Longarm on the Overland Trail (10 page)

Longarm said, "I'll be glad to, if you order me off your post in writing. I don't like to be in trouble neither, and my boss is twice as mean as any colonel. He told me to come up here and investigate the shoot-up on this post. Your move."

The burly sergeant snarled, "You heard what the lieutenant said," and grabbed Longarm's arm to haul him outside. Longarm planted a left cross in his face, sending him to the floor. He whipped out his.44-40 and told the man rising on the far side of the desk, "That was not a good move. I know I can't lick a whole company of engineers, but I got five in this wheel and two more in my belly derringer. You ain't getting me to leave, alive, without a note to the teacher. So what's it going to be?"

The lieutenant sank back down, helped himself to an unhealthy belt of gin, and said, "Damn it, you heard me say I didn't want any trouble. Go over to the canteen and talk to the corporal in charge, if you must. But you'd better leave before Sergeant Fagan, there, wakes up again."

"Don't you have any control over him, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know. He's the bully of the post, and nobody's ever knocked him out before."

Longarm holstered his gun and left. He led Blue Boy to the long, and low building with "Post Canteen" painted above its door and tethered his mount on the shady side. He went in and found at least a full platoon lounging about at the camp tables scattered across the sawdusted floor. He bellied up to the smaller than usual bar and told the corporal behind it he wanted a beer and a rundown on the visit of Black Jack Junior, in that order.

The beer was the watery stuff the army allowed on post and the enlisted barkeep said he hadn't been there, adding, "Grogan, the regular man, here, never knew what hit him. I'm his replacement."

Longarm turned to brace his elbows on the bar as he asked if anyone there had seen the fight. A tall, skinny private who looked too old to be in the army said, "I was sitting right about here. I wound up in yon corner before the smoke cleared. The son of a bitching civilian kilt the man I was talking to, and two others, before he shot out the lamp and left, yelling like a banshee. Two others was hit, but not as serious."

Longarm glanced up to see that the shiny brass lamp now hanging from the low rafters was the only thing in the place that looked new. "Did anybody hear what the fuss was about?"

Another, more intelligent-looking soldier said, "Not every word. But as the conversation was short and sharp I suspect I can put it together fair enough. This sawed-off cowboy strode in like he owned the place and demanded a drink. Since this is a pure army canteen it's safe to assume old Grogan told him he couldn't serve civilians here. Then Grogan was dead and all hell was busting loose. The cute little rascal had two big.45s and they sure did echo under that low ceiling. I ain't sure Slim's right about him leaving with a banshee wail. It sounded more like singing to me."

"It was," another man said, "I heard it. It was that mean song the cavalry sings about us engineers. The one that goes, 'The Engineers has dirty ears, the dirty sons of bitches.'"

There was a murmur of agreement. Longarm nodded. "I can see why the post regulations against serving civilians is not in force right now. You say two of the men he shot was only wounded?"

The barkeep behind him said, "That was after he shot out the lamp. Grogan went down right where I'm standing, with his shirt on fire and his heart blown out his back. Murphy, standing about where you are now, took one through the heart as well. The other two was hit more casual but just as dead."

Longarm left his own gun holstered but raised his hand to aim at the new lamp with his index finger. "Yeah, the rascal is better, point blank. That couldn't have been much comfort to the boys he had to aim at. I suspect I know, but could any of you give me a good description of the killer?"

The one called Slim said, "Who could forget him? He was knee-high to a grasshopper, had on a big black hat meant for a bigger skull, and I remember wondering why on earth anyone would want to wear fur chaps in open country in such hot weather."

"Goat-skin chaps, black and white?" asked Longarm.

"They was black and white and hairy," Slim said. "I never got to ask him whether he'd skint a goat or not. Oh, he had on big Mex spurs. The kind that jingle."

"Over high heels or low?"

"High and Texas, as I recall. It didn't make him all that tall, though, now that I picture him some more."

