Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (5 page)

“Please excuse the mess downstairs, Mr. Long. It isn't easy for John to manage stairs with his crutches so he has been sleeping on the sofa. If you need anything during the night, you can wake me. I sleep in that bedroom there,” she said, pointing toward a door at the front of the house. “I'm a light sleeper, and I am up several times during the night to check on John, so do tap on my door if you need anything.”

“You're mighty kind, ma'am,” he said again.

“All right then. I'll go back to my kitchen. I'll call you two when supper is ready.”

Nell gathered up her skirts and scampered down the narrow and rather steep staircase. It was no wonder Tyler could not negotiate the stairs on his crutches.

Longarm turned back into his bedroom to unpack the few things he'd brought and prepare for the evening.

Nell Tyler's dinner was every bit as good as anything he could have found in the finest hotels in Denver. Maybe better. Longarm laid his fork aside and put his napkin on the table beside his plate. “That was fine, ma'am. John, you got yourself a good'un here.”

Both Tylers seemed pleased by the compliments.

“Cribbage, Longarm?” Tyler asked.

“If you don't mind, John, I'd like to wander around in the town a little. See what I run into. Eavesdrop on the bar talk. I'm sure you understand.”

Tyler nodded. “Indeed, I do.” He turned his head and said, “Dear, would you excuse us for a few minutes, please.”

“Oh, piffle. I know what your man talk will be about. You intend to tell Custis that the Basque sheepherders drink and . . . whatever . . . at Rosie's but the Mexican goatherds go to Doris's.”

“I think I don't want to know how you know that,” her husband said.

Longarm had to hide a smile that kept tugging at the corners of his lips. It seemed that Nell Tyler was quite a handful.

Tyler gave Longarm a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed shrug and said, “That is exactly what I intended to tell you.”

Longarm let the laugh out and rose from the table. “Then if you will excuse me, I'll leave the two of you to get into your fight without me to interfere.”

John Tyler remained seated. “I would go with you, Longarm, but . . .”

“Could be better this way anyhow,” Longarm said. “For the first little while there won't nobody know who I am or what I'm doin' here. Once they do know, they'll like to clam up. As just a passing stranger, I might could hear something interesting.”

“Our door is never locked so let yourself in whenever you want,” Nell told him.

“Thank you, ma' am, and thank you for that fine supper too.” Longarm plucked his Stetson off the hat rack beside the door and let himself out into the evening air, cool almost to the point of being chilly.

He walked the short distance to town and stopped for a moment in front of the handsome courthouse. He would be seeing more of that come tomorrow, but for now he was content just to get the feel of the town.

There were three saloons, Rosie's, Doris's, and one no-name little outfit where, judging from the lack of traffic in and out of its doors, a man could get nothing more than a drink and perhaps a game of billiards.

The two that also served as whorehouses for the solitary herdsmen were situated on opposite corners a block and a half from the courthouse. Both were brightly lighted and very active, with men streaming in and out frequently. The sounds of piano music came from one of them, but from a distance Longarm could not tell from which.

Since he was at least a little bit familiar with Mexicans, to the point anyway of having met a good many, he headed for Doris's place first.

When Longarm arrived, the saloon was busy; the noise made by a trio of minstrels and the singing that went with their music practically hit him a physical blow when he walked in the door. He had no idea what they were singing about or what sort of song it might have been, as it was sung entirely in Spanish. As an Anglo adrift in a sea of Mexicans, he felt a little out of place.

A long bar ran down the wall on the left. Tables—well-attended ones—filled much of the floor, while at the back he could see a rather limp and wilted-looking whore passing by one table after another, offering herself to one and all. A good many of the patrons were eating something out of large wooden bowls, while virtually everyone had a beer or a shot on the table. Or both.

“Help you?” the bartender asked when Longarm presented himself at the bar.

“Beer, please.”

“Ten cents.”

Longarm laid his money down while the bartender drew a beer, leaving much too much head on it. The man took Longarm's dime without a word and stepped a few paces down the bar, where he got into an animated conversation in Spanish.

Longarm took a swallow of the crisply refreshing beer but left most of it on the bar untouched. He could spend the next three nights standing there and not learn a thing, as he could grasp the meaning of not one word in twenty.

Back on the street, he wondered if there was any point in going over to Rosie's, or if the talk there would be as unintelligible as it had been in Doris's.

There was only one way to find out.

The result was just as bad as at Doris's, with the exception that in Rosie's place there were two Anglos in search of the whores. Those ladies of the night were busy at this post-dinner hour. A fellow had to wait for one of them to become available.

Longarm stayed long enough to drink a beer. And to decide there was less than no point in trying to eavesdrop on the Basques. Their language—he asked—was called Euskara, and it was like nothing else he'd ever heard.

At least the bartender was a little more pleasant than the one across the street. And the whores were a hell of a lot better looking.

Longarm finished the last of his beer—the suds had not been nearly as deep on the beer he was served in Rosie's—and left a nickel tip for the barman, then left.

He still wanted to find a little better evening entertainment than playing cribbage with John and Nell Tyler, so he walked down the street to the no-name saloon, where he found peace and quiet save for the clicking of billiard balls.

Better than the quiet, he also found a good label of rye whiskey in the no-name place.

And the barman was a woman. Not a bad-looking woman, except for the fact that she looked big enough and tough enough to knock heads if things became rowdy on a Saturday night.

“You look like a man who's found what he was looking for,” she said when he leaned on her bar.

“I am,” he told her, pointing to the row of bottles on the back wall. “See that one, third from the left. I'd like a glass o' that, if you please.”

“Fifteen cents,” she said. “You want a beer to go with that?”

Longarm shook his head. “No, I wouldn't want anything to wash that fine flavor off my tongue.”

