Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (8 page)

The hunchback made a gargling sound and tried to say something. Longarm said, “Just hold on, old son. You ain't hit bad. I'll have a look-see as soon as I get these infernal mules under control!”

He lied, of course. The poor bastard was done for, but he didn't think it would cheer the shotgun to hear it from him right now.

Longarm hauled back hard and kicked the brake rod, locking the wheels. The team dragged the coach a few yards, then came to a nervous, dancing stop. Longarm reached down with his free hand and groped for the shotgun wedged between the bulkhead and the dying guard. Then he looked quickly around in a full circle. They were alone on a stretch of rolling mustard meadow. Kevin MacLeod, gun in hand, stuck his head out and called up, “You seem to have driven them off, Deputy. What happened to the crew?”

Longarm said, “Both hit. The jehu didn't stop when they threw down on him. He was a good old man. Can you handle a scattergun?”

“Of course. Toss her down.”

“Nope. You come up here and watch my ass while I turn the team around.”

The mine owner joined him, gasping at the sight of the dying hunchback down in the boot. Longarm handed him the shotgun and said, “They may have given up. They may be back. They'll hit us from the rear if they hit us at all.”

As Longarm hauled on the reins, MacLeod asked, “Where are we going, back to Sacramento?”

“Nope. Back to pick up the old man. Wouldn't be neighborly to leave him for the buzzards. There might be some sign to read back there, too.”

MacLeod braced his heels on the boot above the moaning hunchback, and said, “I'm sure he's dead. I saw him hit the ground. But you're right. We can't just leave him.”

Longarm swung the team back the way they'd just come and clucked them into motion, holding a tight rein to keep them from stampeding again. As the lead mules sniffed the body on the trail ahead, they started fighting the bits, but even without a whip the deputy managed to drive close enough. Then he set the brake and handed the reins to MacLeod, saying, “Don't let them have an inch of slack or you'll be on your way to wheresoever.”

He climbed down and walked over to the body of the jehu. He didn't have to roll the old man over to see that he was dead. There was a gaping hole between the driver's shoulder blades. Longarm sighed, “Poor old bastard. You should have stopped, but I'm glad you didn't.”

The door opened and the girl jumped down, asking, “Is there anything I can do?”

Longarm said, “Not for this one, ma'am. There's a man hit bad up in the boot who could use a woman's hand on his brow, if you have the belly for it.”

Felicidad stared down at the dead man in the road and sighed,
“Ay, pobrecito!”
Then she turned and walked to the front of the coach. MacLeod reached a hand down to help her, but she ignored it and climbed up beside him without comment. Longarm noticed that she climbed proficiently for a woman in skirts. She placed a foot on a spoke of the near wheel and went up like a hand climbing the side of a corral one jump ahead of a rogue steer. He surmised that she sat a pony well, too.

Leaving the dead driver for the moment, Longarm walked a big circle in the dust, searching for sign. The bodies of the two ponies he had shot carried no brands and had been stripped of their gear. He spotted a hoof print and muttered, “Son of a bitch. I thought so!”

Then he bent over, reholstered his gun, and dragged the body by its heels to the coach. The dead jehu was as limp as a dishrag, but a good deal heavier. It was a task getting him inside, but Longarm managed. He slammed the door and climbed up beside MacLeod and the girl, saying, “This other fellow might be more comfortable down there, too.”

Felicidad shook her head and said, “He is dead. What do we do now?”

Longarm said, “For openers, one of us has to drive while another rides shotgun. You want to give her the shotgun, MacLeod?”

The young mine owner looked surprised, so Longarm explained, “I can see by the way you're holding that thing that you ain't a skeet shooter. Miss Felicidad, here, knows her country and moves like a lady who's used to traveling around it safe and quick. How about it, Miss Vallejo?”

The girl lowered her eyes and said, “I have hunted since I was six. If they intend to hit us again, it will be up past the next few bends, where the trail passes between high outcrops.”

Longarm laughed and said, “There you go, MacLeod. Give the lady the scattergun. If you're any good with that .38, move back along the deck and keep an eye on the brush on either side. They'll hit us low if they don't hit us high.”

MacLeod did as he was told, and once everyone was in place, Longarm swung the team around once more and yelled, “Heeeyah!!”

