Back in Denver, Longarm and Billy Vail had agreed this might be good or bad. Unless Devil Dave and his pals already had a lead on him, Longarm figured to dawdle in ahead of them but not too soon after word of their gunplay got spread across their home range. With Longarm's wary agreement, Billy Vail had wired Texas Ranger Headquarters in San Antone about that federal warrant on their wandering boy. San Antone was a tad closer to the the Pecos Valley than El Paso and naturally, there were ranger substations even closer. So unless the rangers got luckier than usual, they should have paid their usual calls on the usual suspects and suspected hiding places by the time Longarm could ride in from another direction entire. In the unlikely event the rangers caught Devil Dave by the time he arrivedâthey'd had a wet spring and the water holes one called tanks in West Texas were full and the grass grew green amid the mesquite, prickle pear, and Spanish bayonetâso, what the hell, a nice long ride for nothing wouldn't leave any permanent scars and a man got rusty around that infernal federal building.
He'd picked a saddle mule for the first day on the trail with some distance in mind. You could get thirty miles a day out of a cavalry mount without hurting it. A Spanish saddle mule would carry you ten miles further, easy, in such balmy spring weather. So Longarm tried for that and rode in around sundown to the dinky settlement around a Butterfield stage stop in the severely eroded Finlay Mountains. Then he paid for extra care for his somewhat lathered mule and checked into a posada early and alone after a snack by dusk at an open-to-the-street tamale stand. He neither tried to get noticed nor shouted for attention before he turned in early with some magazines and plenty of smokes.
In the morning he rose early and swapped the mule and a few dollars more for a paint cowpony who'd seen better days. Her main attraction for a lawman on an undercover mission was her local brand.
He rode her hard, albeit less hard than he had the bigger mule, and made it to a bigger trail town where the mountains flattened out some and he got to ride through cattle range a spell. The complicated tangle of modestly high but rugged ranges to the west of the Stockton Plateau were dubbed the Davis Mountains on most maps and cropped up some more south of the Rio Grande as Old Mexico's Burro Mountains. Longarm drove the paint mare as far as Allamoore, a handy stop in the low pass through the main Davis range on a harder uphill push the next day and, this time, let it be loudly known he was sick and tired of a muley old mare off the Rocking H, who'd gone lame on him goddamn her eyes.
So there were other Texicans and Mexicans listening with interest by the municipal corral as the stranger who allowed they could call him anything but “Late For Breakfast” dickered with an old Mex horse trader for a fresher mount, come morning.
They'd about settled on the paint and a few dollars more when an older Anglo sporting a brass star on his vest drifted across from the town lock-up, taking in Longarm's faded denims and tailored gun grips as he came, casually placing his gun hand on the butt of his Navy Colt Conversion before he quietly asked, “Might you have a bill of sale for that pony from the Rocking H remuda, cowboy?”
Longarm had one, but that was no way to get famous in Texas. So he puffed up a tad and demanded, “Are you calling me a horse thief, little darling?”
The town law soberly replied, “I ain't nobody's darling. I'm the town marshal and a deputy sheriff of Hudspeth County combined. So would you care to show me a bill of sale for that mare, come along to the telegraph office with me, or fill your damn fist? It don't make no nevermind to me at my age. I got to this age by beating fresh young squirts to the draw.”
Some of the onloookers standing close crawfished back from what was starting to shape up as impending doom. Longarm let the tension build enough to ensure some gossip. Then he smiled sheepishly at the gruff old lawman and said, “Don't get your bowels in an uproar, Mr. Law. I'll show you the infernal bill of sale if it means that much to you, for Pete's sake.”
The older lawman tensed even more as Longarm reached inside his denim bolero jacket for the simple bill of sale he'd asked for when he'd tossed in those extra dollars with that mule. Being county law, the old timer knew the names of most county residents authorized to trade in horseflesh on a regular basis. So when Longarm handed the terse contract over, he read it fast, nodded curtly, and handed it back as he growled, “Why didn't you just produce your damned bill of sale as soon as I asked for it? What sort of a name is Crawford, and are we supposed to be afraid of you because you pack a double-action?”
