by Tabor Evans
“Come now, Custis. Cherry-cheeked Hadleyville deputy marshal dynamites a gigantic boulder onto the unsuspecting head of a desperado like Calico Jack. Then, ole Jack miraculously manages to survive the entire explosive doo-dah, stumble down the hill, rifle in hand, and kill the blue-eyed hell out of Skunk Hornbuckle. Small-town marshal kills Calico Jack. Sounds like the kind of tale legends are made of to me.”
“Christ’s sake, Billy, legends?”
“People write ballads about shit like this, Custis. I can see it now, rinky-dink piano players in whorehouses all over the West will most likely be playing the ‘Ballad of Wild Horse Canyon’ ’fore we know it. Your name will be on the lips of every ivory tickler west of the Mississippi.”
“Yeah, well, Billy, here’s the kicker to the whole deal: I’ve been out in the briars and the brambles for nigh on two months. Had to put up with a man—and I use the word man with great reluctance—who smelled like a week-dead stack of skunks for most of that time. Got myself shot. Even thought for a second or so that I’d never see the light of the Lord’s next day again.”
Longarm dropped the stub of his well-chewed cheroot into the spittoon beside his chair. He pulled another and, with great ceremony, lit it, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, where they blended with the fragrant, gun metal–colored cloud already suspended there. He shook the fresh smoke at Vail. “Said all that, Billy, just so I could remind you that you’ve been a-promisin’ me some time off for a coon’s age. And I’ve decided that I’m gonna take some. At least two weeks, maybe even a bit more. Three or four weeks, if the feelin’ suits me.”
Vail’s hands dropped to the arms of his overstuffed Moroccan leather chair. “I think that’s a fine idea, Custis. Nothing much going on right now that needs your immediate attention. Fact is, criminal activity in our jurisdiction appears to be on a downslope right this very minute. I’m of the opinion that some much-deserved rest and recreation is exactly the ticket.”
“Rest and recreation. Now that sounds mighty sweet. As long as it involves liquor and women.”
“What’d you have in mind for your time off, Custis?”
Longarm arched an eyebrow and cast a squinty-eyed look at his boss. “You’re absolutely certain there ain’t nothin’ in the works that’ll put the kibosh on me recreatin’ in the company of bawdy women for a spell.”
Vail’s moonlike face broke into a wide smile. “Absolutely certain, Custis. Now, I must admit that events have changed some since yesterday afternoon. Otherwise, you’d be on a train headed for Las Cruces right this very minute.”
Longarm groaned. He snatched his hat off and covered his face. His head fell back against the chair’s thick, deep padding. Through the felt of his snuff-colored Stetson, he said, “Why’d you have me in mind for a trip to Las Cruces, Billy? What happened in that rat’s nest?”
Vail sucked in a puff from his ax handle–sized cigar, then said, “Sure you want to know? Don’t have to tell you, since the whole dance worked out to your distinct advantage.”
Longarm jerked the hat away from his face, then dropped it in his lap. “Go on ahead and give me the whole weasel, Billy. Hell, I’m intrigued. Ain’t every single day my luck holds long enough for something this good to happen.”
Vail propped one foot on an open desk drawer and pushed himself into a semi-reclined position. “Well, while you were down in Wild Horse Canyon, playin’ with dynamite and laughing your ass off at Calico Jack’s bizarre demise, an old friend of yours turned up in Las Cruces. Just thought you might like to slip on down that way and surprise him, that’s all.”
Through gritted teeth, Longarm snarled, “Get on with it, Billy. Which man-killin’, woman-rapin’, child-molestin’, thievin’ horse fucker turned up in Las Cruces? Please, please tell me before I just bust wide open from pent-up curiosity.”
Vail tried to stifle a snorting laugh, but couldn’t quite make the trick work. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that you’ve been denied an opportunity to kill the hell out of Shelby McMasters.”
Longarm gagged, came nigh on spitting the fresh cheroot into his lap, leaned forward, and coughed like a man about to strangle slap to death. Eventually, he flopped back in his seat and stared into Marshal Billy Vail’s grinning face. “Heard you say it, Billy, but I’m not sure what it all meant. Am I to take it as how that walkin’ stack of hammered horse shit Shelby McMasters is now amongst the cold, cold dead?”