Another man offered, "I have a kid brother back home about the same size. He's twelve. The one as shot all them boys looks a bit older, but not much. I'd say you was looking for a crazy young cowboy about fourteen or sixteen."

Longarm knew Black Jack Junior was in his twenties, but the description fit the mean little cuss he'd had words with in the Parthenon, and two such critters running loose made no sense at all. So he finished his weak beer, thanked them one and all for their help, and went back outside.

As he was untethering Blue Boy, the burly Sergeant Fagan came around the corner, eyes glaring as well as swelling shut, by now. Longarm nodded pleasantly and said, "Howdy. I'm sorry I had to do that, Sarge. But don't never lay hands on a grown man unless you mean it."

"The lieutenant just gave me a direct order not to do that no more while you're on this post. Is it safe to assume you mean to stay in Julesburg long?" the bully asked.

"No longer than I have to. But I may be there the next time you're off duty," Longarm said.

Fagan said, "I'm glad. For the next time we meet I'll be in my civvies, wearing my sidearm. Consider yourself warned."

Longarm said, "Thanks, I'll keep your word of cheer in mind. I hope you know you're talking dumb, though. I'm packing a badge as well as a gun. The gun is double-action. So I'd be taking unfair advantage of you, even if you got lucky."

"Are you scared to face a man, fair, after cold-cocking him?"

"Sure I am. You're a lot bigger than the gunslick they sent me after, and you're talking almost as wild. I didn't cold-cock you. You laid hands on me first and, like I said, getting hit goes with the poorly studied move. I don't care if you're still sore about that. But I want you to listen to my own friendly word of warning. If you make me hurt you more serious, I'll no doubt be let off. I've met idjets like you before and, as you can see, they ain't hung me yet. If you take me, and I doubt you can, they'll hang you for murder and we'll both be dead."

"See here! A man has rights, and you just busted my nose."

"I said I was sorry, and you'd best see here as well. Things ain't the way they might have been in the bad old days, and even Black Jack Slade got swung when things might have seemed more casual out here. So you'd best simmer down. I know more than one lawman, less kind-hearted than me, who'd just love to add you to his rep. Fortunately for you, I ain't looking for a rep. But if you ever meet my sidekicks, Smiley and Dutch, from the same Denver office, watch your fool mouth. They've often chided me for my more gentle manners."

As he swung into his saddle, Fagan bawled, "I ain't scared of any damn civilian. In my day I've fought Sioux and worse!"

Longarm didn't answer that he'd seen his share of Indian fighting. There was no sense wasting words on a pure fool. He could only hope the fool was only sounding off. He hated it when men told him in advance they were gunning for him. He never knew, when next they met, whether to say howdy or go for his gun.

CHAPTER 7

Having given fair warning before noon, the prairie sun was doing its best to kill everything in sight as it glared down from its inverted bowl of cloudless cobalt sky.

They were a little more than halfway back to town when Longarm spied dust rising from the trail ahead and told Blue Boy, "Easy, now. That ain't a whirlwind coming at us. Some other damn fool is on the trail in this infernal heat."

Blue Boy cocked his ears and broke into a happy lope toward what Longarm could now see was a pony cart coming to meet them. It had to be the one the livery hired out for women and children to ride in. It took him only a mite longer to see that the woman abusing the pony in front of her was Myrtle from the hotel. She was wearing the same polka-dot dress, but at least she'd had the sense to shade her head with a big straw picture hat.

As they met, Blue Boy sniffed at her like a begging pup and, sure enough, she fed him another sugar cube and patted his muzzle. She told Longarm, "I was getting worried about you two. All the other riders from town have been back a spell, and thermometers are starting to bust in the shade."

Longarm told her risking a sunstroke herself was no way to make it any cooler. "I watered this critter just before we left the post, and he spent most of the time out there in the shade. I wish I'd been made to feel as welcome. You say the posse riders have given up on Black Jack Junior?" he asked.

