by Tabor Evans
“Yes, sir.” Bobby levered himself upright, still holding his belly with one hand.
Longarm pulled the cork and handed him the bottle. “I don’t have a glass for you.”
Bobby smiled. “That’s all right, sir.”
“Tell me something, kid. If all you cowboys know about the difference in the quality o’ the liquor on the two sides o’ the street, how’s come you always stay to the one side or the other an’ don’t never cross over to get the best deal or the best liquor?”
Bobby took a healthy pull on the bottle, then shrugged. “I don’t really know, sir. That’s just the way it is. Our outfit always sticks to the Wyoming side. Always have.” He took another drink.
“Is that helping you any?” Longarm asked.
“Yes, sir. Some. It’s easing the pain a mite.” He drank again, deeper this time, then returned the bottle to Longarm. “Here, sir. I shouldn’t be drinking up all your whiskey.”
“Keep it if you like. I know where I can get more.” Longarm smiled. “From the Nebraska side.”
Bobby grinned. And took another swallow.
“Listen, I have a deck o’ cards an’ a board if you want to play cribbage or something,” Longarm offered.
The infectious grin returned. “I’ll beat you, sir. I’m pretty good at cribbage. We play it in the bunkhouse a lot.”
“That ain’t gonna happen.” Longarm laughed. “’Specially if I get you good an’ drunk. Have another taste o’ that bottle there.”
“I will. And you, sir, get your board so I can whup you at cribbage, drunk or not.”
Longarm went to get the makings of a game.
Chapter 48
Come evening Longarm had Harrison McPhail at the Nebraska side café boil a bowl of porridge for Bobby and carried it to him on a tray loaded with sugar and canned milk.
Bobby cocked his head to one side and closed one eye as he peered at his supper. “To tell you the truth, sir, I was hoping for something a little more substantial. A steak, maybe, and fried taters.”
“Let’s see how that belly of yours does. I don’t want t’ push your luck,” Longarm told the young cowboy. “How’s it feel now?”
“Pretty bad, sir.”
Longarm had tried throughout the day to get Bobby to quit calling him “sir,” but it had been to no avail. The boy persisted with it. “Is it hurting any less than it was this morning, kid?”
He shook his head. “Worse, if anything.”
“We better hold off on the steak and spuds then.” Longarm smiled. During their afternoon together he had come to like the boy. “Tell you what. If you’re feeling any better come morning, I’ll have Harry fix you that steak and the fried taters, too. Maybe some of his dried apple pie t’ go with it.”
“That sounds fine, sir.”
“But for now the porridge will have t’ do. All right?”
“Yes, sir.” Bobby laced his oatmeal heavy with milk and sugar, then picked up the spoon and dug in.
Later Longarm asked him if he wanted to play some more cribbage.
“Thank you, sir, but if it’s all the same to you I’ll lie down here and kind of get my strength back. And, Marshal, there’s something I want you to know. This afternoon over at Mr. Franz’s store . . . I wasn’t going for my gun, sir. I was mad, but I’m no killer. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Hell, I already knew that, kid.”
“Yes, sir, I figured. But I wanted to say it anyhow. Just to like . . . get it on the record, sort of.”
“Do you need anything more, Bobby?” Earlier Longarm had walked over to the whorehouse and borrowed a pillow and two blankets for the boy to use. He certainly was not going anywhere for a while and would need them.
“No, sir, I’m fine.”
“All right then. I’m going to leave the door unlocked and this lamp burning. I filled it fresh with oil this afternoon so it should last you through the night. I’ll put the bucket beside you in case you have t’ go during the night. Don’t try an’ make it to the outhouse without me bein’ here to help. Is there anything else you can think of before I leave?”
“No, sir, thank you.”
