Longarm - Longarm and the Apache Plunder Part 11

He tethered his ponies to the hitch rail, and strode in to see if anyone had seen fit to answer any of his earlier wires sent from Vado Seguro by way of that Llamas rider.

There was one answer, from a territorial lawman Longarm knew in Santa Fe. They'd heard of Cyrus Grayson. They had him down, rightly or Wrongly, as one of those pests called "litigious" by lawyers and judges because they enjoyed litigation, or bringing others to law, as much as a hog loved his wallow on a hot day in August. Santa Fe said they'd look into Grayson's possible abuse of due process, although there Wasn't much of a mystery as to how you persuaded a cigar-stand notary to witness and stamp your fool signature on most anything. Grayson wasn't known to have ever pushed one of his many petty feuds to gunplay, however.

Longarm hadn't told anyone south of Denver what he might be doing down this way, so the lawman hadn't expressed any opinion about the peculiar activity around La Mesa de los Viejos, or the plans of either the BIA or the Indians in regard to that big Jicarilla drive.

Billy Vail never wasted five cents a word answering progress reports unless he had further orders to give a deputy in the field, of course.

Longarm went back out front and, staying afoot as men just love to do after hours in the saddle, he led his ponies down to the livery they'd told him about at the Western Union, and asked the Mexican night crew if they'd rub down and rest, but just water his riding stock so he could ride on before midnight.

When they said they could, he took his saddle gun and some lighter valuables worth stealing with him to that saloon. He'd eaten plenty of tortillas and beans at Consuela's for supper and it was still early.

But a man sure felt like another beer after p.i.s.sing along the trail a spell, and you never knew what gossip you'd hear in a trail-town saloon.

He got some thoughtful looks but no unfriendly stares when he pa.s.sed through the swinging doors to see who might be playing the piano so poorly. The crowd seemed mostly Anglo, with just a few Mexicans playing dominos at a corner table. He saw to his chagrin that the piano was being badly played by a skinny old gent in a striped s.h.i.+rt and brocaded vest. He'd thought for a moment it might be Miss Red Robin, an old pal who played the poorest rendition of "Aura Lee" and gave the best French lessons west of the Mississippi.

But why on earth would a man want to dwell on such country matters after spending all that recent time in a c.u.n.t?

He decided it was all the dark-complected company he'd been keeping of late. The two Indian gals had been of different anatomy as well as tribal background, but the henna-rinsed Red Robin was one of those naturally blue-eyed brunettes with skin as creamy as that high-stepping mare down the way. He ordered a needled beer from the politely stone-faced barkeep, and had to grin as he consoled himself with the simple fact he'd never been as loco with his old organ-grinder as some he'd heard about.

When an old drunk standing next to him asked what was so funny, Longarm knew the poor old-timer didn't really care. But he signaled the barkeep to refill the drunk's beer schooner anyway as he smiled and explained, "Just thinking about h.o.r.n.y riders and the dumb things they can do when they're hard up."

As the barkeep drew another for him the old-timer said, "h.o.r.n.y riders are always hard up. That's why I feel safer around drinking men. But get to the funny part, old son."

Longarm said, "There was this Prussian cavalry officer I read about, back in the time of old Freddy the Great. Seems he fell in love with this young mare in heat, likely a buckskin, whose rump reminded him of some fat gal back home. So they caught him standing up behind her on a box, humping away with his fancy pants down."

The barkeep put the second beer before them as he said with a puzzled smile, "They caught a man humping a horse? A full-grown one?"

Longarm sipped some of his own suds and explained. "A mare in heat, with a tendency to pucker down hard. But them Prussian officers felt it was a mighty odd way for a man to behave too. So they court-martialed him for conduct unbecoming a human being, and they were fixing to shoot him when old Freddy the Great got word of it."

The drunk asked, "You mean King Freddy forgave the cuss for acting so forward with a cavalry mount?"

Longarm shook his head and said, "Not hardly. Freddy the Great agreed the poor simp didn't belong in the cavalry. So he ordered him transferred to the infantry, and that way, everybody came out all right.

I reckon they found a proper stud for the mare, and I understand the Prussian army provides drummer boys for old infantry hands who've been away from home a spell."

The three of them laughed.

A morose-looking young squirt a couple of paces down the bar said, "I don't think that's funny, Julesburg," in a mighty unfriendly tone.

The drunk between them crawfished away from the bar with his free drink as Longarm smiled thoughtfully down the mahogany and asked if anyone was speaking to him under the impression his handle might be Julesburg.

The kid, sporting knee-length c.h.i.n.ked chaps and an ivory-gripped Merwin Hulbert over sun-faded denim, sounded sure of himself as he replied, "We figured out who you had to be, Julesburg. A tall rider with his hat telescoped Colorado-style and his Colt worn cross-draw adds up to one such cuss with the sand to stand up to a dozen white men for the money and other favors of a Mex gal. We both know I have the dishonor to be addressing the one and only Julesburg Kid, a mite older but no wiser than when he rode with Black Jack Slade up Julesburg way, seeing his manners still seem to reckless."

Longarm blinked, then had to laugh as he figured out who the kid had to be. He said, "There was a young cowboy wearing c.h.i.n.ked chaps in that bunch with old Cyrus Grayson. After that you've got things a tad mixed up, old son."