She said, "They had to. He's long gone, wherever he went. The two riders who work for me--as hotel help, not riders--just told me they'd checked with all the surrounding spreads and homesteads for miles, and that nobody's seen hide nor hair of the mean little thing. As soon as I had someone to watch the desk I came after you to make sure you hadn't killed my Blue Boy and to tell you you can stop looking."

"I wish I could. But my boss has his mind set. The kid ain't anywhere around here, though. So what say we head for the nearest shade?"

He had meant Julesburg, of course, but she shot him an arch look from the shade of her hatbrim. "That would be a place I know, over by the river. We could enjoy a nice swim and, with something like that in mind, it just so happens I packed a picnic hamper to bring along."

He looked dubiously down at her. "Miss Myrtle, that same South Platte runs through Denver, a lot closer to the hills, and even there, it ain't deep enough to swim in at this time of the year."

"A lot you know. Follow me and I'll show you a spot where a gravel operation left the river deep enough to drown in."

Without waiting for an answer, she swung her pony around and drove off the trail. He followed her south, dubiously. Billy Vail hadn't sent him all this way to go swimming with women. On the other hand, heat-stroke had to be above and beyond the call of duty, and Black Jack Junior was as likely to be in the South Platte as anywhere else in the county right now.

It only took them a few minutes, and as they smelled the water, both Blue Boy and the cart pony got harder to handle. They busted through the wall of crack-willow and taller cottonwood rising like a planted hedgerow along the uncertain banks of the wide but shallow stream and let both animals drink like camels, standing fedock-deep in the tea-warm running water.

As Longarm took in the pleasant view he saw that this stretch of the South Platte was a lot wider than the same stream that ran through Denver. To make up for that, with less water this far from the mountain creeks that fed the South Platte, the misnamed river had become a glorified Cherry Creek, with the water braided between flat islands covered with sedge, brush, and even sweet gum. It was hard for a tree to grow up all the way on an island that got shifted about as the water level tried to make up its mind whether it was a summer trickle or a spring flood.

Myrtle said, "Let's go. The swimming hole I told you about is out beyond that willow bar."

He figured she should know. So he didn't argue as they moved on across the running water. It wasn't much deeper than Cherry Creek, but it was a lot wider, and he had to hope that kid story about quicksand was just a kid story. The wheels of the pony cart ahead sank in sort of ominously here and there. But then they were on the willow bar and the terra was not only firma but covered with lush green grass between the twisted tree trunks. As he dismounted and they tethered the critters on long leads to nibble, he already felt a lot cooler in the dappled shade. He said so, and told her she was smart to know of such an eden in a land that was mostly hell. She dimpled and told him, "Our swimming hole is yonder, through the trees. I mean to swim in my shimmy shirt, of course. I hope you're wearing underdrawers as well."

He assured her he had to, under tweed pants, if he wanted to ride at all. So she took a checked cloth from the cart, spread it on the grass, and placed her picnic hamper on it before she calmly tossed her hat aside and proceeded to shuck her dress.

Longarm had to gulp as he viewed the results. Her thin cotton chemise was so short it left little to the imagination. And for a gal who was no longer young, Myrtle had a body few teenagers could have matched. The same hard life that had hardened her features had kept her slim body and shapely limbs firm and limber. Without waiting for him, she laughed like a kid and ran across the grass to dive headfirst into what looked as shallow as the stretch they'd just forded. But she dove deep, stayed under a few strokes, and came up laughing, with her blond hair plastered to her skull and hanging down with a lot more shine and color now.

He wondered what he was doing with his duds still on and made haste to shuck and join her, naked save for his summer long-johns of somewhat more substantial cotton. The water felt just right as he dove into it. The long trip across the summer prairie had taken all the mountain sting out of it. It was just too warm to drink and a hell of a lot cooler than the air. He opened his eyes below the surface to see that, sure enough, the bottom he was gliding across was mossy gravel, and that Myrtle was blond all over. She was standing on the bottom with her chemise fluttering with the current above her waist and even her belly button was cute as hell.