“I still have a job t’ do here so I need to make my rounds an’ stop in at both saloons to make sure everybody remembers to mind their manners. An’ I’m hungry, too, so I’d best take care o’ that while I’m out. I, uh, I might not have a chance t’ get back here for a while. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“All right then, Bobby. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Longarm left the cell door standing open and set the latch on the outside door but did not lock it. That done, he tugged the brim of his hat down and headed back to McPhail’s Café to take care of his own supper.
In the morning, Longarm found Bobby curled on the bunk where he had left him.
The boy was dead, his flesh cold enough to indicate he had been gone for some hours.
“Damnit!” Longarm cried out aloud. “Damn it all to hell an’ gone.”
Chapter 49
“Serves the little bastard right,” Garrett Franz said with a snort when Longarm told him about Bobby’s death.
“It doesn’t bother you that you killed a man yesterday?” Longarm said, incredulous.
“Of course not. He went for his six-shooter. You were standing right there, Marshal. You saw.”
“Yes, I did see,” Longarm said, “and what I saw wasn’t Bobby reaching for a gun. What I saw was you committing murder with that knife o’ yours.”
Franz puffed up like a toad in heat, stuck out both his chest and his chin, and declared, “You go to thinking like that, Marshal, and you’ll find yourself out of a job. This town can fire you as easy as hire you.”
Longarm snorted. “Garrett, you’ve forgot somethin’ here. This town never hired me t’ begin with. I work for U.S. Marshal William Vail, not you. If Billy wants t’ fire me, that’s one thing. If you want to, well, lots o’ luck with that. You got nothing t’ say about the job I do here. Now I’m gonna give you a job. You killed that boy so you take care o’ collecting his body from out of the jail an’ seeing to his burying. An’ while you’re at it, see that his outfit is told that he’s dead. What bunch did he ride for anyhow?”
“Bobby was a XOX,” Franz said.
“An’ while I think about it, see that the boy is laid out and buried wearing those chaps he wanted.”
“Those chaps cost me—”
Longarm’s voice was as hard as ice when he interrupted. “I don’t give a fat shit what they cost, Franz, they’re of no use to you nor anybody else, made up with Bobby’s brand an’ initials. So do it.”
“You can’t tell me . . .”
“I just did. Now do it!”
The storekeeper did not look happy although Longarm could not tell whether the man was more aggravated by the loss of the custom-made chaps or by being told what to do by someone he obviously thought of as a town employee.
Not that it mattered and not that Custis Long gave that fat shit he had mentioned. Despite what Garrett Franz seemed to think, Longarm was not there to please the community leaders but to do the job of keeping the peace and enforcing such laws as there were.
“I assume the laying out will be here in the store. Dress him in those chaps an’ lay him out this afternoon. Send someone to tell the XOX so’s they can attend the buryin’ if they’re of a mind to. Don’t do that until his compadres have had a chance t’ see him.”
Franz looked completely taken aback to be given orders like that, but he said nothing more.
When Longarm left the mercantile he left Garrett Franz fuming behind him.
Chapter 50
Longarm did not know if Franz complied with his instruction to notify Bobby’s bunkmates or if someone else spread the wo
rd, but that afternoon the XOX riders, eight of them, came boiling into town with trouble on their minds.
When they arrived Longarm was on the Nebraska side making a show of being on duty. As soon as he saw the XOXs he hustled across to Wyoming. When he got there Garrett Franz was rather nervously explaining himself to the obviously unhappy XOX cowhands.
“There,” Franz said, pointing toward Longarm, who was just coming in the doorway. “There’s the marshal. He saw it all. Your friend Bobby was going for his gun. Ask the marshal.”
“Well?” demanded one of the XOX crew, a short, sunbaked man with a Smith & Wesson break top worn cross-draw style.
“Who are you t’ be asking?” Longarm returned.
“I’m Timothy Wilcox. I’m foreman of the XOX.”
Longarm nodded and introduced himself.
“Marshal, we know . . . that is, we knew . . . Bobby Reims. He wasn’t the sort to gun a man down no matter the provocation. He was a good kid. We knew him though maybe you didn’t,” Wilcox said.
