Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (34 page)

Longarm shifted his body in the hard, badly-built chair; it was stiffening up his side a bit. “I'll bear that in mind. All the ranches ship pretty much the same time, do they?”

“Just about. The Santa Fe's corrals won't hold the stock that comes in, if they all try to ship at once, so the ranchers get together and start their drives so they get here a few days apart.”

“Makes sense. Well, now, all this is real interesting, Grover, but we got off the main track. I'd like to know who potshotted me. How're you aiming to go about finding out?”

“I don't intend to give up, if that's what's bothering you. A man who'll potshoot at night is the kind I don't like to have hanging around. Right now I don't know which way to look, though.”

“You thought about looking in Clem Hawkins's direction? Or in Oren Stone's?”

“Stone? That wheat broker with the private car on the back siding? Why'd he be interested in seeing you put under?”

“You're overlooking the main point, Grover. That shot wasn't aimed at me. It was just part of the whole damn raid. And somebody planned it, somebody put them riders up to it, maybe paid 'em to go through with it.”

“Oh, that's occurred to me, Long, even if I'm just a little jerkwater sheriff and not a federal marshal.”

Longarm ignored the dig. “Stone's first shot out of the barrel when he landed here was to go calling on Hawkins.”

“I don't see anything wrong with that. Hell's bells, Stone's been here before, he's met old Clem. Besides, his business is buying and selling wheat. Why'd he be interested in doing anything that'd hurt them nesters?”

“Stone's main business ain't wheat. He's playing the wheat market, which is quite something different from just buying wheat to sell. Sometimes he don't want to see a good wheat crop. He'll make more money if it's a poor one.”

Grover nodded thoughtfully. “I've heard about men like him. I didn't put Stone in that class, though. And I still don't see why you keep on bringing Clem Hawkins into it.”

“Because he stands to gain the most if this country's kept in open range instead of being fenced into wheatfields. And if you don't see that, Grover, I'd say it's because you don't want to.” Longarm stood up. “You let me know if you find out anything, hear? I've got a personal interest in that fence-cutting now.”

Outside the sheriff's office, Longarm breathed the cool twilight air. The sun had dropped while he and Grover talked. A red glow was all that remained of it along the straight edge of the western horizon, and the light was beginning to fade. In the middle distance the rails of the half-dozen sidings that straddled the holding corrals showed glints of bright steel amid patches of the rust that had gathered on them since the last cattle bars had rolled out in late spring. On the last siding, as far from the corrals as it could be placed, lights gleamed from the windows of Oren Stone's private railroad car.

Longarm looked at the car for a moment, remembering the special rye whiskey that Stone's bar held. He muttered, “Saloon rye's just not going to taste the same till I forget how good that liquor of his was.” He was about to turn away and head into Junction when a shadowy figure darted from a corner of the corrals and hurried in a crouching half-run toward the private car.

Something about the way the man moved was familiar. Longarm strained his eyes through the fading light, trying to place the dimly seen, almost shadowy figure, but at this time of day and at this distance, identification was impossible. There was cause for suspicion, though, in the way the man moved, the route he took. It struck Longarm that someone who didn't want to be seen was going to visit Oren Stone.

He watched while the man ran and hopped across the tracks until he reached Stone's railroad car and disappeared into the vestibule. There was a flash of light as the door opened to admit him. Longarm didn't waste time trying to recall where he'd seen the skulking form before. He started to walk across the siding to the place where the unknown man had vanished.

Placing his steps carefully, and putting his feet down flat to keep the gravel ballast underfoot from grating when he moved, Longarm first circled the railroad car to see if a window might be open a crack to give him a close-up, well-lighted view of the man whose familiar way of walking had led him to investigate. All the windows were closed tight, their shades drawn. No sound of voices was audible. There was only one thing left to do. Returning to the front of the car, he mounted the steps leading to the vestibule and knocked on the frosted glass panel of the entry door.

Through the translucent pane he could see that Mae Bonner was coming to answer the knock. He'd gambled on the chance that Stone would do as he'd done when Longarm visited him, and send Mae on whatever errands had to be done. The girl's silhouetted form blotted out the light from the entry as she opened the door. Before she had a chance to speak, Longarm grabbed her arm, pulled her outside, and clamped his free hand over her mouth.

