Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (36 page)

With a flourish that might well have been accompanied by a roll of drums, Madame Karsovana threw the door open. She wore a flowing chiffon tea gown that stopped just short of being a negligee. The gown itself was a light cream, and the sea-green lace with which it was trimmed accented the deep V to which its neckline plunged in front, below, the cleavage of her full breasts. The high collar rose in back and presented a perfect frame to emphasize the golden glints of her hair, which today she wore piled in a loose bun at the back of her head. The lace darkened the ice green of her eyes, which were widened to match the expectant smile on her full, brilliantly red lips.

“It is kind of you to respond to my invitation, after the manner in which I had to end our last chat,” she greeted Longarm. “But come, sit down. We will begin today where we left off when Gregor so foolishly interrupted us.”

“Now that ought not to've upset you so, Mrs. Karsovana. Your manservant was only doing what he thought was best.”

“Please. Let us put formality aside. You may call me Ilioana, and I will call you— What is your given name, Marshal?” she said, waving him to a chair and taking his hat, which she put on the bureau.

“Well . . . it's Custis, but I don't get called that very much.”

“You have a familiar name, then,” she guessed. “A
prosvische
, we would say in Russia.”

“A lot of folks who know me pretty well call me Longarm.”

Madame Karsovana frowned prettily. “Longarm.
Dlinno-rroka
, it would be in my native tongue. In yours it sounds better. You will not object if I call you so?”

“Not a bit. Sounds better than my real one to me.”

She was still standing at the bureau. “I have a surprise for you. Look.” She held up a bottle of bonded Maryland rye, “I instructed Gregor to ask the porter if you did not keep in your room a bottle of your favorite liquor. So now you must drink this, and I will have vodka, which I don't think you enjoyed greatly.”

Now that was thoughtful of you, Ilioana. I guess it's because I'm so used to that, your vodka tasted sort of strange to me.”

“It is a drink to which one must become accustomed.” She brought the filled glasses over, gave Longarm the glass of rye, and took her own drink to a chair across from him. “
Pei do dna
, Longarm.”

After taking an appreciative sip of the rye, Longarm said, “Let's see, we were talking about your brother who's missing, the other day. I think I said—”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “We had put aside my problem for the moment to talk of my fellow countrymen, who seem to be having such a struggle here.”

“I guess we were, at that.” Longarm suppressed the smile that tried to struggle to his lips. Ilioana Karsovana had gone a long way toward confirming Mordka Danilov's suspicions with her remark.

Ilioana leaned forward. Longarm's eyes were drawn almost automatically to the valley between her breasts that the movement displayed, a shadowy, warm-looking crevice between soft, creamy bulges. Even with the distance between their chairs, he could catch the musky fragrance of her perfume.

“Truthfully, my friend, do you think my poor countrymen will be able to sell their crop of wheat for enough ready money to pay for the food they will need during the winter?” she asked.

“I haven't heard any of them complaining that they were about to go bust,” he replied. “But I ain't talked to them about things like that. Mostly I've been trying to stop the cattlemen from cutting their fences and tromping down their wheat.”

“There is bad blood between them and the ranchers who raise cattle—this I have heard,” she said. “Is your federal government worried that fighting will break out between them that might spread into a revolution, like the war between your north and south states?”

Longarm succeeded in keeping himself from laughing. When he was sure no hint of amusement would creep into his voice, he said, “Why, most folks never did call that war a revolution, Ilioana. Anyhow, it was a fuss over a lot more than a few acres of wheat land that used to be used for cattle range. It takes a lot more people than are mixed up in this little argument here to start a revolution.”

“But if this dispute here should spread into other places, would not your federal officials act? Is that not why you came here?”

“Not ma'am! I just came down here to keep an eye on the election that'll be coming along pretty soon, make sure everybody gets a fair shake.”

A tinge of disappointment crept into her voice when she asked, “Your government would not punish those who began the fight, if it should grow larger? They would not, for example, send those of the
Bratiya
back to Russia?”