“I got t’ know him some while he was with me. I liked him,” Longarm said, “an’ I was sad to see him pass.”
“What about what this man says?” Wilcox said. “What about him saying Bobby tried to draw on him?”
“Mr. Wilcox, I can’t never tell you what another man was thinkin’. If Franz says he thought Bobby was drawing, well, maybe he did think that,” Longarm said.
“What about you, Marshal? What did you think?”
“Me, I didn’t think so. But then I wasn’t the one standing in front o’ him there. If Franz was scared, that’s up to him.”
“String him up,” one of the cowboys shouted.
That brought a chorus of loud calls for Garrett Franz to be hanged.
The storekeeper shrank back against some shelving on his back wall and reached under his apron.
“There will be no lynchings here,” Longarm said, his voice and his demeanor steely. “No one is gonna touch that man.”
The XOX hands all looked to Wilcox for guidance. Longarm was sure if Tim Wilcox gave the nod, his riders would do their best to tear Franz limb from limb and then hang whatever was left.
Wilcox, for his part, looked to Longarm. “Arrest him, Marshal. What he done was murder plain and simple.”
“I can’t do it,” Longarm said. “I think he was wrong, but I can’t say that was intentional. He ain’t done nothing for me t’ arrest him for. What I suggest you boys do is t’ take your man an’ bury him.” Looking squarely at Garrett Franz he added, “An’ make sure he’s wearing those fancy chaps he wanted so bad. The boy is entitled t’ that much consideration.”
“I’ll go get them,” Franz said quickly.
“Where is Bobby?” Wilcox asked.
“He’s laying over in the jail. It’s open.”
“We didn’t come here to cause any trouble,” the XOX foreman said. “We just want our man. But I can tell you one thing. From now on the XOX will be doing its business across the way. Maybe we’ll be treated better over on that side.”
“Every penny,” one of the cowboys put in.
“What about the whorehouses?” someone else asked. “Do we have to cross over for that, too?”
“I got me a special gal at Stella’s,” another said.
Wilcox drew himself up to his full height and said, “Everything. From now on we give our trade in Nebraska.” He nodded toward Franz. “This slimy son of a bitch is partners in Stella’s place. He won’t be getting none of our pay, not from now on.”
“Come along,” Longarm said. “I’ll walk with you over to the jail. You.” He pointed to one of the XOX hands. “You get those chaps from Franz here an’ bring them over to the jail so’s we can rig Bobby out proper.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal.” The young cowboy turned and got in Garrett Franz’s face like he was hoping the storekeeper would refuse and give him an excuse to cause some mayhem, but Franz meekly ducked under his counter and came up with the paper wrapped bundle that had been the cause of all the trouble.
“Come with me, fellas,” Longarm encouraged as he led the XOX riders out of the store and up the street toward the jail. Which still had not had a prisoner inside its bars.
Chapter 51
“You cleaned him up real nice, Marshal. We XOXs appreciate that,” Wilcox said. “Thank you.”
“I liked the boy,” Longarm told them.
Three of the XOX cowboys stepped forward to wrestle Bobby into his chaps and tidy up his clothing. There was practically no blood for them to deal with. Virtually all of the bleeding from Franz’s knife had been contained inside the body, which was why Longarm had not realized the wound was a mortal one.
The only visible indication on the corpse was a small cut just below and to the right of his navel.
“He was a likeable kid,” Wilcox commented as Bobby’s bunkmates were busy strapping his fancy chaps in place.
“He was that,” Longarm agreed.
“You sure there’s no cause to arrest that bastard Franz?”
“I’m sure,” Longarm said. He raised his voice a little. “Something else I’m sure of. The man who tries t’ get revenge on behalf o’ Bobby will either hang or go down in front o’ my guns. I’ll make sure o’ that my own self.”
“Point taken,” Wilcox said. He turned to his crew. “Little Bit, bring the wagon around. We’ll take him home to bury him.” Glancing in the general direction of Franz’s store he said, “I wouldn’t want a good man like Bobby Reims lying in dirt anywhere near this place. Better he lays in the sod where he’s appreciated.”