“Now, I ain't going to hurt you, Miss Bonner,” he whispered. “You know who I am, don't you?” When she managed to nod, hampered by Longarm's hand pressed on her face, he went on, “This time I'm here on official business. You make things hard for me, you're liable to go to jail. You understand that?” Another nod. “All right. I'm going to let go of you in about half a minute, if you'll promise me you won't yell or do anything foolish. Can I depend on you if I let you go?” Her response was a third nod. Longarm released the girl.

“What—what do you want this time?” she gasped in a whisper. “You said it was official business. Is Mr. Stone in some kind of trouble?”

“Maybe he is, maybe he's not. I know that whoever's in there talking to him is about to be. You know who the man is with him?”

She shook her head. “No. Oren—Mr. Stone's been very careful not to call his name, and he always sends me out of the parlor when the man comes to see him.”

“He's been here before, then?”

“Twice. Once the day after we got here, late at night. I didn't let him in the first time, I was—well, I was busy.”

“Then when did he come back?”

“A day or two later.” Mae frowned. “I don't really remember. And this time.”

“All right. Now I want you to stay out here and keep out of the way. You going to do that?”

“Yes, Marshal Long. I don't want to get into any kind of trouble at all. In fact—” She stopped short and shook her head. “You do what your job is. I won't get in your way.”

“What'd you start to say?” Longarm demanded.

“Nothing. Except that when you knocked, Mr. Stone told me to get rid of whoever it was.”

“All right. Do what I told you, now. Keep out of the way of whatever happens inside there.”

Longarm stepped quietly into the vestibule. The door between the entry and parlor section of die car was closed. He pressed an ear against it, hoping to hear something that would give him a clue as to what was happening inside, but all he could catch was a faint murmur of voices. He turned the knob gently to open the door a crack, but at the midpoint in his turning the lock clicked loudly.

From the parlor, Stone called, “Who was it knocking, Mae?”

“Nobody but me, Stone,” Longarm said, stepping quickly into the parlor section of the car.

He took in the scene at a glance. Stone sat facing the door. A small table had been drawn between the broker and his visitor. On the table, gold eagles and double eagles were spread as thickly as sand on a beach. Longarm needed no interpreter to tell him that some kind of payoff was taking place.

Even when Longarm had announced his presence, the man sitting across from Stone hadn't moved, not even to turn his head. All that Longarm could see from where he stood was a broad-brimmed Stetson pushed back on the unknown's head, which hid his neck and upper back from view. The chair in which he was sitting concealed the rest of his body. Longarm stared at a pair of denim-clad shoulders that stuck out on each side beyond the hat brim.

Stone said brusquely, “Get the hell out of here! You're butting in on a private business transaction.”

“If that's what's really going on, you got nothing to get upset about,” Longarm replied.

“That's all it is,” Stone retorted.

Longarm had sat across from too many players in too many poker games to be fooled. He caught the shading of the bluffer in Stone's voice.

“Then you won't object if I ask your friend to turn around so I can see his face,” Longarm told Stone.

He shifted his eyes to the seated man, then, and saw the almost imperceptible hitching of the unknown's right shoulder that gave away his intention.

When the man kicked back his chair and swiveled, drawing as he turned, Longarm's Colt was already in his hand. It spat once, and Prud Simmons began to sag, staggering backward.

Stone had leaped up when Prud moved. Longarm paid him no attention; he was watching the fugitive. He didn't see Stone reach for the shotgun that was cradled in a rack above the table until the broker had the gun in his hands and was bringing it down, his thumb spanning both of the weapon's hammers.

Prud was between Stone and Longarm. The outlaw hadn't yet fallen, he stood swaying on his feet. As Stone brought the shotgun barrel down, Prud shifted his legs, trying to keep his balance. His move ended in a lurch that overturned the table just behind him. Gold coins cascaded to the plush-carpeted floor of the car and rolled in all directions.

Prud was beginning to topple. He was still trying to face Longarm, and his movements put his back to Stone just as the broker triggered both barrels of the shotgun. The explosion as the shotgun discharged was deafening in the confined space. Prud's chest bulged forward under his jacket as the compressed mass of pellets fired at point-blank range tore through his body.

