Longarm and the Great Divide (6 page)

“Fight! There's a fight behind the livery.” The cry rang out in the street. Longarm threw down the stub of the cigar he had been smoking and broke into a run toward the livery. A dozen men up and down the street ran with him.

He burst into the livery barn and ran on through to the corrals in back where he could hear shouts of encouragement.

When he got there he discovered at least a score of men already perched on the top rails of one of the smaller corrals, lined up there like so many birds decorating a telegraph wire.

Inside the enclosure there were two men, both liberally decorated in dust and blood. The two circled each other slowly, each crouching and with fists upraised.

“All right, damnit, break this up,” Longarm barked.

No one paid the least bit of attention to him, so he repeated the demand. And once more. Finally one of the spectators turned and informed him, “These boys been working up to this for a month, Marshal. Time they work it out betwixt themselves.”

“I thought Wyoming boys and Nebraska hands didn't mix none,” Longarm said.

The cowboy who had spoken gave Longarm an odd look and said, “Hell, Marshal, these is both Wyoming boys, Dave there works for the MCX and Charley is a XL Bar rider. But Dave, he used to ride XL Bar, too. That's where them two got crossways. They just don't like each other.” The fellow spoke while looking over his shoulder at the two combatants. He winced as one of the men landed a solid left hook that split the cheek of the other man and brought even more blood.

“They came back here deliberate?” Longarm asked. But by then he was talking to the backs of the crowd atop the fence. No one was paying attention to him.

Since this was what might be considered a “friendly” fight, Longarm exercised a little discretion. He crawled up onto an empty bit of fence rail and he, too, watched the fight progress below him.

Longarm had no idea which man was Dave and which was Charley, but it was clear that neither one was an accomplished fighter. For the most part they were more enthusiastic than effective. They threw roundhouse punches that rarely connected. Grappled often. Grunted and swore. And hit hard as hell on the rare occasion when one of their punches did land.

They reminded Longarm of a pair of aging bulls, bellowing and snorting and throwing dust but not actually doing much damage. What the hell, he thought. Let the two of them work this out. He saw no need for the law to intervene.

Dave and Charley were quickly wearing down, he saw. They were both gasping for air. One of them, the taller of the two, went to his knees. The other instead of taking advantage of his opponent's distress himself moved back and grabbed at a fence rail for support while he tried to get his breath. After a few moments the tall one stumbled to his feet and, fists inexpertly raised, the slow circling resumed.

More and more spectators rushed to the scene, shouting and jostling and taking bets on the outcome of the fight.

At least two more fights broke out but were briefly quelled, if only because those belligerents also wanted to witness the long-anticipated meeting between Dave, who represented the honor of the MCX, turned out to be the tall, lean redhead and Charley, from the XL Bar, who was the shorter, stocky fellow in the blood-soaked cavalry blouse.

Longarm rather enjoyed being a spectator himself for a change, especially since the two in the corral below were doing little real damage to one another.

If pressed, he would have to admit to doing a little shouting himself. Then it was over, both men staggering away to their own sides, each man assured by his companions that he had won.

And the two groups heading off in harmony to drink and recount the fight blow by blow—at least as they remembered it—in perfect harmony, everyone crowded into the same saloon, there being only the one on the Wyoming side of town. Or towns, plural, if one preferred.

Longarm took care to stay away from that saloon for the time being so all hands could work things out without the presence of the Law to interfere.

All in all, he thought, not a bad day, as he walked slowly across to the Nebraska side of things and the saloon on that side of town.

“Getting much business, Marshal?” the barkeep asked.

“Not a lot. Which is just exactly the way I like it.” Longarm finished his beer—infinitely better than the dishwater they served over in Wyoming—and wiped the suds off his mustache.

“Another?” the barman asked.

Longarm nodded. “You serve a good beer.”

“Fresh,” the barkeep said. “I have it freighted in every other week, rain or shine.”

“What about snow?” Longarm asked.

“Now that can be a problem,” the barman said. “But I stock up heavy each fall. Only had one winter bad enough that I ran out.”

