Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (37 page)

“Marshal Long! Please, I need to talk to you.”

“Why, sure.” He held out his arm. “We'll just talk while we go up the street. Nobody's around to hear us, or if somebody is, he'll be too drunk to pay any attention to what we say.”

“Don't make a joke of it, Marshal, please. I think I'm in terrible trouble.”

Longarm saw that the girl was trembling. He became serious at once. “What kind of trouble?”

“I just killed Oren.”

“I won't ask you are you joshing; I can see you ain't. Where is he?”

“I left him in the railroad car. I couldn't stay there a minute with his—his body.”

“Maybe you better tell me what happened,” he suggested.

“Well—” Mae began, then stopped abruptly, unable to say anything more.

“You and him get into a fight of some kind?” Longarm prompted her. “You were beginning to fuss when I left. I guess it got worse.”

“A lot worse. Oren kept drinking, and the more he drank, the meaner he got. He—” Mae gulped and went on, speaking more coherently, “I suppose you've guessed that, well, that Oren wasn't just my boss, that I was—”

“You were his lady friend, is that what you're trying to say?”

“Yes. It just seemed to happen, after I'd been working for him for two or three months. That was about a year ago. For a while everything was all right, then he began to snap at me, curse at me sometimes. You heard him tonight. And a few nights ago, he—” Mae stopped short again.

Longarm supplied the words for her. “He beat you up. I saw the bruise on your face, remember?”

“Yes. It wasn't the first time he'd hit me lately, but it was the worst. Then, after you left tonight, he really beat me.”

Longarm looked at her closely, but the street was too dark for him to see anything more than a light-hued blur where her face was.

Mae went on hesitantly, “I told him I wasn't going to stay in the parlor with him any longer, and went to my room. He came in after I'd gone to sleep. He wanted to—well, he started to get in bed with me, after I'd refused to go back to his room with him. I got away from him and he chased me. I saw this big skillet when I went through the galley, and picked it up and hit him on the head with it as hard as I could.”

“And then what?” Longarm asked, when she stopped talking.

“Then he fell down. I couldn't stay there. I dressed and came to town. You were the only one I could think of who'd help me. I asked at the hotel, but you hadn't come in, so I looked in the saloons. When I saw you, I had to wait until you came out, of course.”

“I see. Well now, I'll tell you what. Supposing I take you up to my room, and you lay down and rest while I go out and see what it looks like at the railroad car. We'll talk about what to do when I come back.”

“If you're sure it's all right—”

“It's all right. Now come along.”

*   *   *

An hour later, when Longarm let himself into his room, Mae was lying fully clothed on his bed in the deep sleep that follows physical and emotional exhaustion. The lamp on the bureau was still burning. Longarm shook her gently by the shoulder.

“What—?” She shuddered as memory flooded back. “Oh, God! Tell me, however bad it is, Marshal.”

“It ain't bad. Stone's as alive as you and me. Not as wide awake, though. I'd say he's more drunk than hurt, but he's got a goose egg-sized bump on his head that won't go away for a while.”

“I didn't, kill him, then? Oh, thank God! Did he say anything?”

“He didn't even wake up. I just left everything the way it was, and came on back. I figured he'll sort things out when he comes to.”

Mae sighed. “Well, I certainly feel better, even if I am out of a job and don't know what I'll do in a town like Junction,”

“You wouldn't want to stay here. There wouldn't be any of the kind of work a smart girl like you does.”

“I don't know just how smart I am,” she said with a twisted smile. “I don't have a dime, and the only clothes I came away with are the ones Í have on.”

“Didn't Stone pay you?”

“Oh, sure. In a way. When we settled into our—well, our personal arrangement, he said he'd keep track of my wages. I just drew money for the expenses of the car—you know, food, liquor, things like that, out of the cash he kept on hand.”

“How much do you figure he owes you in back salary?”

Mae shrugged. “I don't know. It's—well, he stopped paying me about seven months ago.”

“Paid you pretty well, did he?”

“More than most male stenographers make. Fifteen dollars a week. And of course I didn't have any living expenses as long as—well, until tonight.”

“That'd mount up to a pretty good sum. Let's see . . .”

Before Longarm could multiply in his head, Mae gave him the answer. “Seven months at fifteen dollars a week would be four hundred and fifty dollars, Marshal.”

Longarm reached into the deep side pocket of his coat and produced a handful of paper-wrapped coin rolls. Mae leaped off the bed and came up to him, her mouth agape.

“I figured five hundred,” Longarm said. “That's what I've got here, five rolls of gold eagles. Call the extra fifty a bonus, or to pay for the clothes you left behind.” He handed Mae the rolled coins. “Now you won't have to go back to Stone for your back pay.”

