Longarm on the Overland Trail (14 page)

"I've noticed that. You say you have a horse for me to look at?" Longarm asked.

Old Jeff shrugged. "You can if you like. I doubt it will be able to tell you much. Horses don't talk, you know."

Longarm said they'd see about that and the old town law led him out back where, sure enough, a big part-thoroughbred bay was alone in the smaller pole corral next to the bigger one the town law used for its own remuda.

Old Jeff called to it and it came over to have its muzzle patted. "He's a friendly critter, considering who rid him into town from Lord knows where," Jeff remarked. "Our riders wasn't able to read sign on the baked prairie. We got the saddle and bridle in the tack room. Both army. Like the horse. The boss says that don't prove it's the officer's mount the kid stole. But the brute is packing an army remount service brand and I can't come up with a better notion where he might have picked it up. Come on, I'll show you where the murderous little bastard abandoned it."

They cut through a vacant lot, back to the main street, and the scene of the crime was only a few doors down. The interior of the open-front smithy was dark until Jeff lit an oil lamp hanging above the anvil by the cold forge. Longarm saw that the more portable tools of the dead blacksmith's trade had been put away for safe keeping, kids being kids, and some grownups being worse.

Old Jeff pointed with his chin. "The smith was a-hind the anvil and the killer was standing just this side of it, as we put it together. The kid must have shoved his.45 across the anvil direct in the smith's poor face and pulled the trigger, once."

Longarm grimaced. "Where did you find his army mount?" he asked.

The older lawman said, "Outside, running loose, after. But it left hoofmarks in here, first. It reads that young Slade led it in, got into some sort of fuss with the smith, and blowed his brains out."

Longarm asked, "Has anyone thought to examine the feet of that witness?"

The answer was, "Sure. We may be small-town, but we ain't stupid. That couldn't have been what they was arguing about. The critter is still wearing well-nailed iron, as shows the same trail wear. Aside from that, the wagon spring the smith was fixing when he died was still too hot to pick up when someone tried. It sure do make one wonder. But then, the fliers we got on the fugitive said he was crazy. So there's just no way us saner gents can figure what they was arguing about."

Longarm nodded and said, "The wire I got said the killer was seen by local witnesses. That hardly jibes with what you just told me, no offense."

"None taken. Nobody witnessed the exact killing, but they sure heard the gunshot across the street. At that time of evening there was nothing open around here but the smithy, open late, and the saloon across the way. The sound attracted the attention of the serious drinkers at the bar, and most of 'em stepped out on the boardwalk for a look-see. What they seen was a stubby little cuss in flapping fur chaps and black Texas hat coming their way, waving two guns and saying mean things about all their mothers. So they went back inside, sudden."

Longarm said that sounded reasonable. "What happened then?"

Old Jeff said, "What happened was that Clovis Sinclair as rides for the X Slash X lost a fifty-dollar saddle and a fifteen-dollar pony. The stubby-legged killer must not have felt up to chasing the horse he rid in on. So he helped hisself to the cow pony and lit out of town, crowing like a rooster and shooting at the stars. Old Clovis is mad as hell. Aside from losing his show-off saddle, he has to pay for the pony the X Slash X let him ride to town. Them's the rules, when you lose your employer's stock."

Longarm said he knew that and asked what the more recently stolen horseflesh looked like. Old Jeff replied, "Scrub buckskin with no blazes and a black mane and tail. Branded X Slash X, of course. The saddle would be easier to I.D. from a distance. It's a black double-rig Vadelia, mounted with what Clovis says is silver. He wouldn't know real silver from German-silver, but then, neither would I from a dozen yards off. By now the little fool as stole it could be showing it off most anywhere."

"I hope not. I've reason to suspect he's riding the old Overland Trail on a lunatic's quest. The big question is whether he means to leave it east of the South Pass and head north to get lynched some more, or follow the trail west to Salt Lake City and put flowers on his own grave."

Old Jeff said, "What you just said might make sense to you, old son, but it sounds sort of silly to me, unless I missed something."