“You know me, Custis. Meant exactly what I said. Your old pal, a man who could chew off your plug anytime he wanted, bit the big one ’bout a week ago. His sad passing saved you a trip damned near to Mexico, that’s for sure.”
“Son of Satan ain’t no friend of mine, and you goddamn well know it. Wouldn’t let him touch my plug even if I’d just dropped it in the middle of a fresh pile of horse dung. Back-shootin’ wretch put a hot, blue whistler in me down in the Guadalupe Mountains several years ago when I tried to run him and Gooch Turner to ground. Hell, you’re familiar with the tale, Billy.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, then, what’s this shit about his ‘sad passing’ you’re puttin’ on my head. Sounds distinctly like somebody in Las Cruces beat me to the pleasure of rubbin’ him out.”
Vail took another big puff off his cigar, waved it around like a sideshow barker, then blew another smoke ring the size of a washtub toward the ceiling. “Knew how bad you wanted to punch ole Shelby’s ticket, Custis. Please forgive me for just having a bit of fun at your expense.” He took another drag off his cigar and looked coy.
“You gonna tell me what happened or not? Don’t make me git up, come over there, and pop your head like a rendered pimple.”
“Alright, alright. Here’s what I know: Sheriff down that a way sent word as how he had Shelby locked in one of his cells. Rather curtly worded wire I received informed me that he wanted me to send someone to escort the prisoner to Denver for trial, and to be damned quick about it.”
“Sent me after him and Shelby might not’ve made it to Denver alive.”
“’Course, I wired back and informed Las Cruces’s head lawdog that I had just the man for the job—meaning none other than you. Also mentioned that he’d have to wait until you returned from your most recent assignment. And, to finally answer your original question, yes, appears you missed your chance to kill Shelby back in the Guadalupes, lo those many years ago, when he shot you out of the saddle and left you to die.”
Longarm hurled his dead cheroot into the spittoon at his feet. “Shit. Woulda give a month’s pay to get my hands on that skunk. You gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to go all the way to Las Cruces to find out?”
“Tragic story, Custis. Really tragic. Tale could squeeze tears out of a glass eye. Gonna break your heart when you hear it. Kind of tale must cause veteran angels to get misty eyed.”
“Reckon I’ll hear it ’fore I’m too old to care? Gettin’ older by the second, Billy. Agin’ faster’n last spring’s roses. Way you’re a-goin’ right now, I’ll be in a home for belly-scratchin’ old idgits ’fore you get to tellin’ it.”
Vail’s smile grew more sinister. He took on the appearance of the cat that ate the canary. “Well, now, near as I’ve been able to determine, from a number of exchanged telegrams, the story goes something like this. Seems Shelby enjoyed the affections of a lewd woman. Evidently, local constabulary made the mistake of allowing her to visit him right regular in his cell. Postulated theory, from the sheriff down that way, goes that she must’ve agreed to smuggle a pistol into the outhouse for him.”
“Oh, that’s original. Seems like I’ve heard somethin’ like that one before. Didn’t that buck-toothed rodent down Lincoln County way use that ruse once or twice?”
Vail ignored Longarm’s reference to Henry McCarty and kept hacking at his story. “Deputy in charge of the jail walked ole Shelby out to do his business yesterday, but from all indications, he couldn’t find the secreted weapon.”
“What the hell does that mean�
�all indications?”
The grinning cat look spread over Vail’s face again. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling as though seeking divine guidance. “Well, ole Shelby must’ve been leaning over into the shitter, feeling around under the seat, and somehow slipped.”
Longarm’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me. He fell in?”
“Head first.”
“Sweet Jesus. Is that even possible?”
“Possible or not, that’s exactly what appears to have happened. Deputy claims as how he didn’t hear a thing.”
“Lord Almighty.”
“Can you imagine the thrashing around he must’ve done? Anyway, apparently McMasters got stuck.”
“You don’t mean it? Honest to God, the man went head first into the shitter?”
“Deputy finally went to rapping on the door after a prolonged silence of about ten or fifteen minutes. Had to break the door down to get in.”
“And Shelby?”