“How many winters have you been here?”

The barkeep laughed. “Two.”

Longarm chuckled. And dipped his beak in that second, very fresh beer. He brought a cheroot out and used his teeth to nip the twist off, spat the twist into his palm, and stuck the cheroot between his teeth. “Match, please.”

To deny a man, any man, the use of a match would have been a dire insult in any saloon. The barkeep quickly produced one and even struck it for Longarm.

“Thanks.”

The barkeep grunted an acknowledgment and turned to his other customers. The place was not as busy as in the saloon over on the Wyoming side, but it was much quieter.

Longarm stood at the bar for a time, enjoying his beer and his smoke, then nodded a thank-you to the barkeep and ambled out into the evening.

It was about time he should be thinking about a bite of supper, and he thought perhaps Elizabeth Kunsler would like to share the meal with him. Accordingly he turned in that direction.

He was halfway there when he heard a loud commotion from across the way in Wyoming.

And soon on the heels of that disturbance heard the flat, dull reports of a pair of gunshots.

Longarm put aside his thoughts of dinner with Liz and headed at a dead run toward the Wyoming-side saloon.

“Dead” run indeed.

When he got to the Wyoming-side saloon, Longarm found short, stocky Charley from the XL Bar laid out on the floor, his revolver beside him, and the tall redhead named Dave standing at the bar nearby.

Dave had his revolver in his holster, but it was obvious enough who had done the shooting here. No one wanted to stand close to Dave. The other patrons who had crowded into the place were managing to keep their distance despite the crowd.

Longarm stood for a moment, playing the sounds back in his head. He had heard two gunshots. Exactly two. Which meant it was entirely possible that this had been a fair fight, just like the fistfight between the two had been.

Before doing anything else he picked Charley's Smith & Wesson .44 Russian up off the floor. The S&Ws were break-top models. Longarm released the catch and flipped the cylinder up.

The pistol was loaded with six fat, stubby .44 cartridges. Fully loaded. None of the cartridges had been fired as he could easily see by glancing at the unblemished primers, but just to satisfy himself that he was not making a mistake he dropped all six into his palm, looked them over and returned them to the chambers.

He snapped the S&W closed and dropped the gun onto Charley's belly. Charley did not mind. The cowboy was beyond feeling anything. Ever. The man was dead as a shoat on a spit.

Longarm walked over and faced Dave.

“What's your name, mister?”

“Dave Ashford, Marshal, and this here was a fair fight.”

“Was it?” Longarm's eyes were cold, hard, and unblinking. They bore twin holes into Ashford's suddenly sweating face.

“I, uh . . . 'course it was,” Ashford said. He took his bandanna and wiped his forehead and cheeks with it.

“Give me your gun,” Longarm ordered.

“Where I come from, Marshal, a man don't hand his gun over to somebody else,” Ashford blustered.

“All right,” Longarm said mildly. “If you'd rather I shoot you an' then look at it, you're entitled t' the difference.”

Dave Ashford forked over his Colt, very careful to do it quietly, slowly, and with only two fingers lest this cold-eyed lawman mistake his movement for resistance. “Here y'go, Marshal, but I'm telling you, this here was a fair fight.”

“Uh-huh.” Longarm flipped open the loading gate on the Colt, drew the hammer back to half cock, and spun the cylinder. Two of the five cartridges had been fired.

“Ask anybody,” Dave urged.

“I should maybe ask some of the MCX riders?” Longarm asked.

Dave motioned in a half circle around him. “These fellows is all witnesses to what happened. They'll tell you.”

“I'm sure they will,” Longarm said. He smiled although the expression did not reach his eyes. “I never yet met a man who wouldn't stand up for a bunkmate whether the son of a bitch . . . no implication 'bout you when I say that . . . whether the fellow was right or wrong.”

Dave reached for his .45, but Longarm stuffed it into his waistband rather than hand it over just yet.

He looked around the room, then called out, “Anybody here who
isn't
from either the MCX or the XL Bar?”

