by Tabor Evans
"I ain't sure I follows your drift, Longarm. How in thunder could anyone meet a man who ain't real?"
Longarm explained, "Deadwood Dick is the creation of an English writer named Charles Perry. In one of the first books he was an outlaw who got killed off, but then Perry brought him back to life as a lawman."
"In London, England?"
"That's where Perry lives. He lets Deadwood Dick go all over the place. He got to fight cannibals in the Weird Islands one time, but he mostly pesters folk here in the American West, or the American West as it looks to folk in London Town."
"But you said you really met him, two of him, in Deadwood, U.S. of A."
Longarm shook his head. "I met a couple of old drunks named Richard who lived in Deadwood and somehow decided Perry was writing about them. I see there's one about Calamity Jane, here, and she'd sure like this cover, for I've never seen her this skinny and I've known her since she was working for Madame Moustache."
Nolan took the garishly illustrated penny dreadful, held it to the light, and said, "Naw, that ain't her. Can they make up stories about real folk as well, Longarm?"
"I once told Ned Buntline I'd sue his ass if he put me in one of his magazines, but some old boys get a kick out of it, I reckon. When and if anyone ever gets around to putting down the true history of the things out here, they're going to have one hell of a time figuring out who did what, with what, to whom. I see they got Buffalo Bill avenging Custer in this one. Oh, hell, look at this!"
It was two cent's worth of sheet music with a garish orange and purple cover. The title read, "The Ballad Of Black Jack Slade." When Longarm opened it the first line, sure enough, read: "Gather close around and I'll tell you a tale."
Nolan sighed. "You can't be serious."
Longarm shrugged. "I never said he was Black Jack Slade. He did. And damned if I don't think he might have meant it. I hope I'm wrong. The real Jack Slade was mean as hell."
CHAPTER 2
When Longarm finally reported for work the next morning, Henry, the clerk who played the typewriter in the front office, shot him a now-you're-gonna-get-it smirk and told him the boss wanted to see him the moment he ever saw fit to show up.
Longarm sighed fatalistically and ambled back to the inner sanctum of U.S. Marshal William Vail to take his chewing like a man.
Old Billy Vail was shorter, fatter, balder, and usually looked meaner than Longarm. But this morning he looked up calmly from behind his cluttered desk, shot a weary glance at the banjo clock on his oak-paneled wall, and said, "Save your excuses. You staked out the nine-thirty northbound Burlington in the vain hope Slade might be headed for his old haunts along the Overland Trail."
Longarm sat down with a sheepish grin. "It was worth a try. You heard about the shootout?"
"I did. This may come as a surprise to you, but the Denver chief of police and the local federal marshal are supposed to remain on speaking terms. A copy of the police report they were kind enough to give you a copy of was waiting for me when I arrived to open this very office at the time the taxpayers of these United States expect us to start working for them. You've had your fun. Now I want you to go get a shave and a haircut, you untidy rascal. For, Saturday or not, the federal district court down the hall is holding a special hearing, and they asked me to supply a deputy to ride herd on an Indian agent who ought to be ashamed of himself."
Longarm shook his head and said, "Damn it, Billy, this other case is personal. I had the little maniac and I let him walk away and gun two fellow federal agents. You got to let me make up for my awful mistake last night."
Vail sighed and replied, not unkindly, "I know how dumb you have to be feeling this morning. But, having gone over the whole affair in my head as well as on paper, I can't say I'd have acted a bit different. You had no way of knowing a taproom troublemaker was anybody serious. Walking away from a pointless argument was the mark of a mature individual. So you not only done right, but now that I've read the coroner's report on them army men, it could've been even wiser than you might have thought at the time."
Longarm grimaced. "Aw, crap. I had the wild-eyed pissant, Billy. Both ways. The blonde behind the bar could have took him in a wrestling match, and he was toting single-action '74s. I hate to brag, but you've seen me and my double-action.44-40 in action against worse odds."