As they lurched forward, Felicidad asked, “Are we pressing on? I thought you'd head back to Sacramento for another driver.”

Longarm said, “We've got a driver. Me. I've been trying for a week to get to the damned old mine, and it's getting tedious as hell.”

MacLeod called forward, “I'm for that. My wife will worry if we're late. Did you find anything back there, Deputy?”

Longarm said, “Yeah. A hoof print. U.S. army issue. I thought one of the rascals was riding my gelding and shooting my old Winchester at us. Lucky he didn't know its windage is a hair off to the right.”

“Jesus! You mean those rascals had the horse you say Constable Lovejoy took from you?”

“I do. It'll be interesting as hell to see what Lovejoy has to say about it. He'd best have one good story, and his stay on this earth depends on whether I believe it or not.”

Chapter 3

A stagecoach got its name, of course, because it got where it was going by stages. Calaveras County lay a good forty miles from Sacramento, mostly uphill, and a good team can sustain a ten- or twelve-mile-an-hour trot for little more than two hours. So the coach had to stop for a fresh team every twenty miles. Like other lines, Wells Fargo maintained a cross-country network of roadside corrals with comfort stations and, occasionally, kitchens for the passengers. So Longarm hauled in eighteen miles out of Sacramento for a change of teams—and to get rid of the bodies before they started bloating.

They told the Wells Fargo crew what had happened and the telegrapher put it on the wire. So all stage crews, of any company in the area, would be watching for road agents. The man in charge of the station seemed to think Longarm should let him have his company's stagecoach back. He said that they'd send for another crew and that the three survivors should wait awhile. Longarm said he was commandeering the coach for U.S. government business. When the Wells Fargo agent said he'd have to check with his headquarters, Longarm told him to do anything he liked as long as Longarm, MacLeod, and the girl didn't have to hang around.

They were still arguing—or rather, the agent was arguing at Longarm—when the deputy whipped the fresh team into motion and left the bewildered man standing in the road, calling out, “Hey! Come back here with my coach, God damn it!”

Kevin MacLeod was roaring with laughter and, for the first time since he'd met her, the girl at Longarm's side reluctantly chuckled. She shifted the shotgun in her lap to cover an approaching grove of five oak and observed, “It's nice to see an Anglo screaming helplessly for a change. I didn't know you people were as highhanded with one another as you are with us.”

Longarm grinned and said, “There was nothing personal meant by it when we stole California from you, Señorita. We'd just as likely have taken it had it belonged to anyone else.”

She no longer looked amused as she nodded and said, “I believe you. You people are natural bullies. You seem to have understood the survival of the strong long before Darwin published his outrageous book.”

Longarm shrugged and said, “You'd best take that up with God, ma'am; He made the rules. Besides, we could have been even meaner, if you study on it. I'll allow that some of the forty-niners were a mite uncouth, and some of your people got the short end of the stick, but a lot of your Spanish grants were recognized by the U.S. government.”

Her dark features took on an ironic cast. “I see. You think, because you only stole
half
of our land, that that makes it just.”

“Not as just as it might have been, but a better deal than you folks offered the Indians who owned all this land in the first place,” Longarm said evenly. He saw that he'd scored a point and added, “How much land did Cortez let Montezuma keep?”

She flushed and said, “That's not the same!”

“Sure it is,” he insisted. “You Spanish found a land filled with gold and Indians, so, being tougher than the original owners, you just up and took it. The forty-niners found a land full of gold and comfortable Spaniards and they were just as tough on the Spaniards as the Spaniards had been on the Indians. Like I said, it was nothing personal.”

“We were not living under the tyranny of Castile,” the girl objected. “California belonged to Mexico, a friendly democracy!”

“Mexico was friendly as hell at the Alamo,” Longarm countered, “and if you want to call Santa Ana's dictatorship a democracy—Well, what the hell, we've elected some funny folks ourselves, so you're likely right. I'd give California back if it was up to me, but it ain't, so let's talk about something else.”

She smiled wryly, and replied, “It
is
a waste of time now, isn't it? Do you think those banditos are liable to come back?”

He shook his head and said, “Doubt it. I left two dismounted and we showed them we weren't schoolmarms. We're carrying some mail in the strongbox under the seat, but the agent says there's no gold aboard.”

“Then why did they try to rob us in the first place?”

