinery and black powder to work with, they'd taken even more direct routes, bridging, grading, and tunneling to beeline where nothing pulled by draft animals could have gone. The U.P. had saved on miles of expensive steel tracks by using cheaper immigrant labor to bull through the Rockies well south of the easier, traditional passes. The older stage route had of course made the wider swing to the north. So, when his train got to Sidney, Longarm and his gear got off to catch the short line up to Northport, Nebraska, and catch another U.P. the thirty-odd miles northwest to Scott's Bluff.

You couldn't see the cliffs the town was named after this late at night. It was hard to see much of the town, now that the oil lamps along the main street were all that seemed awake enough to matter. He left his modest luggage checked in at the depot and headed for the local branch of the sheriff's department. Despite its name and former fame, Scott's Bluff had lost out when they'd got around to choosing the county seat. So the sheriff's office there was run by a senior deputy, while the elected official he ran it for got to sleep in Gering on the far side of the North Platte.

The senior deputy had gone home for the night, too. But the crusty old gent left to mind the office and keep an eye on the drunks in the tank knew Longarm by reputation and got up out of his rocking chair to shake and say, "We was expecting some federal men. Did you know the army has just sworn out a warrant on you and wired us to arrest you on sight?"

"I didn't. But it don't surprise me. Are you figuring on arresting me, sir?" Longarm asked.

"Call me Jeff. Hell, no. You never beat up no short-colonels in Nebraska. You'd think a man smart enough to make short-colonel would know better than to ask Nebraska to arrest a man on a Colorado fistfight."

Longarm chuckled. "Old Walthers ain't smart enough to make assistant squad leader. But I come up here to talk about more important pests, if it's all the same with you."

Old Jeff nodded and said, "I'd be proud to show you the scene of the crime. It's just down the way, across from a saloon that stays open late. We let the dead man's kin carry his body home to wake, once the doc who fills in for the coroner here examined it some, of course. There was no mystery about the cause of death. He'd been shot direct in the center of his forehead, at close range. Lord knows how the undertaker means to get them powder burns off, if they mean to hold an open-casket service. The horse has been impounded as evidence. Meaning it's in the corral out back. They didn't require us to talk so fancy in the old days, and we still hung the right gents, most of the time."