"I have. You're good. So were them two army agents. That's doubtless how they wound up dead. I calls it the Billy the Kid phenomenon. A phenomenon is like a mirage, only more dangerous."
Longarm said, "I know what a phenomenon is. What could Billy the Kid have to do with the case? The last I heard, that other little pest was on the dodge down New Mexico way."
Vail leaned back in his own chair to haul out a nickel cigar as he explained, "That other Kid's managed to kill more than one growed man with a rep because, like you and them two dead army men, they hesitated the fraction of a second it takes to wind up dead. I've just gone over little Joseph Slade's known history, up to where he suddenly turned horse thief and killer. It's pathetic as hell. He was too awkward as well as too sickly to engage in schoolyard sports over at Evans. The teachers had to protect him from the usual classroom bullies. One that had him crying to the teacher regular was a ten-year-old girl. Nobody cared when he just stopped coming to school one day because, On top of being a Cry-baby, he was dumb as hell. He was behind all the other kids in reading, spelled awful, and never learned long division at all. Lord knows why the army ever let him join up. I know it's hard to get men at thirteen dollars a month, but you'd think they'd draw the line some damn place."
"He was acting a lot tougher last night," Longarm said.
"I ain't finished: I said I just went over the report. It's about a sickly, not-too-bright, lonely boy who read lots of penny dreadfuls until something snapped in his feeble mind. He ain't never been anywheres near Julesburg, and his family ain't in any way related to the real Black Jack Slade. That was easy for the Denver police to check out with a couple of night-rate wires to the county clerks involved. But somehow the broodsome loner must have adopted his namesake as a hero As the gent he wished he could be. For if there was one thing the original Jack Slade was not, it was a sickly sissy. The kid no doubt read of the time his hero was hit twice with Pistol rounds and blasted thrice with a sawed-off shotgun in the same fight. It's a matter of public record that Slade was left for dead, got back up and tracked down the man who'd gunned him to return the favor, slow. Slade winged his man, tied him to a post, and tortured him to death with buckshot rounds from the kneecaps up. Then he cut off his ears and ended the discussion by shoving a gun muzzle down the poor bastard's throat and pulling the trigger. Can you imagine the effect this tale must have had on an impressionable youth who'd never won a fight in his life?"
Longarm said, "I can. I saw the bodies he left on his sister's rug. The army must have taught him to handle a gun pretty good in the short time they was graced with his full attention to such matters, and there's some truth to the old saw about Sam Colt having made all men equal. That's why you got to let me go after the young lunatic, boss. For I do know, now, just how dangerous he really is and, more important, I know him on sight. One had to be there to get the joke, Billy. He looks harmless as a kid dressed up for Halloween and we're likely to wind up with a mess of dead lawmen before he runs into one as morose as me."
Vail shook his head, lit his smoke, and shook out the match before he said, in a tone that sounded final, "It ain't our case. The killing took place under Denver jurisdiction. The victims rode for another federal department. We got enough of a caseload as it is. We don't need to go out looking for work, old son."
He could see how Longarm felt about that. So he added in an almost fatherly tone, "Look, I know you feel responsible but it wasn't your fault. The Provost Marshal sent two good men to do a job and they muffed it, So it was their fault."
"I could have taken him, Billy."
"No you couldn't have, not knowing what you knew then. I don't hire trigger-happy deputies and had
you blown away a kid just for sassing you in a saloon I'd have had to fire you or worse. We're all smug as hell after we make a sensible mistake. Half the dam women in the world would die old maids if they gave us the power to read minds, and poker would be no fun at all."
"I could have told you that. Meanwhile, that deadly dwarf is still running loose out there with two loaded guns!"
Vail shrugged. "We lives in an imperfect world, old son. Our job is to pick up the pests with Justice Department papers out on 'em. You can only eat an apple a bite at a time. We've neither the manpower nor the time to go after every pain in the ass on earth. So don't be greedy. I got plenty of sinners with plenty of Justice Department arrest warents on 'em, if you really feel ambitious."