“Of course not. Most of the Brethren are U.S. citizens now, and the way our law reads, nobody can send a U.S. citizen back to any country he might've come from.”

“Is it permitted for you to tell me what you have said in the reports you make to your government?” she asked.

Longarm was certain now that Mordka Danilov had been completely correct in identifying Ilioana and her servant as Russian agents. He smiled as he told her, “Why, I don't report anything to anybody until the job I came here for's all finished. Then, when I go back to Denver, I just write down that I closed my case, most of the time.”

“What will you write when you go back there from Junction?”

“I don't know yet. The case still ain't closed.”

Ilioana got up and took their glasses to the bureau to refill them. When she came back, she set her glass down first, and as she handed his glass to Longarm, she leaned over him. She was standing directly in front of him, and the low, loose neck of her gown gaped open widely. Longarm saw what the plunging neckline of the dress had hinted at: twin globes of translucent cream and the edges of the pink rosettes that crowned their tips. She held her position for several seconds. When Longarm did not move, and kept his face impassive, she slowly brought her shoulders up and stood erect again.

“What will happen then, when you write that your case has been closed?” she asked. Her voice was velvet-soft; it was a tone suited to a seduction, not a question inquiring about a simple fact.

“Just like all the reports I write, it'll be tucked away in a file case in the office.”

“Not sent to federal headquarters in Washington?”

Not unless somebody there asks for it.” Longarm suspected that Ilioana knew a great deal more about government routines than she was ready to admit. He added, “That doesn't happen more than once in a blue moon. Why are you so interested in the way I do my work, Ilioana?”

“Perhaps because I am beginning to become interested in you, Longarm. Men who wield power have always fascinated me.”

“I guess you picked out the wrong man, this time. I ain't got much more power than the left hind leg of a jackrabbit.”

“You are modest, but that doesn't deceive me. I know such men when I meet them. One of my lovers—” she paused and looked at him questioningly—“Does it surprise you that I have had lovers?”

The deputy smiled, “Not especially. A good-looking woman like you are is bound to've had a lot of men running after her. Stands to reason that some of 'em would've caught up with her. Them she wanted to let catch up, that is.”

“And you? Do you find me attractive?”

“Why, sure I do. I reckon any man would.”

“I am not interested in just any man.” She noticed that Longarm still held his drink untouched, and moved away from him a step, to pick up her own glass from the low table that stood between their chairs. “
Pei do dna
, Longarm. We will drink to strong men, and to women who find them fascinating.”

They drank, then Ilioana took Longarm's empty glass from his hand and went to refill both glasses from the bottles on the bureau. When she brought his fresh drink, she did not put it down, but handed it to him. Then, instead of going to her chair, she sat on the low serving-table. Her knees were touching his; their faces were on the same level. Longarm did not move.

Ilioana leaned toward him, and her movement sent the musky fragrance of her perfume swirling to his nostrils. She reached a hand up to cup his chin, her fingers stroking first his cheek, then brushing across his mustache, and finally, with a fingertip, she traced the outline of his lips.

“I can give a great deal of pleasure to men who fascinate me,” she whispered.

When Longarm neither answered her nor moved, Ilioana's hand brushed down his chest and came to rest on his thigh. Her fingers were moving, exploring. Longarm felt himself responding, growing hard. Ilioana felt his reaction, too. She pressed more firmly with her stroking hand, and as his erection grew, enclosed it as best she could through the leg of his trousers.

Her face was close to his, and her eyes began to close. Her lips parted, her lower lip glistening moistly, curved outward. Her nostrils widened. Longarm forced himself to respond with the cold calculation of a whore. He drained his glass and stood up. Ilioana's eyes followed him, wide with perplexity and a hint of anger.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

“Nothing wrong, Ilioana. Not with me or you. But I just remembered, I've got to go see somebody on urgent, government business, and I've got a little bit of paperwork to do first. We'll have to put off whatever you've got in mind until some other time.”

He brushed past her as she stood up. Going to the door, he made a long reach and got his hat from the bureau, then turned back to face her.

“Sorry I've got to cut our visit short. I'll knock on your door when there'll be plenty of time for us to visit.”