Billy Vail slapped the top of his desk with an open palm and burst out laughing. “Drowned. Way I heard the tale, only part of ’im pokin’ out of that two-holer were the soles of his boots.”
Took a second or two, but the wonderfully rounded, cosmic beauty of the thing finally settled in. Longarm slapped his knee, bent over, and laughed till he hurt. Billy Vail joined in. Every time Longarm tried to get control of himself and sit up, another round of raucous guffaws hit both men.
Henry, Vail’s concerned clerk, poked his head in the door, glanced around the room, and vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.
Through tears, Longarm moaned, “That’s an elaborate joke, right, Billy? You’re just kiddin’? McMasters is still alive and you just did this to put me in a good mood. That’s the deal, ain’t it?”
Vail wiped his eyes and held up his palm as though being sworn for court testimony. “God’s truth, Custis. I swear it on my mother’s sainted white head.”
Longarm hopped out of his chair, slapped his hat on, and started for the door.
“Where you going, Custis?” Vail yelped at his deputy’s back.
Longarm grabbed the knob to the U.S. marshal’s office door and snatched it open. “Fort Worth,” he said. “Siren call of Hell’s Half Acre is ringing in my ears. A place where the women are willin’ and the liquor flows like clear mountain streams. Right pleasant train ride this time of year. You have any need to get in touch with me, Billy, I’ll be stayin’ at the El Paso Hotel on Third Street.”
“I know that hotel, Custis. One of the nicest in Fort Worth, if memory serves.”
“Damn right. Fine lodgings are directly across the street from Luke Short’s White Elephant Saloon. I intend to spend a good deal of my time playing poker, sampling fine rye whiskey, and making friends with any available female in that stellar establishment. Truth be told, though, I’d rather not hear from you, or your clerk, for a spell.”
The door slammed shut. Marshal Billy Vail stared at it for a second, took another puff from his cigar, then watched another smoke ring float to the ceiling. He chuckled. “Enjoy yourself, Custis. You deserve it,” he said to the empty office.
Chapter 5
Longarm stepped onto the loading platform of Union Depot in Fort Worth. A hot, dust-and grit-filled wind blew up from the south. He dropped his fully packed canvas travel bag on a convenient bench, then propped his ever-present Winchester and Greener atop the leather-strapped sack. The Denver, Texas, and Fort Worth Railroad’s Baldwin engine idly chuffed and puffed on the track a few feet away. Amidst a billowing cloud of vented steam, Longarm twisted and stretched tight shoulders, stiff legs, and a kinked spine, all derived from long hours in the less-than-comfortable passenger car.
A molten sun, pasted to a near-cloudless sky, had begun to settle in the west when a graybeard with a slightly gimpy leg hobbled up, touched the brim of his tattered Confederate cavalry officer’s hat, then said, “Hack, mister? Quarter’ll git you to the center of town. Fifty cents an’ I’ll take you anyplace you wanna go. Dollar and I’m yours for the entire afternoon.”
“Can you make more than one stop?”
“Sure thang. Till I deliver you to your final destination, my time is yers.” A fist-sized wad of tobacco bulged in the man’s cheek. Juice leaked from the corners of a toothless mouth and stained his ragged chin hair.
Longram nodded, then attempted to carry his grip to the unkempt gent’s flatbed spring wagon. But the limping driver wouldn’t allow it. He shook his head, then eased the burden from Longarm’s grasp.
“My pleasure, sir. Also my livin’. You take the rifle. Never attempt to handle other men’s weapons, lest they disapprove. But I’ll get the bag,” he said, and smiled.
Three blocks from the train station, a tired gray mare pulled the well-used wagon up Main Street past a joint called the Local Option Saloon. Swarms of people swept up and down the rutted dirt thoroughfare like waves on a rocky beach. Cowhands, gamblers, drummers, drunks, whores, pimps, and evangelizing Bible-thumpers, people of every kind, size, and stripe milled about in a seething mass of constantly moving humanity.
The hack driver nodded toward the Local Option’s coarse edifice, then said, “We kin stop, if’n you’ve a need fer a drink. Built this place as close to the depot as they could, jus’ fer the convenience of travelin’ folk. Feller what slings the booze inside actually has cold beer fer a nickel a glass. Right fine stuff on a day like this’un.”