Longarm didn't like it, but he knew when Billy Vail meant it, and that would have been the end of it had not Henry come in just then with a telegram to say, "I just signed for this, sir. It's marked 'urgent' and requests a reply."
Vail frowned. "Well, give it to me, Henry. I can't hardly reply to it before I read it, can I?"
Longarm leaned back in the leather guest chair and got out a smoke as Vail took the wire and read it, getting redder-faced by the word. Near the end, he was growling like a junkyard dog, deep in his throat.
When he'd finished Vail balled the yellow paper up in a white-knuckled fist and told Henry how to word his reply. The clerk got even paler. "You can't send words like that by Western Union, Marshal Vail!" he protested.
Vail growled, "Word it your way, then, just as long as you tell 'em to take a flying fuck at a rolling wagon wheel!"
As Henry left, Longarm chuckled and asked Vail who he wanted to see injured so dreadfully.
"War Department," Vail said. "Do you remember that prissy Colonel Walthers we had that trouble with down in the coal-mining country a spell back?"
Longarm lit his cheroot. "Who could ever forget him?" he asked. "You were lucky. You only tangled with him a time or two. I've had even more trouble with the pompous idjet and his military police. What's he done now? Anyone can see he's got you sort of upset."
"He just warned us the murder of them two army men was the army's case entire, and it seems he remembers you as well. He just mentioned you by name, warning me he'll take it personal if you stick your big nose--his words--into his case before he can get here from Fort Collins with his own team of investigators."
Longarm asked innocently, "Can the army give orders to this here department, boss?"
Vail grinned wolfishly. "They cannot. I thought we had that settled the last time that asshole argued federal jurisdictions with me."
Longarm, who knew his boss better than the pompous Colonel Walthers must have, was already rising to his feet as Marshal Vail roared, "What are you just sitting there for? Go out and git me that murderous midget maniac before the damned old army trips over him!"
By two in the afternoon Longarm's stomach was growling and his feet weren't too happy about all the circles they'd been walking in on the sun-baked streets of Denver. He stopped at a Broadway beanery for some chili con carne and apple pie, washed it down with plenty of black coffee, and found out the handsome waitress was married to the short-order cook in the back.
Feeling better, but no smarter, he consulted the list he'd made before leaving the federal building and decided to check out the scene of the crime again, next. He respected the Denver police and the place had surely been combed over pretty well already. But sometimes things looked a mite different by the light of day.
The whole block looked different as he trudged up the slope with the summer sun agreeing that the suit required for work was a mighty dumb notion. The street was now deserted and it could have used some shade trees as well. He hadn't noticed the night before that the Banes house was freshly painted a sort of baby blush pink with white trim, or that the modest front yard was mowed neat as a green plush carpet. It took a lot of water and work to have even a little lawn like that in Denver after, say, the end of June. He stepped up on the porch and twisted the doorbell. The wan-looking lady of the house opened it to say, "Oh, you were here with those other lawmen last night, weren't you?"
She had washed her face and fixed her hair, and she wore a fresh cotton print that harmonized nice with her dark hair and sad blue eyes. He smiled reassuringly down at her and said, "I am Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, Miss Flora. I know I'm intruding and I confess I don't have a search warrant. If you want to slam your door in my face I won't be able to do a thing about it."
She sighed. "Come in. I don't know what you could be looking for now, but you're welcome to look all you like. Have they caught Joseph yet?"
As he followed her inside and into her front parlor he saw that she had removed the rug. He didn't ask why. "If it's any comfort to you, ma'am, I doubt they'll hang your kid brother once I bring him in, and I mean to bring him in gentle as possible," he told her.
She indicated a seat on her leather davenport. "That's a very gentle way of saying you think my brother is insane, and I don't see how you'll ever take him alive. You saw what he did in this very room last night."
Longarm shook his head. "Not really. It was all over by the time I showed up. I know you say you didn't witness the actual fight, neither. But I'd like to go over what you do remember, if you're up to talking more about it, now."
She said, "I've recovered from the first shock. It hit me a lot worse when my husband died not long ago. As you see, I've gotten rid of the well-meaning friends who were more in my way than any real help, and now I'm trying to tidy up the house a bit."