The barkeep backed away and the place got mighty quiet when the kid almost sobbed, "I ain't your son. My mama was married up when I was born. I'm Jason Townsend, and I got my own rep as a man n.o.body had best mess with, hear?"

Longarm nodded soberly and said, "In that case I'd rather buy you a beer than mess with you, Jason."

The kid said, "I don't drink with back-shooting sons of b.i.t.c.hes."

The barkeep half moaned, "Jesus H. Christ!" One of the Mexican domino players murmured, "Vamanos, amigos. Tengo que mear como el demonic!"

So all the customers decided they had to p.i.s.s like the devil, whether they spoke Spanish or not. The barkeep just lit out the back way without saying anything.

Longarm said quietly, "I can overlook that part about my probable parentage, seeing we seem to have the place to ourselves, if you'd be kind enough to tell me just who this Julesburg Kid ever shot in the back. I ain't him. But since I seem to remind you of some hired gun with a nasty rep ..."

Then he read the sidestep away from the bar for what it meant and snapped, "Don't try it, Jason. I know Merwin Hulbert still makes those cheap s.h.i.+ny thumb-busters, but it was never a good fighting gun to begin with and I don't want to prove that to you, boy!"

Young Townsend snarled, "I'll show you who's a boy! I'd heard you'd lost your nerve. Heard that was how come you back-shot that brand inspector with no rep of his own. You ain't got the grit to slap leather face-to-face with another gunfighter, eh?"

Longarm muttered, "Aw, s.h.i.+t, you're supposed to be a gunfighter as well as a total a.s.shole?"

It was the wrong thing to say to a punk on the prod. Townsend had been working himself up all the time he'd been trailing his intended victim.

So he moved fast, faster than most, as his gun hand swooped down on those side-draw ivory grips.

Then he was reeling along the bar with his cheap fancy gun still in its holster and two hundred grains of hot lead cooling off inside his ruptured but still-convulsing heart. As Longarm followed his last movements with a smoking but now-silent Winchester, the boy bawled out, "Don't whup me no more and I'll be good, Mama!"

Then he landed facedown in the sawdust with one spur still ringing like a coin spinning down as Longarm muttered, "I told you not to try, you poor dumb kid!"

As the smoke cleared, the barkeep came back in with a somewhat older gent wearing a silvery mustache and matching pewter badge. So Longarm started to identify himself as he finished reloading.

Before he could do so, the town marshal firmly stated, "I don't want to hear your sad story. Kevin here just told me the punk-a.s.s was the one who started it, and no jury would ever hang a man who'd been called a son of a b.i.t.c.h to his face in public."

Longarm put his gun away and just paid attention to his elders as the town law continued. "I'd hold you for the coroner's hearing anyways, if I liked noise. But rightly or wrongly, you just now gunned the black-sheep son of a mighty big and mighty close cattle clan I'd as soon not mess with in an election year. So why don't you do us both a favor and ride on, Julesburg?"

Longarm managed not to grin as he quietly replied, "I see great minds do run in the same channels. I'd only stopped here to wet my whistle on my way t-"

"Don't tell us where you're headed and we won't have to tell the Townsends," the town law said. "n.o.body with a lick of sense is about to lie to the Townsends about anything involving the spilled blood of even a worthless Townsend. And I don't want to have to tidy up after any local voters neither. So how come you're just standing there like a big-a.s.s bird, stranger?"

Longarm allowed he was just leaving and left, crabbing to one side as he stepped out the swinging doors into the darkness. But n.o.body gathered outside seemed more than curious as he bulled his way through and crossed over to the livery.

One of the Mexican hostlers said he'd figured El Brazo Largo would want one of his caballos saddled in a hurry, and so he'd taken the liberty of cinching that stock saddle to the fresher-looking mare.

Longarm nodded soberly, but said, "Seeing you've guessed who I might be, I shouldn't have to tell you why I'd rather ride on aboard less distinctive horseflesh. What sort of a swap might you be willing to make for danged near pure Spanish barbs?"

The hostler grinned like a kid smelling fresh-baked pie while coming home from school, and said, "Take your pick from our remuda out in the corral. In G.o.d's truth we don't have stock to match either of those two you rode in with. Pero we may be able to send you on your way with reliable if less distinguished riding stock, eh?"

They could. Longarm rode out of town before midnight aboard one bay and leading another. In the meantime he'd changed s.h.i.+rts. Everyone who'd been there would recall a stranger in a green satin s.h.i.+rt as the intended victim of the late Jason Townsend. The one thing anyone could say for dusky-rose poplin was that it didn't look at all like green satin.

Chapter 10.

Longarm wouldn't have entered either fresh mount in a serious horse race, but he found them both steady and willing. So along about two in the morning he tried crossing back over the river to the less traveled side.

He suspected he'd picked the wrong ford when the river came up to his knees and filled his boots. But as long as he was at it, he took off his telescoped Stetson and bent down with it to fill the crown with more water.

Once the felt had taken the time to soften some, he punched the crown all the way plain, and then creased it along the top and dimpled both sides cavalry-style.

He didn't meet up with any Apache war parties on their side of the river as he worked his way south through timber and chaparral. The reservation line doglegged far off to the west this far south, and he suspected the Jicarilla were more worried about pindah lickoyee than vice versa about now.