Blood and tissue splattered on the polished wood of the car's walls when the shotgun pellets burst out of Prud's chest. He collapsed in a heap on the green plush carpet.

Chapter 13

Stone dropped the empty shotgun and raised his hands. Don't shoot me, Marshal Long! Look, I haven't got a pistol or any other kind of weapon!”

“Oh, put your goddamned hands down, Stone!” Longarm snapped with disgust. He holstered his Colt. “Nobody's going to shoot you.”

In addition to being disgusted, Longarm was also angry. He'd shot to wound, not to kill. The wheat broker's shotgun blast might not have been planned that way, but it spoiled the strategy that had flashed fully formed in Longarm's mind in the instant when he'd recognized Prud Simmons from the manner in which the outlaw had moved while he was standing up, before drawing. He'd counted on keeping Prud alive to tell him about Stone's activities. If Prud had spilled the beans, it would have put pressure on Stone to talk, too.

Mae Bonner ran in, her eyes wide, her mouth rounded into an O. She blinked in the brightness of the parlor's gaslights, and a moment or two passed before her eyes adjusted to the change from the darkness of the vestibule. Then she saw Prud Simmons's body, in a crouched position on the floor. A hole that would have swallowed a man's fist gaped in the back of his powder-scorched denim jacket.

“Is—is he dead?” she gasped.

“About as dead as any man can be that took both barrels full of shotgun slugs at close range,” Longarm told her. “And don't waste your sympathy on him. If any man deserved to die, it was Prud.”

Now it was Stone's turn to blink, but his blinking was to adjust his mind, not his eyes.

“You know him, Marshal?” he asked.

“I know him, all right. I don't know what name he was using in his dealings with you, but he's Prud Simmons. That's the bushwhacker who shot one of the Brethren a little while back. For all I know, that was what you were paying him off for.”

“What do you mean?” Stone was regaining, his usual coolness.

“It was easy as hell for me to tell what was going on when I walked in here, Stone. From the looks of that table, all those gold pieces on it, he was collecting from you for the dirty work you'd been putting him up to.”

“Now wait a minute!” Stone protested. “You haven't any way to prove that. If you make a statement to that effect in public, I'll have you in court for slander!”

“If I was to repeat what I just said, it'd be in court, all right. Only you'd be in the prisoner's dock, and I'd be giving sworn testimony,” Longarm reminded the broker. “I don't claim to be a lawyer, but I know enough law to get me by. Testimony in court ain't slander, Stone, which is something I reckon you know, too, the way you twist the law so you can use it in your business.

Stone did not reply. Mae Bonner, her voice unsteady, said, “I don't see how you men can stand there and talk like nothing's happened, when there's a dead man on the floor in front of you. What in heaven's name are you talking about that's important enough to let you act like nothing's happened?”

“You're better off if you don't know,” Stone told her harshly. “Get out of here, Mae! Go to bed! Don't pry into something that's no concern of yours!”

“But I've got a right to know!” the girl insisted.

“Do what I told you!” Stone commanded. “Shut up and get out!”

“You better be the one to shut up, Stone, Longarm said. “The day might come when she'll be testifying in court, too.”

“She didn't see anything!” Stone objected.

“Maybe she didn't actually see you kill Prud. But she saw him come in here to talk to you tonight. And she saw him come here other times, too. Times before the night-riding and potshotting started.”

“That proves exactly nothing!” Stone retorted. There was fence-cutting and wheat being trampled a long time before I got to Junction, and I can produce witnesses to prove that!”

“Witnesses like Clem Hawkins?” Longarm prodded.

“I'm sure Clem would testify for me, if it comes to that.”

“You might find out different, especially since Prud Simmons used to work for Hawkins. I got a pretty good idea why he came to you, too. I'm betting he saw you out at Hawkins's ranch, maybe even heard the two of you talking about breaking up the farms the Brethren are working. You told me yourself that you and Clem saw eye to eye on getting them out of here.”

“Why would I want to break up the wheat farms, Long? It's my business to buy and sell wheat, and I can't do that unless somebody grows it.”

