Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) (10 page)

The steak he ordered was almost too tough to chew, the potatoes were undercooked, and the bread tasted like it was made with more sawdust than flour. But other than that the meal was…lousy.

The good thing was that it killed enough time that the Golden Star office was open when he returned.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he was greeted when he stepped inside. The speaker was a plump woman who was on the shady side of middle age. She had graying hair pulled up in a bun and a chest that drooped within inches
of her waist. Or would have had she had a definable waist. Longarm wasn’t sure that she had one.

She smiled when she said hello, though. She had a very nice smile, warm and welcoming. Longarm snatched his hat off and introduced himself.

“How can I help you, Marshal?” she asked.

“I’m here about the stagecoach robberies that’ve been takin’ place lately. Can I speak to the manager, please?”

The lady smiled. “I am Zerelda Hughes, marshal.”

He waited but that seemed to be the end of what she was saying. Finally he put in, “Yes, ma’am? The, uh, the manager?”

“Excuse me. I thought you might have been told. I do have an operations manager. He is out at the mine, of course.” She smiled. “Managing. I run the office in town here. I also own the Golden Star. Which was also the name of my place in Virginia City, which financed this mine. Now what is it that I can do for you, Marshal?”

“My apologies, Miz Hughes. I didn’t mean t’ offend.”

“Nor have you.” She motioned him to a chair and sat behind the desk that dominated the room. She shrugged. “I know little enough, Marshal. We lost two payroll shipments. Two out of many. This mine is four and a half years old. I pay my men every week and deal with a bank in Miles City. They ship my payroll in, in specie, weekly. My guess is that the robbers were not targeting my payroll, although considering their take I would say these people had advance knowledge of the much larger shipments of cash to the Deadwood banks. My losses were no more than a pimple on the butts of those bank transfers.”

“Did you have insurance?” Longarm asked.

The plainspoken woman nodded. “Or to be more accurate, Marshal, the carrier had their shipments insured.”

“And it paid off?”

Again she nodded. “To the penny. My people’s pay was delayed but they received their full pay, just a week late.” She smiled. “You would think their throats had been cut but the next week they made up for it with their carousing. The saloons made out all right. They ran tabs for my workers and were also paid a week late. The only ones who really suffered were the whores. If I had been running a whorehouse in town I would have run a tab for the boys there, too, but the idiots who own those didn’t have business sense enough to think of that.”

Longarm grinned. “I’ll bet you would have made a fortune if you ran a whorehouse.”

Zerelda Hughes threw her head back and laughed. Then she said, “Marshal, I did in fact make a fortune running a whorehouse in Virginia City. A very fine whorehouse if I do say so myself.”

“Do you know much about the robberies?” Longarm asked. “Other than the obvious, I mean. D’you know anything you think might help me catch up with the SOBs that robbed you?”

She shook her head. “Only what I’ve already mentioned. I think they were after those bank transfers and got my little payroll as a sort of bonus. They certainly don’t try to steal every shipment, and I have a payroll come in every week without fail. But what sticks in my mind is that every time they do hit there is some serious money involved. I think they know in advance that the prize will be worth taking.”

“I agree with you, Miz Hughes. How much is your payroll anyway?”

“Two hundred eighty dollars, Marshal. Delivered every Friday, paid every Saturday. Small potatoes compared with what those Deadwood banks lost.”

“Did your local law investigate the robberies?”

“No. There was no jurisdiction, of course. Anyway, poor Tommy would have been out of his depth with something serious like that. He can keep the Saturday-night drunks from tearing up the saloons and the whorehouses, but that is about the extent of his usefulness. Truly, I think if you want to get to the bottom of these robberies, you need to look in Deadwood. Perhaps in the bank there?” She shrugged. “It is just a suggestion, of course. I wish I could do something to genuinely help, but I know very little. And was hurt by those robberies not at all. I have no dog in this hunt.”

Longarm smiled. “I kinda wish I had known you when you was a young’un, Miz Hughes.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, Marshal.”

“Good,” he said, “because that is how ’twas meant.” He stood and put the Stetson back on. “Thanks for your help, ma’am, an’ good luck to you.”