The lady nodded her approval and brought the bottle and a small tumbler. “My name is Helen,” she said when she had set the glass down and poured a generous measure of rye.

“I'm Custis.”

“You're the marshal up here from Denver, aren't you?”

He gave her a quizzical look. Helen laughed and said, “Samuel Johnson over at the mercantile has a big mouth. He came in here after he closed up for the night. He said the federal man from Denver got in this afternoon, and since you're the only stranger I've seen in town lately, well, you pretty much have to be him.”

“I plead guilty,” Longarm told her. “Say this really is good stuff.” The rye lay smooth and warm on his tongue before he swallowed it.

“If there is anything I can do to help you while you're here,” Helen said, “just let me know.” She smiled. “I have a vested interest in this community. I want it to be safe and prosperous.”

“You don't seem to do much business with the, um, livestock raisers,” he observed.

“Not directly, I don't, but if the town prospers, then so do the men who are my customers. Like I said. A vested interest.”

“Fair enough.” He swallowed the rest of his rye.

“Another?”

He nodded, and Helen poured, this time an even more generous amount.

Longarm decided he had found the place where he would be spending his leisure time while he was in Dwyer.

“Did you learn anything last night?” John Tyler asked as Longarm seated himself at the breakfast table.

“Sure did,” Longarm responded. “Learned I won't be doing any eavesdropping around either bunch o' those fellas. I couldn't understand a word they was sayin'.” He glanced up to see if Nell was nearby. She was not, so he continued, “I also found a place that serves real good whiskey.”

“That would be Helen Birch's place,” Tyler said.

“That's right. She said her name is Helen. She owns it?”

Tyler nodded. “She and her husband came here about, oh, five years ago. He opened the saloon while she tended to the home. Then Cory . . . that was her husband's name, Cory . . . he let things get a little too rowdy one night and got himself stabbed for his troubles. The man lingered for nearly a month before he finally died. They say the dying was a real blessing as he'd been stabbed in the stomach. Gangrene got all through his body.” Tyler shrugged. “Everybody thought Helen would sell out or just close up after Cory was gone, but she opened the place back up and has kept it going ever since. She runs a good place. Won't allow any ladies of the night, though, and won't tolerate any troubles in her place.”

“She looks big enough to enforce that,” Longarm said.

“Oh, she is. She keeps a bung starter under the counter, and she isn't afraid to bust a man's head open with it if he steps out of line.”

Longarm smiled. “I'll try an' keep that in mind.”

Nell came out of the kitchen bearing a tray that was piled high with flapjacks and pork chops and fried potatoes.

“It is a wonderful thing that you are here, Longarm,” John Tyler said. “When we're alone, all I get for breakfast is oatmeal and coffee.”

Nell set the tray down and gave her husband a swat on the back of his head, then went back into her kitchen for the coffeepot to offer John a refill and in Longarm's case his first cup of the day.

After breakfast, Longarm helped Tyler out onto the porch, where the man settled into his chair with a sigh. “I hate being laid up this way,” he said, “but letting that damned bronc bust me up like this is my own fault. I should've bailed off him when I felt him slip, but I thought I could ride the bastard down.” He grimaced. “I was wrong.”

“You might find this hard to believe,” Longarm said, pulling a cheroot from his pocket and lighting it, “but I was wrong about something once my own self.”

“Really?” Tyler said with mock surprise. “I never would've guessed it. If you don't mind me changing the subject, what do you intend to do now?”

“If you'll tell me where I can rent a horse,” Longarm said, puffing contentedly on his cigar and blowing a few smoke rings, “reckon I will ride out and talk to whoever is in charge of those two groups of herders.”

“We have a livery the second block west of the courthouse, which reminds me. I need to take you down there to swear you in as a McConnell County special deputy. Mind if I ask you to hitch our mare up to the buggy so I can get down there? I suppose I could make it that far on crutches, but I'd rather not try.”

“That's no bother at all,” Longarm said. “We can take care of that, then I'll rent me a horse after. You got a barn out back?”

“We do.”

“Big enough to handle a visiting animal?” Longarm asked.

“Big enough,” Tyler said, “and plenty of grass hay and mixed feed grain too.”

“Then if you don't mind, I'll tell your liveryman that I'll keep the animal for as long as I need him. Just in case I need to go someplace in a hurry, I won't have to waste time walking over to the livery.”

“I understand.”

“Thinking of renting,” Longarm said, “we haven't spoke yet about how much I need t' pay for my room an' board.”

Tyler waved the question away with a sweep of his hand. “You're here to help me and you're staying in my house. Nell and I wouldn't think of charging you rent.”

“Thanks.” Longarm resolved to do something to help defray the cost of his keep while he was staying with the Tylers. Groceries, perhaps, or something else Nell would appreciate. He stood. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go find that buggy o' yours an' bring it around front when I have it hitched an' ready.”

Longarm left Tyler's sleek little chestnut mare tied to an iron post shaped to look like a jockey, although one whose paint was chipped and peeling. He helped Tyler out of the buggy and up the courthouse steps.

“Over this way,” Tyler said, pointing toward a door that read COUNTY CLERK on the frosted glass panel. “My office is in the basement. One good-sized room and two small cells. Around back there's an entrance from the outside. I'll give you a key so you can come and go as you please.”

Longarm opened the door to the clerk's office and stood aside while Tyler made his way inside on the crutches.

There were three men in the office, laboring over ledgers and piles of paper. Longarm had no idea what could possibly require the efforts of three clerical workers in a county as sparsely populated as McConnell . . . but then it sometimes seemed to him that the first order of business for any government agency was to expand itself. At the expense of its taxpayers. Apparently that rule was no different here than in Denver.