“Me, sir,” a sawed-off little runt of a man said, stepping out of the crowd to present himself in front of Longarm. “I'm drifting through. I don't work for nobody right now.”

“Ever worked for either o' those brands?” Longarm asked.

“No, sir.”

“Ever worked with any o' these men?”

The little fellow took a moment to look around, then shook his head.

“All right, tell me what happened here.”

“This fella”—he pointed to Dave—“got to argiffying with that'un.” This time he pointed down at the dead man. “That'un said something that I didn't hear, then that'un”—again he pointed at Dave—“drew down on t'other one and shot him dead. Shot him twice in the chest and belly. That'un managed to get his gun out but he never come close to getting off a shot.”

“So this one”—Longarm pointed to Ashford—“drew first?”

The witness nodded. “Had his gun out and smoke in the air before that'un ever reached for his gun.”

“Thanks.” He motioned to George Griner, who was behind the bar. “This man drinks on me this evening.”

“Whatever you say, Marshal.”

Longarm did not ask Griner anything about the fight. Whatever the supposedly neutral bartender might say, he would risk alienating one group of cowboys or the other. Longarm would come back when the place was empty and ask Griner what he saw. But not now. He did not want to ruin the man's business.

Instead, Longarm turned to Dave Ashford and, expression now grim, said, “Turn around.”

“But I tell you . . .”

“Turn the fuck around while you still can.”

Ashford turned around. Quickly.

“Hands behind the back.”

“But I can't . . .”

Longarm's Colt flashed, but instead of firing it, he used the butt to buffalo Dave Ashford, dropping the man to the floor where Longarm trussed him with his hands behind his back.

Longarm reached up to the bar and grabbed Ashford's beer then poured it onto his head. That brought Ashford around although he still looked more than a little woozy from the blow Longarm had given him.

“Now,” Longarm said, looking around the suddenly not crowded room, “where's the jail around here?”

“Jail? Marshal, we got no jail here. I mean, we never had a marshal here before now, neither, so we never had need for a jail,” George Griner volunteered. He smiled, a rather apologetic expression, and spread his hands wide.

“What the hell do you do when you have a problem?” Longarm asked, incredulous.

“Why, if somebody acts up too bad we'd tell him he couldn't come back for a spell. We wouldn't let the guy come have a drink or visit the whorehouse or anything like that. He just pretty much couldn't come to town at all for a month, two months, whatever.” Griner's smile flickered nervously on and off again.

“He couldn't just go over to the other side to drink in Nebraska instead?” Longarm asked.

“Well, you see, yeah. That was the problem.”

“And so you sent for me?” Longarm guessed.

“Well, um . . . yeah.” Griner set a mug in front of Longarm and said, “Can I get you a beer, Marshal? Or anything?”

Longarm shook his head. “No, thanks, but you can get me the town council, or whatever you call them here. I need t' have a word with whoever is in charge. In the meantime . . .” He looked around. “In the meantime I want t' borrow your stove.”

Griner blinked. “Our stove?”

“Right. The one in the back o' the room there,” Longarm said, pointing toward the cast-iron stove that had been shoved out of the way. It did not appear to be connected to any chimney or stovepipe, although there was a pie plate tacked to the wall that suggested it was where a stovepipe existed. Presumably the stove would be connected when fall weather brought cold temperatures.

“Sure, Marshal, whatever you want.” The bartender laughed, thinking Longarm was making a joke although one he obviously did not understand.

Longarm tugged on Dave Ashford's arm. “Come along, mister.” He took Ashford back to the stove and used a spare set of handcuffs looped around a leg of the stove to secure the prisoner there. The stove was a big one, intended to heat the entire saloon. Longarm guessed it would weigh four hundred pounds or more. Ashford was not going anywhere, at least not for the time being.

Leaving Ashford sitting on the floor beside the stove, Longarm returned to George Griner. “Clear the place out, George. Everyone out. Including the dead man there. Then I want you t' fetch your boss an' all the other bigwigs. Them an' me are gonna have us a talk.”