“Poor Tommy” was indeed as useless as Zerelda Hughes said he was. The man was huge, standing half a head taller than Longarm and Longarm was no dwarf. His beef was no doubt the reason he had the job; he was big enough to break up a brawl without having to call for help, and the mere size of him would be enough to intimidate all but the craziest drunk.

That said, if the man had a brain in his head Longarm could find no evidence of it.

“I don’ know shit ’bout it,” was the town marshal’s comment when Longarm asked about the robberies.

Two minutes of Tommy Rabineaux was more than enough for Longarm. He quickly thanked the man and went back to the Bastrop office.

“I suppose you want to ask about the holdups,” the elderly company agent, Charles Stude, said.

“Yes, sir,” Longarm told him. “Anything you know, anything you care to guess.”

“What I know you could fit onto the head of a hatpin,” Stude said. “What I can guess is even less. I’ve been
wracking my brains about this and can’t come up with a damn thing except to think that those fellows knew what to expect when they robbed our stages though more about the Deadwood end of it than ours. I think our losses could be considered almost an accident.”

That was the same thing Longarm assumed and probably for the same reasons.

“Did your insurance company know anything in advance?” he asked.

Stude shrugged and said, “Not that I know of, but for that you would really have to talk with our agent where the shipments originated. That would be up in Miles City.”

“All right, thanks. When will the next coach run to Deadwood?”

“We don’t have anything now until tomorrow, but Fremont has a coach going over there this evening.” He grinned and added, “I probably wouldn’t mention that if you were a paying passenger. It wouldn’t be right to take a fare away from the company. Should be okay, though, since you federal fellas ride free.”

Longarm thanked the man and retrieved his bag. He would have to find the Fremont Stage Company office and arrange a seat on their coach over to Deadwood—it was only a few miles from Lead—then see what he could find in the way of dinner.

The last time Longarm was in Deadwood there was at least a little green foliage visible on the hillsides and up the creek bank. Now all of that was gone, probably harvested for firewood. Now the town was little but mud and smoke and the chemical stink of the acids used in the process of extracting gold from crushed rock.

It was not a pretty town. It was, however, a vibrant, lively, exhilarating town and Longarm liked it. He thanked the jehu on the Fremont coach, collected his bag—at least on the short drive over from Lead he had not had to share the coach with a smelly drunk—and headed for Georgia Whitcomb’s boardinghouse.

He had stayed with Georgia twice in the past and enjoyed her company.

She also happened to be a genuinely good fuck.

“Custis!” she yelped with a smile and a kiss when she saw him. “You should have wired ahead. I could have prepared something special for you.”

“Georgia dear, you
are
something special,” he shot
back at her, wrapping the woman in his arms and lifting her off the floor with his hug.

Georgia was probably in her forties but looked years younger. She was a petite blonde with tits twice as large as a woman her size had any right to.

He set her feet back down onto the porch outside her boardinghouse and began to give her a proper kiss, but when he tried to slide his tongue past her lips she turned her head away.

“Georgia, what…?”

“No, Custis, I can’t.”

“D’you take a vow of chastity or somethin’?” he asked.

“No, I…I’m married.”

“You are. Well, I think that man is one lucky fella. Do I know him? When’d this happen? What kinda man is he?”

She laughed and pulled away from his embrace. “So many questions,” she said, linking her arm into his and leading him inside the house. “His name is Ben Andrews. He is superintendent of the Agnes Mine here. He is even more handsome than you are, Custis, and I love him to pieces.”

“Then I say again, Georgia, he is one very fortunate fella, because you are worth more than any gold he could pull outta the ground.” He smiled and gave Georgia a chaste kiss on the forehead.

“Ben should be home at six thirty. I can’t wait for you to meet him. You will stay with me, won’t you? In spite of not being able to…you know.”

“Yes, dear, I’ll want t’ stay here in spite of not bein’ able to…you know.” He gave her another very brief hug and asked, “My same room available?”

“Yes, of course. The truth is that I’m not taking boarders any longer. Ben makes a good living for us, and he didn’t
like the idea of having strangers in the house. He asked me to quit.”