"I noticed, and I think you're dealing with family troubles smart as well as brave, Miss Flora. I've had more experience in these matters than I ever wanted to, and carrying on as usual is a lot less hurtsome than just brooding about things as can't be helped. I suspect I know just how you must feel right now."
She stared up at him sort of glassy-eyed. "No, you don't. It wasn't your brother who went crazy and started to kill people for no reason at all!"
He put a gentle hand on her upper arm to steady her and sit her down. He remained standing. "Easy, now. The boy thought he had a reason. Those gents from the provost marshal came here to arrest him. Can you tell me anything about them? I mean before, not after."
She shrugged. "There's nothing much to tell. I had no idea Joseph had deserted the army until they told me. He said they let him out early because he was sickly, and that hardly seemed like a fib, knowing him as I did. The older officer did most of the talking. He was very pleasant and understanding when I told them I'd had no idea my brother could be in trouble. I offered them some coffee and cake and went to fetch Joseph as they sat here on this very sofa. The rest you know, and- Heavens, what's come over me? I seem to have forgotten my manners, and I've a pot on the stove I just brewed."
But as she rose to behave more graciously Longarm told her, "I just ate, and this ain't a social call, Miss Flora. I see no reason to poke about your own quarters, even though I'm sure you've dust-mopped in every corner. But I'd sure like to snoop about your old carriage house some more by daylight, if you don't mind."
She said she didn't mind at all and that she'd been meaning to get to that chore in any case. He followed her out the back as she grabbed a broom on the fly. He'd noticed the night before, that the back yard seemed well tended. As he spied the gay flower borders all about he commented on them and said, "You sure keep your property up nice, ma'am. Did your brother help with all this?"
She sighed and said, "Surely you jest," as she led him back inside the carriage house.
The bottom level didn't look as much like a cave with the daylight streaming through the one window facing the house. There was a faint, very faint smell of oats and horse. He dropped to one knee to run a thoughtful finger along the sand between the paving bricks. She asked what he was looking for and he told her, "It ain't delicate to say. But I see you told the copper badges true about that horse your brother is said to have stolen. It ain't hard to clean up after one horse on
short notice. But you can't hardly swab out a stable without water, and it's my considered opinion this paving ain't been wet down in recent memory."
"Thank you. I didn't know I was a suspect as well," she said.
He got to his feet, dusting off his knee with his hat as he told her, "Close kin are allowed a few fibs in cases like these. It's only human. I'm only doing my job when I cover all bets."
"Then search his quarters again, so I can clean up the mess he left behind. He wouldn't let me in there to clean when he was still here."
Longarm nodded and led the way up as she followed, broom in hand, like a pretty little witch. She stood in the doorway as he went over the untidy room again by better light. He didn't find anything new and said so, adding, "I'd like to take some of this reading material along with me, if you don't mind."
"Take it all, if you like," she said. "I mean to throw it all out in any case. I've never understood how anyone could spend good money on such trash."
He picked the ballad of Black Jack Slade and a couple of Ned Buntlines to go over later as he told her, "You'd do better if you sold all this paper to the junk man next time he comes along the alley, ma'am. You're right about your brother amassing at least a few dollars' worth of pulp paper, here. It must have cost him a mite more, buying 'em one at a time."
She said, "It did. I don't mind telling you it was a bone of contention between my brother and my late husband. Joseph just couldn't resist those silly silly stories about cowboys and Mans and, since we were supporting him ..."
"It could have been more expensive if he'd drank a lot," Longarm observed. "Did he?"
She shook her head. "No. Tom often said he'd have more respect for an idler with more manly bad habits. Joseph didn't do much of anything but mope about up here. Tom said it made him more nervous than if he'd played with matches and girls."
Longarm nodded understandingly. "Tom would be your late husband, Thomas Banes of the Denver Dry Goods Company. I know these are hurtful questions, but there was nothing on the police records as to how your man happened to pass away."
