Longarm and the Great Divide (2 page)

The post office in Cheyenne was a block and a half from the Union Pacific railroad depot. Longarm left his gear with the station agent at the depot and walked over to the post office. He got there in the middle of the afternoon and asked for the postmaster.

“Do you have an appointment?” the mail clerk asked in return.

“No. I just got in from Denver an' need t' see the gentleman,” Longarm said.

“Sorry. Mr. Branscomb only sees people by appointment. If you want to ask for an appointment, I have a form you can fill out and mail in. Would you like a form, sir?”

Longarm sighed. And pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to display his badge. “This is official business, an' I shouldn't need no damn appointment for that.”

The clerk scowled. “Why didn't you say so in the first place? Mr. Branscomb's office is in the back. Here. I'll show you.”

Branscomb turned out to be a portly fellow probably in his sixties with a fringe of white hair rimming a completely bald pate. He did not look terribly busy. But then Longarm admitted that he did not know much about the business of moving and delivering mail, so it was possible that Branscomb was doing exactly what he was supposed to.

“Come in, Deputy. Sit down. What can I do for you?”

“I need to get to this Valstone place,” Longarm told him, “an' I don't have the least idea where it is. What I'm hoping . . . and assuming . . . is that you can point me to it.”

Branscomb looked up at the clerk who had brought Longarm to see him. “Get Robert Bortz for me, Lewis.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Longarm, Branscomb said, “Bortz is in charge of distribution after the mails come in off the trains. He will know where Valstone is, I can assure you, deputy.”

Bortz was a small man in his forties or thereabouts. He wore spectacles and sleeve garters. When Longarm's request was put before him, Bortz frowned. “Valstone, you said?”

“That's right.” Longarm spelled it for him.

Bortz shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I don't know of any such place.”

“But this letter said . . .”

“Was there a postmark?”

It was Longarm's turn to shake his head. “I didn't see the envelope. Marshal Vail showed me the letter but not the envelope.”

“Well, someone has certainly made a mistake, Deputy. I am familiar with every post office in the territory of Wyoming, and I can assure you there is none called Valstone.”

“That's damn strange,” Longarm said.

“Do know where this Valstone is supposed to be?” Bortz asked.

“Not really,” Longarm said. “Out on the grass, I think. At least that was the impression my boss had. An' in the east.”

Bortz shook his head again. “No, sir. No Valstone. The closest name I can think of is Valmere, though some pronounce it Valmer. Valmere is a small office out on the prairie. Mail service once a week. There is, come to think of it, a town in Nebraska close by Valmere. That is Stonecipher. I don't know much about it except that it is close to Valmere. Mail going to Stonecipher can be routed through Valmere. Most unusual, but that is the directive we received.”

“Does that help you, deputy?” Branscomb asked.

“T' tell you the truth, I don't know if it does.” He looked at Bortz and asked, “D'you know how I can get to this Valmere place?”

“Not really, but I can tell you which stagecoach line carries the mail pouches there. Will that help?”

“No, sir, the way it works,” the stage line supervisor explained, “we carry the mail pouch for Valmer once a week on Thursdays. The postmaster for Valmer sends a wagon to meet our coach. Our driver transfers the bag to the Valmer wagon, and that's the end of our responsibility. I don't know where this Valmer actually is. Somewhere east of our line. I'm pretty sure about that, but exactly where . . . ?” The man shrugged. ”. . . I wouldn't know.”

“And your line runs north from here?” Longarm asked.

“That's right. North through Torrington, Hat Creek, Newcastle, on to Lead and Deadwood.”

“So you run pretty close to the territorial boundaries,” Longarm said.

“Exactly.”

“And Valmer is east of your line.”

“I believe so,” the stagecoach supervisor said. “At least that's the impression I have from our drivers. Like I say, I've never been there myself and I don't believe any of our drivers have been, either.”

“Where does the wagon from Valmer meet your coaches?” Longarm asked.