Leaving Ilioana staring after him, Longarm went out of the room. He closed the door carefully behind him.

Chapter 15

Ilioana Karsovana was very much on Longarm's mind while he sat at supper. She'd made her intentions pretty obvious, but he still couldn't find any convincing reason for her to be in Junction. There was still a riddle in the presence of these Russian secret agents that stayed just out of his grasp, and that bothered him. Finally, when he'd drained his second cup of steaming black coffee and smoked half of his after-supper cheroot, he gave up trying to solve the puzzle for the moment and set out for the Santa Fe sidings.

Mae Bonner nodded in response to Longarm's inquiring look when she opened the door of the vestibule. “He's here now, Marshal.” She led him through the entry to the parlor section of the coach.

Stone was at the table where he'd been sitting the night Prud Simmons was killed. There was no gold on the table this time. Instead, papers were spread over its surface.

“Who was—” he began, before he saw Longarm. Then he snapped, “Damn it, Mae! I told you I didn't want to be bothered with anything but these—this work, tonight!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stone, but Marshal Long insisted,” she said, somewhat tartly.

“Don't blame the girl, Stone,” Longarm said. He guessed by Stone's remark that Mae hadn't told the broker he'd been there in the early part of the day. He went on, “You saw the other night that if I want to come in, it'll take more than a woman to stop me.”

“I suppose.” Stone sounded resigned. “All right, Long.” He began turning the papers over to hide their faces. “You're here, and I suppose you've got bad news for me. It seems you generally do.” He looked at Mae. “I won't need you for awhile. Go rest or something.”

“Mind if I sit down?” Longarm asked as Mae left.

“Go ahead.” Stone indicated the chair across from him.

Longarm looked at the chair. It was the same one Prud had been using. He glanced at the wall above the table. The paneling had been cleaned and polished, and he wondered whether Mae Bonner had been forced to clear away the unpleasant mess that had splattered the wall when the shotgun pellets tore through the outlaw's chest. He noticed, too, that the shotgun was back in its rack.

“Lucky I ain't superstitious,” he said to Stone as he sat down. “Some folks believe it brings bad luck to sit in the last chair a man was sitting in before he died.”

Stone's lips tightened, but he made no direct reply. Instead he said impatiently, “If you've got business with me, get down to it. I've got enough work to keep me occupied until midnight.”

“My business won't take that long.” Longarm lit a fresh cigar. “I told you I'd come to see you after I'd made up my mind what to do about you killing Prud.” He spoke through a veil of blue tobacco smoke. “Well, I've done some studying about it. Seeing as Prud was an outlaw and a fugitive, and already had his gun out throwing down on me, I'm halfway of a mind to let you get off light.”

“I'd get off light, no matter which way you'd made your mind up to go. I've done a little investigating, Long. There's no jury in these parts that'd find me guilty of anything but helping you subdue a dangerous man who was trying to kill an officer to avoid being arrested.”

“Maybe so and maybe not. We both know you had me in mind when you grabbed that shotgun.”

“You don't know what I had in mind. Even if you did, you'd never be able to prove it.”

“I've proved less likely things,” Longarm said levelly. “But that business with Prud was just a sideline to the case I'm here to handle.”

“I know that. So is the feud between the cattlemen and the wheat farmers. You came down here to keep an eye on the election. And here you are, mixed up in a lot of local matters over which you have absolutely no jurisdiction.”

Longarm smiled. “Sounds to me like you been talking to Sheriff Grover and Clem Hawkins.”

“Of course I have. It's just common sense to find out my real position from people who don't have any personal interest.”

“I wouldn't exactly say Hawkins and Grover fall into that class.”

“I'd take Clem Hawkins's word before I would a lot of men's.” Stone's voice was sharpening with impatience again.

Longarm decided it was time to get down to cases. “I'll lay my cards out, Stone.”

“Good. It's about time.”

Unperturbed, Longarm went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. “I can file a murder charge against you. I can file another charge against you as an accessory to attempted murder.”