Longarm said, "That's fair. Black Jack Junior has been thinking mighty silly. But, either way, he'd have to follow the old trail, some."

"Well, he has a good lead on you, but it's a good week or ten days' ride to the south pass country, and that long-legged army mount he left here looks a lot faster than the scrub buckskin he swapped it for," Jeff observed. "So if you want to impound it as your own federal evidence..."

"No thanks," Longarm cut in. "The iron horse is even faster. As I read the timetable, I can catch a midnight combo up as far as Bonneville Junction and get there by morning. There's a mountain local from there as far south as Saint Stephens, where the tracks and me begin to disagree as to where we're headed. If I beg, borrow, or buy a mount there, I can follow Beaver Creek an easy two days' ride and beat the little rascal to the South Pass with so much time to spare I'll likely wind up bored as hell before it gets exciting."

Old Jeff thought and said, "That sure sounds boring, it's true. Why not just take the U.P. transcontinental and get off where it crosses the South Pass?"

"It does and it doesn't. What everyone today thinks of as the South Pass ain't what that colored mountain man, Sublette, mapped out when he was the first to find that way over the Divide. Some Indians showed him how flat their Shining Mountains got just south of Atlantic Peak. So he followed their trail and dubbed it the South Pass because it was south of the way Lewis and Clark had said they'd found the only passage. It took a spell for others to notice that whole stretch of mountains was more like rolling prairie for a good hundred miles north and south. Meanwhile, all sorts of folk had followed Sublette's map and left wagon ruts where the map said the official South Pass was. It's still the best wagon trace, if you got plenty of time, and like to stick close to water and firewood off the slopes to the north. The railroad was in more of a hurry and ran its line way south of the trail laid out by Sublette, Brigham Young, and such. The Overland coaches followed the older, longer route. Atlantic City and South Pass City, whilst hardly cities, are still in business, even if Overland Express ain't. I figure a lunatic who thinks he's a hired gun for Overland Express will follow their old route. If I took the railroad and got off, say, in Bitter Creek, I'd have to ride farther to cut him off, see?"

Old Jeff said, "I'm sure glad you ain't trailing me. It ain't fixing to be midnight for quite a spell, and Lord knows what the Northern Division of the U.P. will be serving as food and drink by the time she shows up, with all the ice long melted. So what say we cross the street to treat our bellies better?"

"I could sure do with some ham and eggs. But what about the prisoners back there in your tank, Jeff?" Longarm asked.

The older lawman said, "Let 'em get their own grub. None of 'em are in for anything more serious than acting drunk and disgusting, anyway. Do they all escape, it'll save the judge the tiresome chore of cussing 'em out and letting 'em go in the morning."

Longarm allowed it was old Jeff's town and they went across to the saloon. The boss there said he never argued with the law but asked them if they'd mind eating in the kitchen lest the others out front want some, too.

They agreed and were seated at a kitchen table, finishing up with apple pie washed down with beer, when it got sort of noisy out front. So they got up to go see what the fuss was all about.

A young cowhand was orating from one end of the bar, upon which sat a black and silver mounted Vadelia show saddle. They joined him and made him start all over again. He didn't seem to mind. He struck a heroic pose and declared, "I was riding in off the Circle H when a pack of growlsome coyotes spooked my pony. As I got him back down outten the stars I seen something glinting at me from the dark, about fifty yards offen the wagon trace. I knew it had to be a coyote's eye. So I shot it. When it never even blinked I shot it again and, when it was still there, I knew either me or my saddle gun had to be wrong. So I got down and moved in on it for a closer look-see."

He paused for dramatic effect and another swig of beer before he continued. "it was the silver horn of this here saddle I was trying to shoot for a coyote and, lucky for Clovis Sinclair, I'd only grazed it once. It was still cinched to that buckskin Clovis lost right out front the other night. Someone had shot it in the head and buried it under tumbleweed to make it look like a big old clump of brush against a bobwire fence. I had to laugh as I thought about how the posse must have rid right past it more than once."