“There's a layover spot between Lusk and the Hat Creek station,” the supervisor said. “The Valmer wagon is always there waiting on Thursdays. The driver knows to keep the Valmer pouch in his office—”

“You mean in the driving box?” Longarm interrupted.

“That's right. He knows to keep it up top with him, not locked in the luggage boot. He keeps it up there by his feet. Comes the switch, he tosses the Valmer pouch down to whoever is driving the wagon and collects their outgoing pouch, and away he drives. I understand it only takes a few seconds to make the exchange.”

“What about passengers?” Longarm asked. “What if there's a passenger bound for Valmer?”

The local man snorted. “You know, now that I think of it, I don't believe we've ever had a passenger ticketed to Valmer. I suppose we could carry them. As far as the transfer point anyway. I don't know how they'd manage from there. On the Valmer wagon, I would imagine, but our ticket wouldn't entitle them to a transfer. We don't have any reciprocal agreement with whoever runs that wagon from Valmer, so . . . I really don't know what to tell you about that, Deputy. A human person wanting to make that transfer, well, he'd be on his own, taking a chance that the Valmer wagon would agree to carry him. And he'd be up shit creek without a paddle if they wouldn't let him board.”

“You run coaches up that way daily?” Longarm asked.

The gentleman nodded. “Of course we do.”

“Today's coach has already gone?”

“Hours ago.” The gent smiled. “But there will be another pulling out at six o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Six?”

“Sharp.”

“I'll be there,” Longarm said.

“Tomorrow isn't Thursday so there won't be any wagon from Valmer.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll figure it out.” Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson in salute and left the stage line office.

Longarm collected his bag from the UP depot and took a room in a cheap hotel close to the tracks. He would only need the bed for a few hours so he saw no need to hire anything fancier.

He quickly washed away the soot gathered from sitting behind a coal-fired engine all day, then dressed and went downstairs.

“Where can I get a decent meal?” he asked the desk clerk.

“Mister, there's cafés all up and down Front Street. There's a good one right on the corner over there,” the fellow said, pointing.

“And a quiet saloon?”

The clerk laughed. “Quiet? Sir, I'm not sure there's any such of a thing anywhere in Cheyenne, so take your pick and take your chances. One is about the same as another.”

Longarm thanked the man and headed across the street and into the next block to the café the man pointed out. It proved to be more than adequate for his needs, serving beefsteak covered with gravy and a heap of fried potatoes to go with it.

He ate a leisurely meal, paid thirty-five cents for the privilege, and walked half a block to a likely looking saloon.

The saloon was popular enough. It had a piano man, three bartenders, and half a dozen fairly decent-looking whores working the place. There were also four tables with card games in progress. Longarm could not tell just from looking if there were house dealers in the games or if they were open to the players.

“My kinda place,” he muttered under his breath as he approached the bar.

His entry was noticed immediately. The nearest bartender slid down his way. “What will you have, mister?”

“Do you have rye whiskey?”

“Of course we do,” the man said in a tone of voice that suggested it would be uncivilized to not carry rye.

“I'll have a glass,” Longarm said.

“This is a bit house, mister. If you're expecting to want more than one you should go ahead and get the second drink now. It would save you a little. Fifteen cents for one drink or two bits for the two.”

Longarm smiled. “I'll have the two, thank you.”

The barman dexterously picked up two shot glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. He quickly filled the pair of glasses and set them down in front of Longarm. A quarter Longarm placed onto the bar disappeared just as quickly into the man's apron pocket.

He turned, leaning against the bar while he surveyed the card games, thinking an evening of low stakes poker would be relaxing.

He savored his first drink. The rye was smooth and pleasant on the tongue and warmed his belly nicely once it hit bottom. Longarm took a minute with the drink, enjoying it slowly.

The second table in, he decided. The men who were already playing seemed a congenial bunch. No one was in the game for the money, rather for the pleasure of the play, or so it looked.

Longarm finished his first glass and turned back to the bar for the second.