“Wait a minute,” Stone said, holding up a hand, palm forward. “You haven't mentioned that one before.”

The marshal crossed his long legs and leaned back. “Because I wasn't ready to. But I've got enough now to make it stand up.”

“On what basis? Give me some facts, Long.”

“Sure,” Longarm agreed amiably. “Fact one: you were paying Prud Simmons for cutting fences and getting up bunches of night-riders to do the same thing for a while. I won't have any trouble proving that.” He hoped Stone would be too shaken up by the new charges to question the evidence. “Fact two: there were men wounded by Prud and his bunch, and part of what you paid Prud went to the men riding with him. That's two cases of attempted murder, Stone. And I was the one who was supposed to be killed in one of them, so I've got a real personal interest in it.”

Although Stone tried to hide his shock, Longarm could see in his eyes that the wheat broker was shaken. He thought it was time to ease up on the pressure and let Stone dangle a bit more loosely. He leaned back, saying nothing.

“I think I want a drink,” Stone said. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured whiskey into a glass, then spurted soda in from a siphon. Turning to Longarm, he said, “I've got plenty of that special rye that caught your fancy. Would you like some?”

“No. I think I'll pass tonight.”

Stone brought his own drink, a bottle of the rye, and a glass back to the table. He put the bottle and glass in front of Longarm, saying, “In case you change your mind.”

Sitting down, Stone waited until he'd had two big gulps from his glass before looking at Longarm. He asked, “Well?”

“Well, what?” Longarm asked innocently.

“What's my alternative? You say you can bring these charges of murder and attempted murder to court, if you want to. Obviously you're not anxious to do that, or you wouldn't be here talking to me right now.”

“I might not be anxious, but don't think I'm holding back, either, Stone. I just ain't made up my mind.”

Stone's eyes lit up hopefully. “In other words, you're open to persuasion.”

“That's not what I said.”

“Long, over the years I've learned a few valuable lessons. One of the most important is not to listen to what a man says, but to find out what he means by what he says.”

“If that's the way you read things, what do you think I mean?”

“That you've got your hand out, wanting to dip it into my pocket.”

Longarm let the insult pass without comment. He wanted to see how anxious Stone was, or how worried— just how far he was prepared to go.

“Well, now,” the broker said briskly. “You don't deny it, I see. But somehow I don't think you're a man who's too interested in money.” Stone frowned in concentration for a moment, then pointed to the bottle of rye, which Longarm hadn't touched. “That whiskey seemed to strike your fancy. Now, I know what you're paid as a deputy marshal, and to be blunt as hell, you can't afford to buy it.”

“You're right about that; I can't. And I've got sense enough to know it.”

“What would you say to a case a month for the rest of your life? Delivered free, of course.”

Longarm sat silently for long enough to give Stone the idea that he was thinking about the offer. Then he shook his head.

“You judged me wrong when you figured you could buy me for a few bottles of whiskey, Stone. Even a whiskey as good as that one. You were right about something else, though. I ain't for sale for cash, either.”

“Then what the hell kind of bribe do you expect me to offer you?” Stone said. He was obviously losing what little patience he possessed.

“I'm not interested in any kind of bribe. I'm not for sale for money, marbles, or chalk.”

“What do you want, then?”

Longarm took a long drag on his cheroot, blew out a long stream of smoke, and smiled benignly. “I think a little bit of a bonfire might satisfy me.”

“Meaning what?”

Longarm pointed at the stack of papers on the table between them. “They look like they'd make a real pretty blaze in that little stove you've got over there in the corner. Nights are getting a mite chilly.”

“You go to hell, Long! Those options represent a lot of work as well as a lot of money. I'm not going to see either one go up in smoke!”

“Not even if three warrants went up with 'em?”

“What good would it do to burn a warrant that's been made a court record by—” Stone stopped, his eyes narrowed. “You're trying to bluff me, Long. There hasn't been time for you to get a warrant issued by any federal judge.”

“You don't know as much as you think you do about federal warrants. Any deputy U.S. marshal can issue a field warrant, just like a judge can issue a bench warrant, without it being recorded until it's served.”