“You took this money out of his safe!” she gasped. “Isn't that stealing?”

“Not as long as it was money he owed you. I wrote him out a receipt and put it in the safe. Anyhow, I didn't have to open the safe. He'd forgotten to close it up.”

“Well—” Mae looked at the money. “You don't know what this means to me, Marshal. I just don't know how I can thank you!”

“There's one way I can think of without a bit of trouble.”

Mae looked at him for a long moment, her mouth slowly turning down at the corners. Then, with a shrug, she said, “I don't suppose, it matters much whether it's you or Oren Stone.” Her hand went to the collar of her dress and she began to undo the buttons.

Longarm took Mae's wrist and pulled her hand away from the button placket. “Sex ain't what I was getting at. Not that I don't enjoy it, but I never did expect a woman to pay me in bed for anything I did to help her.”

“Oh,” Mae sighed. “After Oren Stone, I guess I've got a pretty low opinion of men. Go on, Marshal. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“You've been with Stone about a year. You must've heard a lot of his business talks, and I guess you wrote letters for him too.”

“Of course. That's what he hired me for. The personal part didn't start for a while. But I told you that. And even after it did, he didn't let me off any of the work I was supposed to do.”

“A man like him wouldn't. Well, what I want you to do, Mae, is to tell me everything you know about why a big important broker like Stone was so interested in this little jerkwater place where there's not enough wheat grown to make a bit of difference to the price-rigging that goes on among the speculators in Chicago.”

“You mean you don't know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you.”

“Of course you wouldn't. Oren and the few wheat pit operators who were in on Stone's deal have kept it a pretty tight secret. And those poor rubes around Junction, the Brethren, or whatever they call themselves, they don't know either, I guess.”

“But you do?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “Well. Let's sit down, Marshal. It's something of a long story.”

Longarm sat in the chair by the bureau, within easy reach of the rye bottle, and lighted a cheroot. Mae looked around for another chair, didn't find one, and sat down on the side of the bed.

“I didn't know any more than any other city girl about wheat, when I started to work for Oren,” she began. “Do you know how many kinds of wheat there are, Marshal?”

“Sure, spring wheat and winter wheat.”

“That's not what I mean. I mean varieties.” When Longarm shook his head, Mae went on, “I'm not sure I remember the names of all of them. Some I do, like Calcutta and Fife and Vilmorin and Lund, but there are others besides those.”

“Turkey Red?” Longarm suggested.

“You do know!” she exclaimed. “What kind of game are you playing with me, Marshal?”

“It's not a game, I guarantee you, Mae. It just happens I know about Turkey Red wheat because the Brethren told me. But about all I know is the name, and that it'll grow in the kind of short summers they have in these parts.”

“Not only in these parts,” Mae said. “It'll mature in Nebraska, Dakota Territory, Montana, Wyoming Territory, and Utah Territory—just about anywhere in the entire West. That's why it's so important to the speculators who operate on the Grain Exchange, and to the cattlemen. Except Turkey Red, there's no other variety of wheat anybody knows about that will make a crop where wheat's never been grown before.”

Longarm frowned. “I still don't see what makes it so special.”

“Think about it, Marshal. The West's mostly open cattle range, and the cattlemen want to keep it that way. Under the Homestead Act, any farmer tired of scratching out a living in the East can plant Turkey Red on his quarter-section, and make a living. What's that going to do to the cattle range, when the word spreads that there's a wheat that will do that?”

Slowly, Longarm nodded. “Sure. All those people scratching out a living, from little hard-scrabble farms, twenty or thirty acres, are going to want to get into wheat farming. If enough of them move West, the cattle range is going to be fenced in after awhile, just like it is now around Junction.”

“Not only that,” Mae said. “The speculators can make a lot of money in the wheat pit now because crops aren't dependable from one year to the next. Bad weather sends wheat prices up. Good weather brings them down. They know that if Turkey Red wheat makes it possible for thousands and thousands more acres of land to be planted in wheat, those price fluctuations are going to even out. Maybe if enough wheat's planted in places where it can't be grown now, there might not be any more wild price changes overnight.”

“So Stone found out about the Turkey Red, and set out to—what do they call it when somebody buys up all of everything?”

“Corner the market. Yes. Stone and a few of his cronies set out to corner the market in Turkey Red wheat. And this is the only place it's grown, except for one little farm run by a German fellow named Schmidt, up near Fort Leavenworth. And Schmidt won't sell any of his crop.”

Longarm nodded. “It all begins to make sense now. Including why Clem Hawkins and Stone were working together. Neither one of 'em wanted the Turkey Red seed to get out and be spread around.”