“Because
we
were aboard. There's usually a gold watch or a pretty gal aboard any stage. If that bunch is who I suspicion, they don't run to much common sense. You might say they rob folks on impulse.”

“You know who they were?” the woman asked with a puzzled frown.

“Not for sure, “but I think they're what's left of the Calico Kid's gang. The one who was riding my gelding looked like a rat-faced saddle tramp I met in Manzanita near the livery stable. Either Constable Lovejoy gave it to them or they stole it.”

Felicidad's lip curled contemptuously. “I know this Lovejoy. My people call him
el stupido
.”

He chuckled and replied, “Fair is fair. When you folks are right, you're right. Do you live in Manzanita, Señorita?”

“No. Our rancho is just outside of town. We will pass it on the way in and I will get off there. How soon do you think we will be there?”

“A couple of hours, the Lord willing and the creeks don't rise. You say your people know Lovejoy well enough to call him names. Can you tell me if they have any notions about those high-graders stealing from Mr. MacLeod back there?”

The girl shook her head and said, “We have heard of the robberies. We would like to think it was one of our people, but that is too much to hope for. Some of our vaqueros are sure it is the work of Joaquin Murietta, but that is just wishful thinking.”

He frowned and said, “It'd have to be. Joaquin Murietta was shot and beheaded nearly thirty years ago!”

“I know. But some of our people still see him, late at night on a moonlit trail.”

*   *   *

They dropped Felicidad off on a wooded path a mile outside of Manzanita. Then Longarm drove the stage to the Wells Fargo office, where MacLeod's wife was waiting with a buckboard and a worried look. Lottie MacLeod was a pretty Utile dishwater blonde in a sun bonnet two sizes too large for her little head. Longarm could see that her face had been freckled by the mountain sun in spite of the bonnet. He told the MacLeods he'd be up to visit them as soon as he found something to ride. As the MacLeods drove off, Longarm explained to the suspicious-eyed Wells Fargo men whose hands were resting casually on their sidearms that he hadn't really stolen the coach. They'd gotten some of the story by telephone, they said. Everybody but the U.S. government seemed to believe in the newfangled things. The station boss said the company had posted a reward on the rascals who'd shot their employees. Longarm said, “I ain't allowed to accept rewards, but it'll be my pleasure, anyway. One of the bastards was riding my horse.”

Leaving the Wells Fargo men to figure out how they were going to move the stage a mile farther east, Longarm headed for the constable's office down the street. He walked in the shadows of the overhanging wooden awnings with his new gun in his hand. The few townies he passed looked at him suspiciously, but he paid them no mind. Until he knew how much pull Boss Buckley really had up here in the hills, he was going to make sure they didn't get the drop on him a second time.

Constable Lovejoy must have spotted him through the window and been spooked by the sight, for he waved a white handkerchief out the door and called out, “Put that fool gun away, Longarm! It was all a mistake!”

Longarm stopped within strategic range of a watering trough he could duck behind in two jumps and called in reply, “That's one thing we're agreed on, Lovejoy. Come on out and let's talk on it.”

“You must think I'm loco! You're pointing a goddamned gun at me!”

“You bring out my own gun, my badge, and the other things you stole, and I'll put this one away. You'd best make your next move careful and slow. I've taken just about enough shit off you and my job gives me a certain amount of leeway about dealing with coyotes and other varmints.”

Lovejoy stepped timidly outside, holding the white kerchief in one hand and a big paper bag in the other. Longarm saw that he'd thought to leave his gunbelt where it couldn't get him in trouble, so he put his own gun away, but stayed near cover just the same. He was well within rifle range of the jailhouse window.

Lovejoy crossed over to him, saying, “I got all your stuff right here, Mister Long. Like I said, I've seen the error of my ways.”

Longarm took the sack from him, saying, “I know you have a telephone line to the capital. I'll take your word for what's in this bag, for now, but it seems a mite light. You don't have my horse, Winchester, and saddlebags in here, I'll bet.”

“Listen, Longarm. I got a nice pinto stud with a new Visalia stock saddle for you. Got a spanking new Remington rifle I'd be pleased to offer, too.”

“I don't want your horse and gear. I want
mine
. What happened to them?”

Lovejoy licked his lips and said, “Honest, I just don't know. After you run off, I went to the livery to see if you'd left any clues in your possibles. That's when we noticed someone had sort of, well,
stole
them.”