Old Jeff said, "You always did talk fresh to your elders. The critter was doubtless hid a lot better before them coyotes got to nosing the tumbleweed aside to get the stale meat, as coyotes tend to do. But I reckon that you're entitled to your brag. For you just saved Longarm, here, a needless as well as long train ride."

Longarm shook his head. "Not hardly. I see no need to change my plans worth mention."

Old Jeff frowned up at him and asked, "How come? Young Slade could hardly be meaning to follow the old Overland Trail aboard that buckskin, if he shot and hid it right outside of town."

"Sure he could. He established by his earlier actions that night that he didn't like to walk far. He knew the well-known mount he grabbed for a hasty exit was easier than many a pony to recognize at a distance. So, having cleared the city limits, he got rid of it."

Old Jeff said, "Anyone can see that, now. What did he do then, start walking in his flappy chaps?"

"Not hardly. He moves around too good on them stubby legs for a walking man. You boys would have caught him if he'd been that crazy. He rode out to where he'd left another mount tied up, likely to that same bobwire fence." there was a collective gasp of admiration from the crowd. Old Jeff warned them, "Don't never try to get away from this old boy." But then he asked Longarm, "What kind of other horse are we talking about? The only mount stole this side of the county line was the buckskin he shot and left for the coyotes, close."

"I wish you hadn't asked that, Jeff. I like to look smart. But lots of serious travelers travel with two mounts, so's they can change from one to the other and make better time. Let's say he was moving that way. He tied his spare mount outside town and rode in on the other to scout the same. He found the smithy open and went in to ask the smith something. Don't ask me what, A half-way sane man might not be able to offer a guess. The smith was one of us saner gents. So when Black Jack Junior asked him some crazy question the smith might have said it was a crazy question and, however politely put, drove the lunatic even crazier. I have seen the results of his hair-trigger temper before."

Old Jeff nodded. "All right. I can read her from there. He gunned the smith, lit out aboard the buckskin, and... Hold on. It gets even crazier. Didn't you say you thought he was trying to follow the old Overland Trail out to some graveyard, Longarm?"

Longarm nodded and the older lawman said, "You're following him the wrong way. Why would a man headed west along the old trail tether a horse northwest of a town he aimed to scout before riding through to the southeast if he aimed to go west?"

The youth who'd brought in the saddle opined, "He could be lost, if he's loco," and there was a murmur of agreement.

Longarm thought. "If there's one thing that mad killer is keeping track of it's the Overland Trail. Try her this way. Say he rode in from the southeast, following his shining path where it turns into your main street for a spell. Say he passed the smithy, open late, saw the smith was alone and unarmed at his forge, and then rode on out the far side, tethered his getaway ride, and came back to do his dirty deed?"

Old Jeff gulped. "You mean premeditated? A man he'd never seen before? A man who couldn't have given him any sane reason to even cuss at?"

Longarm nodded grimly. "Why not? He's crazy, ain't he?

Old Jeff swore softly. "That's pushing past crazy into mad-dog vicious, if you don't mind saying so."

Longarm said, "I don't mind. It's likely true."

CHAPTER 10

By the time Longarm got off the freight train he'd managed to hop as far as Saint Stephens after a series of slow rides on even less comfortable rolling stock, Longarm was hungry as a wolf again. He toted his saddle and possibles across the cinder-paved main and only street to a shed advertising itself as a Cafe de Paris. The waitress behind the counter was nice-looking, but after that any possible resemblance to the real Paris evaporated in the thin, dry mountain morning air. She served him greasy hash topped with what smelled like a buzzard's egg, over-fried, and a mug of coffee that tasted like bile even over-sweetened with sugar and canned cow. He was so hungry he didn't feel up to wrecking the joint, and the pretty waitress was so relieved, she smiled at him.

He smiled back and after he'd introduced himself he asked her if she knew where he could buy a horse. She nodded and said, "Sure. Livestock is a lot easier to come by up this way than decent coffee. Try Pop Roberts an easy stroll down the tracks. He's got the corral down that way. Tell him Ruby sent you. That's me, Ruby Perkins, and I get off at six this evening."