Longarm shook his head and said, “I've been told Crawford is a Scotch name. You'd have to ask the uncle they named me after what a Duncan might be.”
The local lawman decided, “That's a Scotch name as well, sometimes. Now tell us what you're doing here in Allamoore, Mr. Duncan Crawford.”
Longarm answered simply. “Trying to get me a better mount. Couldn't you tell? This greaser and me were about to spit and shake on yonder roan when you horned in just now.”
The portly Mexican asked who he was calling a greaser.
Longarm laughed lightly and said, “I apologize, Amigo. I didn't know you were Irish. Do you want to sell that fucking roan or don't you?”
The town law quietly observed there was no call to talk nasty to good old Gordo.
Longarm shrugged and said, “I never invited any of âem into Texas. I had kin at the Alamo and I'm pleased as punch about my daddy's ride through Old Mexico in '47. Might you have a horse-trade in mind your ownself or can I work something out with this greaser about yonder roan?”
They were still fussing about his manners as a rat-faced kid in white cotton, a serape, and a straw sombrero scuttled across the way to join an older Mexican seated at a sidewalk table in a silver mounted charro outfit, sipping
cerveza.
As the sneak joined him, staying on his feet with sombrero in hand, the prosperous looking rider quietly asked,
“¿Que piensete?
”
The kid he'd sent closer to listen in replied,
“
¡
Pienso que no, me patron!
The tall build is right. The Colorado crush of his sombrero is right. The double-action Colt carried cross-draw is right.
Pero el hombre
called Longarm by
los
Yanguis and
El
Brazo Largo by those of our
raza
is said to be
muy simpatico.
That big gringo across the
calle
is a
pendejo chingado
begging for a fight with old Gordo!”
The dapper rider he'd reported this too shrugged and decided, “Is Gordo's problem. Is just as well for
us
he is only another gringo with an ugly mouth. Perhaps he won that hat from some Colorado rider, if he did not steal it. Let those he insults directly worry about him.”
The younger and shabbier Mexican nodded and shot the tall tanned stranger across the way a thoughtful look as he decided, “He is a big one and that Colt has tailored grips. For why did you think he might be the famous
El Brazo Largo, me patron?”
His boss sipped some more iced beer before he replied in a casual tone he didn't really feel, “Some others I do business with from time to time asked us to keep an eye out for such a famous hunter of men.”
“They worry that
El Brazo Largo
could be hunting for one of them?” asked the sneak who'd dismissed Longarm as a drifting bully boy.
The hired gun asked to stop Longarm at all costs from getting anywhere near the Pecos shrugged and replied,
“¿Quien sabe?
Perhaps it is one of them. Perhaps it is only someone they know. What can I tell you? I only work here. If he gets past us he is
their
problem.”
Chapter 5
And so it went for the better part of a fortnight, riding rough country, building a rep for the hitherto unheard-of Dunk Crawford. He got invited in for cake, coffee, and gossip at most homespreads you'd pass where the nearest neighbors lived miles away and nobody delivered any morning papers. As a rule Longarm was as likely to stop and visit with Mexicans, Indians, or any other friendly folk. But knowing he was known as
ElBrazo Largo
along the border by both decent Mexicans and the Diaz Dictatorship's ferocious
Federales y
Rurales, he decided it would be safer and better for his image if he avoided any dealings with Spanish-speaking folk that close to the border. In West Texas that included most Indiansâpeaceful Caddo as well as Mission-Apache of not-so-certain disposition. Full Quill Bronco Apache raiding along both sides of the border under Victorio at the moment spoke uncertain Spanish and just enough English to say, “Die, mother fucker!” So it didn't seem likely he'd have to worry about fooling that bunch about his real name. With any luck the 10th Cav had Victorio on the run in Old Mexico in any case. The Buffalo Soldiers of the Colored 10th Cav made Indians nervous. This was partly because the army had been able to pick and choose between ex-slaves anxious to soldier and party because the resulting well-trained troopers were tough for some Indians to classify. The Lakota defined a man of color as a
wasichusapa,
which could be translated literally as black whiteman. NaDéné, or so-called Apache, got around the confusion by just avoiding the 10th Cav as much as they could manage. Things Indians had trouble describing to a “tee” were inclined to be viewed as bad medicine.