“That's not what I heard you tell Mr. Hawkins,” Mae said. The words were involuntary; she realized too late what she'd said, and brought her hand up to cover her mouth.

Stone's face flushed angrily. “Damn you, Mae, I told you to get out of here! Now do it, before I get really mad!”

She looked pleadingly at Longarm, who nodded. He wanted Stone alone for a while. Mae left the room, reluctance showing in her slow footsteps. The parlor door closed behind her. For a moment the two men faced one another in silence.

Finally Stone asked, “Well, what're you going to do about this, Marshal? You know I shot the man accidentally.”

“I know you were about to throw down on me with that scattergun,” Longarm replied grimly. “If you hadn't let off both barrels in Prud's back, I'd've had to shoot you to protect myself. If that was an accident, Stone, it's likely the luckiest one you've ever had. It saved you from being stretched out on the floor there next to Prud.”

Stone's florid face paled at the picture Longarm had sketched. He asked, “You have any objections to me getting a drink while we talk this thing over?”

“Go ahead.” Longarm thought a drink might smooth the edges of the broker's abrasiveness. It was a calculated risk, worth a try.

“You'll have some of that special rye, won't you?”

“No. Pass me by.” Keeping the regret out of his voice took an effort as Longarm thought of the fine whiskey he'd savored on his earlier encounter with Stone. “It rubs across my grain to drink with a man who's just tried to kill me.”

Stone turned away from the liquor cabinet, glass in hand. He said calculatingly, “You're not going to try to charge me with anything, are you now, Long? You know I'd say I was trying to keep Simmons from shooting you. You'd never make a charge stick.”

Longarm started for the door. “I'll let you stew about what I aim to do. We'll talk about it later on. I imagine you're too smart to run, and anyhow, I plan to stop at the station and tell the trainmaster not to couple this car of yours to any train heading out till I tell him he can. I'll report the shooting to the sheriff. He'll likely send somebody over to pick up Prud's body. I'd say your best bet's to lay low a while. I'll stop by tomorrow or the next day and we'll have ourselves a confab.”

Outside the car, Longarm found that the weather was beginning to fulfill the promise of the red sunset. A brisk wind had set in, blowing steadily from the north, and when he looked up he could see clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the stars. There were no lights in the Santa Fe station, and the sheriff's office beyond was also dark and locked. As Longarm walked on into town, his stomach reminded him it was past suppertime. Before he reached the restaurant, a few stray snowflakes were already swirling in the rapidly chilling air.

Surprisingly, Clem Hawkins and Sheriff Grover were sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant. Longarm walked over to them.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

“It's a free country,” Hawkins said. “Sit wherever you want to.”

“I wouldn't bust in on whatever kind of talk you two are having, except that I've got some news to tell you, Grover.” Longarm settled into a chair. “You don't have to worry about Prud Simmons any longer. He's dead.”

“Why the hell did you shoot him?” Grover demanded. “I know you carried a grudge, Long, but that marshal's badge you carry ain't quite the same thing as a hunting license.”

“Never figured it was. Fact is, I winged him after he drew down on me, but I didn't kill him.”

“Then who did?” Grover frowned.

“Oren Stone.”

“Stone?” Hawkins's jaw dropped. “Shitamighty, Marshal, Stone didn't even know the man!”

“If you'll take the time to listen, you'll find out he did,” Longarm told Hawkins. “Stone as good as admitted to me that he set Prud onto the Brethren. He was the one who paid Prud to get a bunch of yahoos together and pull off that night raid where I got shot.”

“It's going to take a lot of proof to convince me of that,” Hawkins retorted. “Stone's no special friend of mine, but I can't see him pulling off that kind of stunt.”

“I didn't say he pulled it off. I'd bet he hired Prud on a sort of blank-check deal, told him to give the Brethren a bad time. Prud didn't expect them to fight back. Things got out of hand, and he went too far.”

“Where'd he get the men who rode with him?” Grover asked.

“Oh, hell, Grover, you've been sheriff long enough to know that a man like Prud can find his own kind wherever he goes,” Hawkins said. “There's not a spread around here that doesn't hire drifters during the gather. Stands to reason there'd be a bad apple or two among them.”