One of the cowboys, a large man with a mustache that hung down on his chest, touched the brim of his hat to acknowledge the order, then turned and hurried away.
“It will take him a spell to go fetch the wagon. Can we buy you a drink for being so thoughtful to our man, Marshal?” Wilcox offered.
“I’d be honored,” Longarm said. “In Nebraska?”
“Aye, though it will gravel us to go over there where we haven’t been welcome.”
“I think,” Longarm said, “you’ll find yourselves more welcome there than you might’ve been led t’ believe. Come along then. An’ let me buy the second round. That’d be an honor, too.”
Chapter 52
“Where exactly did you get the notion that Wyoming cowboys aren’t wanted on the Nebraska side o’ town?” Longarm asked over the rim of a passable rye whiskey.
“Why, I don’t exactly recall. It’s just always been that way, long as we been on this range,” Wilcox said. To the others in his crew he asked, “Anybody remember how we was told we wasn’t welcome over here on the Nebraska side?”
No one did.
“Interesting,” Longarm observed, taking another sip of the whiskey. It was not as good as the Maryland distilled rye he got back home in Denver. But this was not bad on the tongue. And that was just the first glass. Almost any whiskey begins to taste better the more a man has of it. Half a dozen shots and even Jacob Potts’s horse piss might commence to taste good.
“Little Bit has the wagon parked outside the jail,” one of the hands said from his post beside the batwings.
“Then let’s go get our boy and take him home,” Wilcox said. The foreman quickly downed his whiskey and chugged the beer chaser.
“I haven’t had a chance t’ buy a round for your boys,” Longarm said.
“Next time, Marshal, we’d be proud to drink your whiskey,” Wilcox told him as he headed for the doorway.
Longarm carried his drink to the door after the XOX boys left. He propped himself there and watched, hoping there would be no trouble, while the cow crew went into the jail and gently carried their friend and bunkmate out to the springboard farm wagon.
Then they all mounted up and followed the wagon out of town and off toward the northwest.
There was
no trouble.
This time. Longarm was not so sure how they would act the next time they came to town wanting to blow off some steam.
Garrett Franz had damn sure better watch his step that day, Longarm thought, or he might find himself laid out in the back of a wagon himself. And with a sight fewer mourners than Bobby Reims had.
Only when the XOX crowd was out of sight did Longarm turn back to the bar and order another drink.
For some reason he was feeling lonely when he did that. He wondered what Elizabeth Kunsler had planned for dinner and whether she would welcome some company at her table.
Chapter 53
Longarm was feeling considerably better when he left Liz some four hours later. Dinner had been good. Liz had been better. She went with him to the door, still naked and a little bit sweaty, and kissed him good-bye.
“You needed me tonight, Custis,” she murmured into his mouth when they kissed. “You really needed me. You can’t possibly know how happy that makes me.”
He was not entirely sure what Liz meant by that, but if whatever it was made her happy, well, that was good. He kissed her and gave her butt a squeeze and headed out into the night.
He was still acting as town marshal, after all, and needed to make his rounds.
Since he happened to be on the Nebraska side he started there. Walked the board sidewalk in front of all the businesses, checking doors and windows, then swung around behind the line of buildings and did the same thing in the back alleyway.
Everything was secure except for the saloon and whorehouse so he crossed over to the Wyoming side and started toward the alley behind those businesses.
Before he reached the first of them the muzzle blast from a large-caliber rifle flared in the deep shadows behind Jacob Potts’s saloon.
Longarm threw himself flat, .45 in hand before he hit the ground. He was blinded by the bright flare and could not see to shoot.
Then it was too late. He heard running footsteps recede somewhere ahead. Heard an angry shout although whether that was because the shooter bumped into someone or because it was the shooter himself unhappy for having missed his shot, Longarm could not know.