The glass was there, but the whiskey was gone.

Some son of a bitch had stolen Custis Long's whiskey!

“Cocksucking son of a bitch,” Longarm roared loud enough to stop the piano player in mid-piece, loud enough to rattle the rafters.

He took half a step back and grabbed the two men who were standing to his right and to his left. Grabbed them by the scruff of the neck, one in each powerful hand, and demanded, “All right, you bastards, which one o' you drank my whiskey?”

His answer came in the form of flying fists.

The fellow on Longarm's left, a railroad man judging by his clothing, threw a hard underhand punch into Longarm's belly. Longarm saw it coming and tensed his muscles. The belligerent might as well have hit a wooden plank. He grimaced and looked down at his hand to see if it was injured.

Meanwhile Longarm squared off and planted a hard right onto the jaw of the big bastard to his right. That one was rocked backward, his lip split and blood beginning to flow.

Longarm encouraged that seepage by following his right with a left hand that pulped the big fellow's nose, splattering blood in all directions.

By that time the saloon full of drinkers had degenerated into a wild melee of fists, curses and not a few kicks.

The bartenders moved quickly to drop a heavy canvas drape over the backbar mirror. They put it in place barely in time as the glassware was beginning to fly, not a few of the missiles thumping onto the canvas.

The two bartenders at the ends of the bar then moved with equal speed to grab up bungstarters and stand guard at the two entrances to the cockpit behind the bar, there to ward off any attempts to slip in and steal a bottle or two.

Longarm ducked under a punch aimed toward his face and countered with right-left-right into the fellow's gut. A fist came at him out of nowhere. It crunched into his jaw and knocked him off balance for a moment.

The first man he had hit was floored by someone clubbing him with a whiskey bottle while the gent with the broken nose decked a lanky cowboy. In the center of the room a gentleman, apparently an Englishman in top hat and tails, held his own using his cane like a sword.

The battle raged for perhaps three minutes until the effects of adrenaline overcame those of alcohol and people began thinking more about limiting the damage to themselves than they did about their zeal to punch the hell out of someone else.

Things quickly came under control then.

Longarm leaned down and helped the big fellow with the broken nose to his feet.

“Thank you, sir,” the big man said, his grin exposing a mouth that held fewer teeth than God intended.

“It's the least I could do,” Longarm said. “I hope you don't mind me mentionin' it, but you are still bleeding.”

“Yeah, once this nose starts it don't stop real easy.”

Longarm motioned to the nearest bartender. “I need a bit of paper. Something about the size of a postage stamp will do.”

The barman looked at him like he thought Longarm had gone off his rocker, but he found a receipt book and tore the corner off of a sheet.

Longarm rolled the paper into as tight a cylinder as he could manage and handed it to the big man. “Stick this between your teeth and your upper lip. It'll stop the nosebleed.”

“How the hell?”

Longarm shrugged. “Damn if I know, but it's a trick a doc taught me once. It works a charm, too.”

“If you say so.” The fellow stuffed the paper into his mouth.

“Tuck it up there good an' tight,” Longarm encouraged.

Moments later the big man crowed. “Damn! I ain't bleeding now.”

“Like I said. Works a charm, that trick.”

“Say now, I sure owe you for this.” He gave Longarm a sheepish look and added, “Fact is, I drank your whiskey, that started this whole thing. Thought it was mine.”

“Think nothing of it, neighbor. Can I buy you another?” Longarm asked.

“Aw, I think it's my turn to buy you one,” the big man said. He stuck his hand out to shake, saying, “The name is Mike Sample.”

“Custis Long,” Longarm said, taking Sample's hand and giving it a firm shake. “Belly up to the bar, Mike. We'll see if we can drink in peace for a little while. Then maybe you'd fancy a turn with the cards.”

“That I would, Custis Long,” Sample said.

By the end of that evening—and a bottle and a half of rye whiskey—Longarm and Sample were best friends forever.

But in the morning Longarm's head ached along with his jaw.