Longarm nodded. “You put your finger on it, Mr. Hawkins. And I'm real relieved to hear you say what you did.”

“I don't see why,” Hawkins said.

“Because it takes most of the blame off your hands and off the other ranchers. Now, I know and you know that when this fence-cutting got started, it was a hit-or-miss proposition. You let your hands know there wouldn't be any smoke raised if a fence got cut now and then. I'd bet the other cattlemen did the same thing. Then Prud saw a chance to cash in on it.”

Hawkins thought this over for a moment. “I guess that's about the way it was,” he admitted sheepishly. None of us like Glidden wire. But I don't think any of us realized things would go so far.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Grover asked Longarm. I guess it's turned into your case, since Simmons was a federal fugitive. You plan to bring Stone in to stand trial for killing him?”

“Not right now. I've already got plenty on my plate. If you'll have whoever takes care of burying around here go by Stone's railroad car and collect Prud's body, that's all I'll ask you to do right this minute.”

Grover nodded. He looked relieved. Longarm turned to Hawkins.

“Now I've got something to tell you, Mr. Hawkins. You and your friends are going to be shipping out your market herds pretty soon. You're going to be driving 'em past the wheatfields on the way to the Santa Fe corrals. Best thing you can do, all of you, is to leave your wirecutters at home. You get the drift of what I'm saying?”

Hawkins nodded. “Long, you've always played your cards face up with me, ever since the first time you came to my place. I like a man who does that, and I'll always do the same with him. I don't want any more trouble with the nesters, no matter how I feel about them. Neither do my friends. All we want is to get our herds shipped out and then go back to our places and get ready for winter.”

“That's good. I'm glad you feel that way.”

“Besides,” Hawkins went on, “we don't have to worry about that bunch of foreigners anymore. They can't get their crop in before the weather ruins it, and they've already optioned what they'll be able to salvage to Stone. Not one of them's going to have enough cash to get through the winter. They'll all be gone before next spring.”

“You might be right, Hawkins,” Longarm replied. “I don't say you are, I don't say you ain't. I feel sorry for those homesteaders, and I've been helping them when I could, without hurting you ranchers.”

“So I've heard. Well, that's your privilege, I guess.”

Grover stood up. He was obviously anxious to end the conversation between Hawkins and Longarm. “I'd better go see Stebbins, and tell him to get his burying crew out to fix up a casket.”

“I'll walk with you a ways,” Hawkins said. He rose and started out, then turned back and said to Longarm, “I guess you'll be leaving pretty soon now. Not much for you to do, with everything peaceful.”

The deputy pushed his Stetson back on his forehead. “Oh, you ain't seen the last of me yet. It's still a while before election, but maybe you forgot about that being my real job down here. You won't get rid of me until my business is finished. And that won't be till the last vote's been cast and counted.”

Longarm watched Grover and Hawkins walk out of the restaurant. Their heads were together and they were obviously discussing some kind of election strategy inspired by his reminder. He chuckled and signaled to the waiter. The void in his midsection had been getting bigger and bigger while he'd talked, and the steak with fried potatoes he'd come in for was long overdue.

*   *   *

Snow was still falling when Longarm left the restaurant, having eased the grumblings of his belly. It was a typical early-season prairie snow—tiny, soft flakes no bigger than a baby's fingernail, and just about as thick. In most places the snow melted as soon as it touched the warm ground; later, as the earth cooled through longer, chillier nights, the snow would stick. Now it danced erratically in the black sky, and the night wind, which had taken on a real bite while Longarm was at supper, swept the tiny flakes along the street, mixed with the dust that had grown to a thin, irritating layer during the long, dry weeks of the expiring summer.

Feeling the soft, cold touch of snowflakes on his face, Longarm thought about the wheat so laboriously planted and tended by the Brethren. According to everything he'd seen in the past, wheat had always been cut before the first snow. In the fields around Junction, the grain had headed out and was turning to golden yellow, but hadn't yet reached harvest stage. He wondered how the homesteaders were going to make it through the winter if their crop was small, and the options held by Stone kept them from selling it where they could get top market price.