Longarm nodded and said, “A little rat-faced tramp in a hickory shirt and gunbarrel chaps. He just chased me on my own mount, shooting at me with my own rifle. You sure run this town sloppy, old son.”

“We heard about them smoking up the stage. Some of the boys're out looking for the rascals right now. I can see I had you wrong, Longarm. I'll just bet the Calico Kid's gang has been behind this high-grading all the time.”

He waited for Longarm to answer, got nervous waiting and tried to grin, saying, “But, hell, we're on the same side now, right?”

Longarm said, “Maybe. You were about to tell me who passed the word that I was to be kept away from the Lost Chinaman and such.”

Lovejoy hesitated, then shrugged and said, “Hell, no sense in me trying to cover for folks who can't make up their own durned minds. It was the U.S. marshal in Sacramento. The same hombre just called to say we were to leave you the hell alone!”

Longarm nodded, but said, “I want a name to go with your tale. Was it the marshal himself or somebody farther down his totem pole?”

Lovejoy said, “It was a deputy named Harper. Sam Harper, I think his name was. He said you had no jurisdiction the first time he called. Now he says the case is all yours and he hopes you choke on it.”

Longarm nodded again and said, “You can start breathing again, Constable. I don't aim to shoot you after all. Did that deputy of yours get over the little set-to we had over at the jail?”

Lovejoy smiled shakily and wiped his heavily perspiring brow with the white handkerchief. “Old Pete? He's all right. I got him out looking for them road agents with the others. He said he still can't figure out how you slickered him. Pete says you and that Injun started a row and the next he remembers is me standing over him with a pail of water. How did you do it, Longarm?”

“I've got magic powers. But tell me something else. When Bitter Water and I ran off, did you trail us as far as a saddleback ridge about eight or twelve miles to the southeast?”

“You must be funning! We knew you had a gun and the Injun who knew the country with you! Do I look like the sort of fool who'd ride into a bushwhacking with night coming on?”

Longarm was too polite to say what sort of a fool he thought Lovejoy looked like. Instead, he said, “I'll take you up on the loan of that pinto.”

“Sure, Longarm. Where you headed, up to the miner?”

“Not right now. I've got to get my own horse and rifle back.”

“But you said them road agents had them!”

“They do. I think I spotted the smoke from their hideout a few nights back, too.”

“Jesus!” Lovejoy gasped. “I'll deputize some of the boys and we'll ride with you!”

But Longarm shook his head and said, “No thanks. I got enough on my plate facing the four of them. I don't like folks behind me holding guns unless I know them real well.”

“Aw, hell, you still don't trust me, Longarm?”

“Not as far as I can spit, Constable.”

*   *   *

It was almost dark in the canyon when one of the four men hunkered around the firepit looked up and said, “Listen! Did you hear that?”

One of the other road agents poked at the fire and replied, “Hear what, Slim? You been listening for ghosts again?”

The first man who'd spoken said, “I could swear I heard a pony nicker, just now.”

His companion glanced over at the two tethered to a live oak and said, “Of course you did, you durned fool. The two we got left are lonesome.”

Another owlhoot nodded morosely and observed, “Thanks to your fool idea about that stage, we're riding double these days.”

“Hell, how was I to know they had some sort of durned old sharpshooter aboard?” Slim protested. “I picked off that shotgun rider neat as anything, just like I said I would.”

“Sure you did. Then some other son of a bitch blew two ponies out from under us and left us in the dust feeling foolish. Did any of you boys get a look at the jasper? We owe him, if we ever meet up again.”

Slim said, “All I seen was some hombre in a brown suit. He was one shooting son of a bitch, whoever he was.”

A smaller, rat-faced youth in gunbarrel chaps frowned thoughtfully and said, “The cuss who shot Calico was dressed in brown tweed. You reckon it could have been that lawman, Longarm?”

Slim said, “Shit, they threw that one in jail for shooting old Calico. Must have been somebody else.”

A new voice in the canyon said soberly, “You're wrong, Slim. It
was
me.”

The four owlhoots stiffened as Longarm stepped out of the underbrush, his gun in his hand and trained on them. Slim dropped a hand to the gun at his side and the .44 in the lawman's hand spoke once. Slim went over backward, wetting his jeans as he died with a soft sigh.