Longarm glanced at the cow-country cantina’s broad false front. A brightly painted sign over the batwing doors proclaimed it the place where you could get the “worst liquor, poorest cigars, and most miserable pool tables” in Fort Worth. Hordes of noisy customers seethed in and out of the crowded doorway. He chuckled, then said, “Think I’ll pass on that one, friend. Let’s head on up toward the center of town, maybe it ain’t so busy.”
The driver grinned. “Got several big trail herds bedded down on the north side of the Trinity. Pretty much every grog shop in town’s swamped right now. You gonna be stickin’ around long, mister?”
“Week, maybe two, if things work out the way I hope they do.”
“Be needin’ a nice place to stay then, I’d imagine.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“El Paso Hotel’s right fine. Caters to a better’n average clientele. Mosta these cowboys sleep with their herds. Cain’t afford rooms in a swanky joint like the El Paso.”
“Must be some kind of mind reader, my friend. That’s the very spot I’d decided on before stepping off the train.”
“You gotta reservation?”
“Reservation? No, don’t have a reservation.”
“Well, if’n you’ll allow it, when we arrive, let me tell the desk clerk I directed you to the place.”
Longarm hesitated, then said, “They pay you a bit for sendin’ customers their way?”
“Yessir. They do at that. Ain’t much, but everythang I can scratch up helps.”
“Fine by me.”
“Thanky, sir. Name’s Willard Allred. Formerly of Lowndes County, Alabama.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Allred.”
“You can call me Tater. Most everybody else does.”
“Tater?”
“Yep. See, durin’ Mr. Lincoln’s War of Yankee Aggression again’ the South, spent a good deal of the unpleasantness locked up in one of his nightmarish prisons for captive cavalry officers. Lived on taters for nigh on eighteen months. Them as survived with me started a-callin’ me Tater. Unfortunately, the name stuck.”
“Tater might be a stretch for me, friend. But I’ll try ’er ever’ once in a while. Custis Long here. My distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, sir. So, it’s the El Paso we’re a-wantin’ to head fer, Mr. Long?”
“Well, not just yet. First, let’s make a stop at the city marshal’s office, Tater. Think it best I check in with local law enforcement. Usually a good idea when I’m in town.”
Tater Allred swiveled his deeply
creased, stubble-covered face around and considered his passenger with a spark of renewed interest. He studied Longarm for several seconds, then turned back to his driving. “You a law bringer, Custis? Suffer under the man-killin’ weight of a tin star?”
“Deputy U.S. marshal. Based outta the Federal District Court in Denver. But I’m not here on official business this time around. Takin’ me a brief respite from the rigors of chasin’ bad men and bad women into bad places.”
“Picked about as good a town as any in Texas fer recreatin’. Acre gets a-goin’ like a steam calliope in a travelin’ carnival, soon’s the sun goes down.”
“You mean this crowd is just typical run of the mill for an average afternoon these days?”
“Yep. Place’ll git right busy in two, maybe three hours.”
“Well, she’s changed a bit since my last visit. Seems to me like Long Haired Jim Courtright was still ramroding the law around these parts when last I passed this way. ’Course my questionable recollection could suffer some. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Allred cut loose with a massive gob of tobacco juice, hocked into the dusty street, just as they passed in front of the Emerald Saloon. The crowd appeared not to have diminished by a single person. “Ole Long Hair enjoyed the affection and goodwill of nigh on the whole county, till he went and took to the bottle. Got ta actin’ right peculiar toward the end of his last term. Made some mighty poor decisions. Never did seem too interested in actually enforcin’ the law to start with. But then, he fell into drunkenness, bad behavior, and poorly considered acts of outright extortion, there at the end.”
“I’d heard the good citizens here’bouts had voted him out.”
“Yep. Feller name of Sam Farmer’s in charge of the Fort Worth police force now.”
“What’s Farmer like?”
“Bit more energetic at enforcin’ city ordinances, I suppose. But to tell you the God’s truth, Custis, he ain’t much better’n the average town marshal you’d meet up with in any small Texas town. Some like him, some don’t. Most of the Acre liked Long Haired Jim better, mainly ’cause he turned a blind eye to damn near anythang they chose to do.”