“That's right. These nesters here don't know what a gold mine they're sitting on. Oren and Hawkins didn't want them to find out.”

“Well, I feel better, now that I know.” He didn't mention that the Brethren also knew.

“I feel better too,” Mae said. “Like I've gotten back at Oren at least a little bit for what he did to me. Of course, I don't have any idea where I'll go, or how I'll get there.”

“I'll see that you get out of here without any trouble,” Longarm promised. “I can fix it up for you to go out on one of the cattle trains that'll be starting to roll to Dodge in a few days. From there, you can go on to just about anyplace you want to. Of course, you'll have to ride the caboose, instead of that fancy private car you came here in, but I don't reckon you'll mind that.”

“I certainly won't.” Mae hesitated. “Can I ask another favor of you now, Marshal?”

“Ask ahead.”

“I'm as nervous right now as a cat with new kittens. I'll get a room here in the hotel tomorrow, but—do you mind if I stay with you tonight? Not—well, you know what I mean, just stay for company? I can sleep on the floor or in the chair. I don't want to take your bed away from you.”

“You're welcome to the bed,” Longarm told her. “My bedroll's over in the corner there, I'll just spread it for myself. Wouldn't be the first time I've used it on a floor, it won't bother me a bit.”

“If you're sure . . .”

“I'm sure.”

Sometime during the night, Longarm woke up. The room reverberated with a noise like a bunch of Comanches on the warpath. He wondered if some of Stone's irritation with Mae might not have been caused by the girl's snoring. Pulling the blanket up over his ears, Longarm rolled over and went back to sleep.

Chapter 16

Sitting on the roan in the narrow alleyway between two of the Santa Fe's shipping-out corrals, Longarm watched the Lazy Y hands roust the last dozen or so bawling steers into the loading chute. Across the way, on the other side of the corral, the cattle broker who had bid high on the herd was settling up with Charlie Bell, the Lazy Y's owner. The snow was beginning to fall more thickly now, and the wind from the North Pole whistled in a higher pitch than it had, through the slat fences of the corrals.

Longarm had been there since the first of the Lazy Y's market herd had started trickling in, just before noon. His feet were cold, and his hands, exposed to the freezing air, were colder. Gloves were out of the question in a job like the one he'd assigned himself. There wasn't any way of knowing when—or even whether—he'd see what he was looking for, or recognize it if he saw it.

What he was looking for, of course, were the other three or four men who'd taken part in that night-riding spree Prud Simmons had organized. Since Prud's death, there'd been no more night-riders out harassing the homesteaders, but the ones who had taken part in the fracas in which he'd been shot were probably still among the hands on the ranches dotting the prairie around Junction.

Chances were, Longarm had concluded after studying things out, that those men were all cut from pretty much the same cloth Prud had been.

Some of them might, like Prud, be fugitives with wanted circulars out on them, and Longarm had put in a lot of time at Sheriff Grover's office studying the fliers that had come in from all over the country. Even with the descriptions he'd read, added to those he carried in his memory from fliers he'd looked at in the office in Denver, he wasn't sure he'd recognize any of the wanted men if he saw them. A lot of the descriptions were pretty sketchy. On the other hand, there hadn't been any certainty that he wouldn't spot a bad apple or two among the temporary hands. If he was going to do anything at all, though, he thought he'd better do it while the crews from the ranches were all in Junction for the shipping-out. Once the cattle had been loaded, their jobs with the ranches would be finished, and they'd scatter.

He'd weighed the chances and decided it would be time well-spent. He had little to do now before election day. Oren Stone's private car had been coupled to an engine and was gone. Mae Bonner had left a day before Stone, riding the caboose behind another of the work engines assigned to the tedious job of car-spotting. After his abrupt departure from Ilioana Karsovana's room, she'd showed an icy face to Longarm on the three or four occasions when they'd met on the street or in the restaurant. In fact, he hadn't seen the Russian woman for the last couple of days, or her coachman, either.

Until today, Longarm's hours spent at the corrals hadn't been bad. The weather had been fine, a prairie autumn, never hot enough to raise a sweat, never cold enough to bring up goose bumps. That had changed about midnight, though. He'd felt the cold seeping into his hotel room and had burrowed deeper under the cover. When he looked out of his room's single narrow window a little after dawn, a few snowflakes had begun to drift down, but so far the snow had fallen in fits and starts, not enough to hamper work at the corrals.