“Well, in that case I can go over to the hotel an’ get a room,” Longarm said.

“You will do no such thing, Custis. You are welcome to stay but as a friend and not a customer.”

“You’re a doll, Georgia, but you know the government can afford to pay you something for putting me up.”

“No, sir, I won’t hear of it. You are our guest. Just like before, you come and go however you please. Can you tell me what business you are here about this time? Come into the parlor and sit. I’ll get us some tea and scones, and you can tell me all about it. Or at least the part you’re allowed to speak of.”

“Oh, I reckon I’m allowed t’ talk about it. It’s no secret.”

“Good. Then sit right down here…not that chair, please, it’s Ben’s favorite spot…and wait while I get the tea and scones. Then we can talk. You can tell me about your criminals, and I can tell you all about how I met Ben.”

Longarm stepped into Graziano’s Saloon with a sigh of relief. “Rye whiskey an’ a chaser,” he told the barkeep, laying a quarter down on the bar.

“You look beat, mister,” the barman ventured.

“I feel like I been run over, stomped on, an’ wore out. Ah, thanks.” He downed the shot and took a gulp of the beer. “Let’s do that again.”

The bartender poured another belt of rye and Longarm tossed that one back as quickly as the first, adding to the quarter that remained on the bar.

He did indeed feel worn out after dining with the lovebirds. Georgia’s cooking was every bit as good as he remembered, but a fine meal was a helluva price to pay for having to eat with the two of them.

The thing was, the new husband, Ben, was a talker. Not just an ordinary talker, either. This man was a marathon talker. And boring. His mouth never closed, not even when he was chewing his food. Little flakes of this dish or that spattered off his lips throughout the meal. Watching
him was enough to make Longarm sick. Looking elsewhere helped, but there was no escaping the voice.

The man droned. About anything. About everything. Longarm’s head hurt from listening to him.

“Another?” the barman asked.

“No, not yet,” Longarm said. He left the empty shot glass where it was but picked up his beer and carried it with him to a table where a foursome were engaged in some stud poker.

“Care to sit in with us, mister?” one of the gents offered. “Low stakes. Nothing serious.”

“I would, thanks,” Longarm said. “Long as you boys don’t try an’ talk my ears off.”

One of the fellows raised an eyebrow at that but the men made no comment and asked no questions. They merely nodded to an empty chair.

Longarm pulled some money out of his pockets and settled in for the evening.

If he played his cards right—literally and figuratively, too—he could sit here at the poker table until Ben quit talking and went up to bed.

Longarm snickered as a thought struck him. He would have to ask Georgia about it come morning. The question was, did Ben talk in his sleep, too?

Likely, Longarm thought.

He also wondered how long politeness would require him to remain a guest in the house. As soon as it was reasonably possible, he thought, he would move his things over to a hotel and get away from Ben Andrews.

Town Marshal Noogie DiNunzio—Longarm had no idea what the man’s real first name was—was a close acquaintance if not quite a close friend. After all the man was a teetotaler and who could have a true friend with such radical leanings. On the other hand, he did have other vices.

Still, he was happy to see the man. Noogie was snoring behind his desk when Longarm came into his office the following morning. With a wide grin showing beneath his mustache, Longarm tiptoed across the slate floor and came down hard with both hands flat on the desktop, at the same time letting out a screech that would have made a Comanche proud.

Noogie nearly came out of his skin.

“Long! You son of a bitch.”

Longarm laughed. “Nice t’ see you, too, Noogie.”

“Damn you, I think I shit my pants.”

Longarm loudly sniffed, then with a solemn nod said, “Yeah, hoss, it kinda smells like you did.”

DiNunzio came out of his chair and gave Longarm a bearhug, not necessarily easy for a man a head shorter
and thirty pounds lighter than Longarm. “It’s good to see you, y’ old son of a bitch.”

“Good t’ see you, too, Noogie.”

“What brings you up here to God’s country?”

“The recent stagecoach holdups, Noogie.”

DiNunzio looked puzzled. “Those aren’t federal jurisdiction.”

Longarm grinned. “They are now.” He explained about Cheyenne mail clerk Clarence Osgood and his little ruse.