“I've never heard of a procedure like that. I still think you're bluffing.”

Longarm's eyes grew cold, taking on the dangerous gunmetal dark shine that had been the last color seen on earth by several imprudent gunmen. “Call me, then. If I take you to jail in Junction with any one of these three warrants I've got in my pocket, Sheriff Grover'd have no choice but to hold you until a federal judge validates them.” He waited for Stone to reply, and when the broker said nothing, added, “And don't count on bail. Neither Clem Hawkins nor anybody else can post bail while you're being held on a deputy's field warrant. It takes a federal judge to set bail.”

Stone said soberly, “If that's true, you could delay sending those warrants in as long as you wanted to. And I'd be in jail until you had them validated.”

“You've got it sized up right,” the marshal affirmed evenly.

“It sounds illegal to me.”

“If you still think I'm bluffing, get your hat. We'll just go to the jail and try it out.”

“Now wait a minute, Long. I haven't turned down your trade yet.”

“So I noticed. Well, it's up to you, Stone. Just don't put off making up your mind till my patience runs out. But I better say right now, it's wearing pretty thin.”

“I could charge you with blackmail, you know,” Stone said.

“Yes, I guess you could. It wouldn't be the first time a man getting arrested lodged a charge like that. I misdoubt it'd be the last time, either. But it wouldn't wash in court, and you know it.”

“No,” Stone agreed reluctantly, “I suppose it wouldn't.” Then he added hurriedly, “But I don't think this trumped-up case you've got against me would, either.”

“Maybe you'd like to try it out,” Longarm offered. “You'd only be in jail maybe a year or two while the case worked through the court hearings.”

“Damn you, Long, you've got me coming and going!” Stone exclaimed bitterly. He thought for a moment. There's a time when anybody who plays the market knows he's forced to cut his losses. All right. Take the goddamned options and burn them!”

“I thought you'd come around to seeing it my way.” Longarm was careful to keep the triumph out of his voice. “And you can watch the warrants burn along with 'em.”

Longarm swept the papers off the table while Stone watched in grim silence. The small, round railroad car stove wouldn't accept them all at the same time. He crammed its cylindrical belly full, and touched a match to the mass of papers, then closed the door. The flames danced up and reddened the isinglass framed in decorative cast-iron curlicues at the top of the door. When the flames died down, Longarm stuffed the remaining options into the stove, and took out of his pocket the three warrants that he'd filled out in his hotel room after he'd left Ilioana Karsovana. The flames danced a brief encore, and the isinglass went dark. Longarm stood up, and stretched hugely.

“I guess that's all the business you and I have got to deal with,” he told Stone. “You don't owe me a thing; I don't owe you. That being the case, I'll take a swallow of that rye now, if it's all the same to you.”

“No, by God, it's not all the same to me!” Stone snarled. He picked up the almost-full bottle of special rye and threw it across the car. The bottle shattered on the paneling with a crash, and the scent of rye whiskey spread through the car.

Mae Bonner ran in through the door that led to the staterooms. “What on earth—?” She sniffed. “Somebody spilled whiskey.”

“Will you get back to wherever you came from, Mae? And keep your stupid damn comments to yourself!” Stone's voice was bitter.

Longarm saw that it was time for him to go. He said, “I'll let you two quarrel in private. Glad we could finish our business so fast, Stone. Now I'll bid you goodnight.”

*   *   *

Later, after two or three drinks of regular bottled rye at the Cattleman's, he tried to convince himself that it was all for the best that Stone had broken the bottle.

A few more drinks of that special stuff, old son
, his thoughts ran,
and you'd purely lose your taste for this kind. And this kind is about all you'll ever be able to drink regular.

Pushing through the batwings when he left the saloon shortly before midnight, Longarm's first thought was that it was Madame Karsovana who called his name from the shadows on the dark side of the saloon. He stopped, trying to think up an apology for having left her so abruptly, and his relief was mingled with surprise when he saw that it was Mae Bonner who'd called to him.