Brushing off a few flakes that a vagrant gust of wind tossed under his hat brim, Longarm wondered how it was out on the prairie, whether it had gotten bad enough to delay the market herds still on the way to the railhead. From the saloon gossip he'd picked up last night, the three biggest herds were still due. They were those from Clem Hawkins's C Bar H, from Bill Tatum's Double Z, and from the Evans family's Panther Tail. So far, the herds had arrived at pretty well-spaced intervals, on the schedule the ranchers had worked out between themselves. They'd gotten to the shipping corrals from a half-day to a day apart, depending on the number of steers in each herd. The schedule had been planned to avoid the jam-up that would result if a new herd arrived before the last one had been loaded and shipped out, so there would always be empty corrals.

Longarm didn't really mind the days he'd put in around the corrals, watching and occasionally swapping a few words with the hands. His evenings had been divided between the Cattleman's and the Ace High, having a drink or two, sauntering with an idle look around the poker tables. That idle look had concealed his keen inspection of faces and mannerisms as he watched for the telltale signals that men with guilty consciences almost always give off.

At least he hadn't minded the days until the snow had set in. Now about all he could think of was seeing the last of the steers chuted into the waiting cattle cars and getting back to town. The only thing that would warm him up was a long session in one of the big round wood-stave bathtubs in the room back of the barbershop, soaking out the cold in steaming hot water.

What I'd be smart to do
, he thought,
is to get out of here right now and make tracks to the barbershop before this Lazy Y bunch finishes and hits town. If I wait, there'll be so many ahead of me that I won't get warm before suppertime.

Since he couldn't think of a reason to remain at the corrals any longer, he wheeled the roan about and headed toward Junction.

*   *   *

Relaxed and warm once more after his bath, Longarm crossed to the restaurant for an early supper. Ilioana Karsovana was sitting alone at a table against the wall. When she saw Longarm come in, she nodded, and when he acknowledged her greeting with a half-bow, she motioned for him to join her. He hung his hat on the row of pegs by the door and went to her table.

“Would you take pity on my solitude, Longarm, and join me?” Ilioana asked. “Gregor usually serves my meals in my room, but he is away on an errand, and I have to resign myself to eating here.” She indicated her half-empty plate. “A dreadful meal.”

“Well, it ain't the best cooking in the world,” Longarm agreed, “but it keeps you going.” He signaled the waiter and nodded when the man looked his way. He'd eaten there so often since his arrival in Junction that he no longer needed to order his unvarying supper of steak and potatoes. He said to her, “It's nice of you to ask me to sit with you. I wasn't sure you'd offer me the time of day again, after I left you in such a rush the other evening.”

“It was not a nice thing for you to do,” she replied coyly. “At first I was angry, then I thought, you are conducting an important investigation, your duty must come first.”

“Glad you understood.”

“And since then,” Ilioana went on, “I have seen you hardly at all. Always, when we pass on the street, you seem to be in a hurry,”

“Well, I have been a little busy,” he admitted. Then, to change the subject, he said, “I'm sort of surprised you're still in Junction.”

“I have dreaded beginning to travel again. It has been so very relaxing, my stay here. But it may end soon, I'm afraid.”

“Something to do with the errand you said your servant was off tending to?”

“Yes. A rumor, nothing more, that may lead to my brother. I had him go to learn if there was any substance in it. If there is, I will leave as soon as he returns.” The waiter brought Longarm's food and she waited until he'd put the platter of steak on the table before saying, “But your work is so much more important than mine. I hope it is going well?”

“Oh, I'm reasonably satisfied. Things are beginning to shape up.”

To avoid being questioned about details, Longarm quickly took a bite of steak. He supposed Ilioana took the hint, for she sat quietly while he ate. Once or twice she started to say something, but changed her mind. When Longarm had finished eating and was sipping his second cup of coffee, she returned to her questioning.

“Do my countrymen's crops prosper?”

“I guess they do,” he answered. “To tell you the truth, Ilioana, I ain't had enough time to go out and visit the Brethren since the last time I saw you.”

“A visit which was much too short. I bought a bottle of your favorite whiskey to please you, and you had only one or two small drinks from it. Was it so bad, the whiskey?” she asked, pouting slightly.

“No, no, it was fine Maryland rye,” he answered hastily. “And I'm real sorry I didn't have time to stay longer.”

She looked around at the small, plainly furnished restaurant and said thoughtfully, “Your country has much to learn from ours, my friend. I would have liked an aperitif before dining, and wine with dinner. Now I think a cordial would be nice. All those we would have in Europe, and perhaps music as well.”

“Oh, you'll find cafés like that in big cities. They just ain't up-to-date in little towns like Junction.”

“So I've found. But would not you like an after-dinner drink?”

“Sure, but I can step across to one of the saloons for one.”