In the trail town of Toyah along the San Martine Draw, he got into an ugly facedown in the Cottonwood Saloon that never went past the two of them stepping away from the bar as everyone else gave them a whole lot of room. For it seldom did, and, whilst Cockeyed Jack McCall had overdone such bullshit by shooting Hickok all the way, most hard hairpins built their reps on almost-fights.
John Wesley Hardin and Hickok himself had gained stature at no cost to either just by glowering at one another that time in Abilene. So Longarm could hope his brush with destiny in the form of the mean town drunk of Toyah might convince others he was an armed and dangerous asshole. A true specimen of the breed would have slapped leather on a man too nasty natured to abide and too drunk to beat a schoolmarm to the draw as he stood there cussing and drooling.
By that time more than one pest had commented on the telescoped Colorado or North Range crush of Longarm's coffee-brown Stetson. He'd considered another hat before he'd left Denver, wearing the one molded to his skull by some time and toil.
A new hat always looked new until you'd worn it some, whether you stomped on it, pissed on it, or let a pony drink out of it more than once. His broken-in Stetson's dark felt crown would look like it had been telescoped a spell and then reshaped if he punched its crown into the more common Texas peak with a crease down the front, and he didn't want to be taken for even an ex-Texas Ranger. So he told those who asked polite what he'd said earlier about being out of work in the wake of the Lincoln County War. That range was still new enough for riders from all over to be riding it in all sorts of outfits, and, since he didn't care to go on about things he only knew from heresay, his terse, if not evasive, answers about up New Mexico way (New Mexico being north of the western reaches of West Texas), seemed to convince West Texans more that Dunk Crawford was bad news leftover from the mutually suicidal shootout between the Murphy-Dolan and Chisum-McSween factions. When asked which side he might have ridden for, “Crawford” growled he disremembered, in a tone that discouraged further questions along those lines.
When asked if he knew Billy The Kid he just smiled through gents as he allowed he knew The Kid by rep and might have met him now and again.
This was the pure truth as soon as you studied on it. For had a U.S. Deputy Marshal been dead certain that shyly smiling youth who'd bought him that beer had been a wanted outlaw, he'd have never been able to give him that break.
When asked what he thought of that new territorial governor who'd cleaned up New Mexico, Longarm, as Crawford, dryly said he'd read some of that book about Ben Hur that Governor Lew Wallace had written.
It seemed safe to opine that Major Murphy had died broke of booze and pneumonia or that his pal, Jim Dolan, had been ruined by the feud as well. Everyone knew Tunstall and McSween on the other side had been killed along with their top gun, Dick Brewer, leaving his young henchman, The Kid, on the run whilst Uncle John Chisum had holed up on his South Spring ranch, feeling old and scared shitless by the trouble he and his own pals had stirred up to begin with, if the truth would be known. Nobody on either side had shown a lick of sense or made a dime extra out of the Lincoln County War. So Longarm's excuses for looking for work to the Southeast made sense, while the surly attitude he'd assumed had more than one West Texan almost certain he'd lost a job that had called for tailored grips on his Colt '78, loading .44-40.
That same stage magician's shemale assistant had taught him about letting the audience outsmart its fool self that way.
She'd explained one night in bed how surprised folk were when they thought they had a trick figured out and the magician produced a different result. She'd said you could get them to picture all sorts of trapdoors and mirrors that weren't where they thought by not stopping them from thinking you'd gone to more trouble than you had. As a peace officer he'd already noticed how bullshit artists tended to give themselves away by telling you more than you'd ever asked them. Few had any call to doubt a man who simply said he'd ridden in the war. It was when he got into all the charges he'd led into the cannon's mouth that got folk to wondering. Longarm knew that nobody would have believed him for a minute if he'd claimed he'd been the one who'd shot either Rancher Tunstall or Sheriff Brady. But as long as he only allowed he'd been close enough to the costly mess for it to have cost him, nobody had any call to doubt him. It was less important what they thought he might have been up to in New Mexico Territory a spell back than it might have been to explain why he'd come down from Colorado, more recent.