“Which I cannot do. Another barbaric custom, to frown on women entering establishments where liquor is served. But if I cannot join you in a saloon, will you join me in my room for the after-dinner drink you have said you would enjoy?”

“Well . . .” Longarm felt trapped. He hadn't seen the question coming from around the curve. He thought quickly. It was early in the evening for him to take his regular look around the saloon; the time for that would be later, in an hour or two. By seven or eight o'clock, both saloons would be a lot more crowded. And the rye Ilioana had served him the other day was a lot better than any he'd get at the Cattleman's or the Ace High. He said, “Well now, I guess that'd be right pleasant.”

Snow was falling more thickly now, and Ilioana held on to his arm as they crossed the street. “Do you like the snow?” she asked.

“Not much. Reckon I've been out in it too many times when there wasn't any shelter.”

“Ah, I love snow!” she sighed. “It wraps me up in a little private world, it makes me feel free.”

Going up the stairs at the hotel, she kept her hand resting on his arm, and when they reached the top of the stairway, she said, “Please allow me a few moments before you tap at my door. I would like to change into something more comfortable.”

Longarm figured her request meant she wanted to use her chamber pot. He said, “Sure. I'll stop off in my room and drop off my hat and pick up some cigars.”

*   *   *

Ilioana had really meant what she'd said about changing, he discovered a few minutes later, when she opened her door in response to his knock. She'd put on a negligee of black chiffon, which, as she moved, billowed to conceal or clung to reveal the voluptuous curves of her body.

Tonight, the soft golden light of a single lamp, turned low, gave the room a different look, though the embellishments that had been added to it by the Russian woman hadn't changed. The Oriental rug, the bed strewn with furs and satin pillows, the brocade-draped chairs, had a theatrical look. Longarm was reminded of stage settings he'd seen at Tabor's Grand Opera House in Denver. He looked at Ilioana, her lips touched with rouge, her face carefully powdered, and thought it was a room that just suited her.

She went to the bureau, the filmy black fabric of her negligee pressing against the curves of her breasts and hips as she walked to the bureau and came back carrying the tray that held the vodka decanter, the bottle of rye, and glasses. She put them on the low table between the two chairs, and poured their drinks.

“Pei do dna!”
she smiled, offering the toast Longarm remembered.

“Sure. Bottoms up!” he replied, tilting his glass. He put the glass on the tray and Ilioana leaned forward to refill it.

“Now you can tell me what you have been doing that has kept you so busy,” she said.

“There ain't all that much to tell,” he said evasively. “Besides, like I told you in the restaurant, I've been doing other things that've kept me from going out to see how the Brethren are getting along.”

“I am concerned about them,” Ilioana said with a little worried frown. “If their wheat crop fails, and they have no money, they would be forced to return to Russia, would they not?”

“Now that's something I don't know. I never heard any talk about them wanting to go back there.”

“But it would be the best thing for them to do, don't you agree, Longarm?” she pressed. “To go back to their homeland?”

“I guess you'd have to ask them that.”

Ilioana went on as though he hadn't spoken. “Should they go home to Russia, they would need money. And friends in the government. I could see that they had both.”

“That's a right kind thought, Ilioana, wanting to smooth their way back to Russia for them.” He suppressed a chuckle at the blatant transparency of her statement.

“It would be no trouble for me,” she said. “I am almost at the end of my search for my brother. Perhaps I would even go back home with them to be sure they reached their native villages.”

“Why don't you go see Mordka Danilov, and tell him that?” Longarm suggested. “Seems to me he'd be the one to talk to.”

Ilioana shook her head. “No. The Brethren are peasants, and I am of the aristocracy. In Russia, peasants do not trust aristocrats.” She looked at him questioningly. “Would you do me a great favor?”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Be my messenger to my countrymen. Tell them of my interest in their well-being, convince them that I will help them.”

Longarm whistled softly. “That's a pretty big order. What makes you think they'd listen to me?”

“They trust you. And so do I.” Ilioana stood up and came to his side. “It would make me very happy if you would do this for me. And I always respond to men who make me happy. I try to make them happy too.” She bent over Longarm and lifted his chin with a soft, warm hand. “Men say I have a great talent for pleasing them. You are a man I would enjoy pleasing, Longarm.”

Before Longarm could move, her lips were on his. The tip of her tongue traced his mouth from corner to corner before she thrust it insistently between his lips and he opened his mouth to let their tongues meet. Ilioana's arm went across his neck to hold him in an embrace. Her free hand slid across his chest and reached his groin. Through the cloth of his trousers, Longarm felt her fingers exploring him. Her musky perfume filled his nostrils.