He couldn't dispute that the Ponderosa House was probably the best hotel in Timber City, but that didn't mean it was fancy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was a three-story frame structure built of whitewashed pine. There was no porch. The front door opened directly onto the street, which was still muddy in places from some recent rains. Longarm was able to avoid the worst of the mud, so he didn't track any into the lobby when he entered the hotel.
That didn't stop the clerk behind the desk from pointing to a sign beside the door and growling, "Can't you read, mister?"
Longarm looked back at the sign, which read, "PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET." He squinted and said, "Maybe I can make it out. It says... lemme see... the fella with the money is generally right, and the hired help shouldn't chase him off." The clerk flushed angrily, but he said, "Sorry, mister. I'm just tired of sweepin' dried mud out of here. What can I do for you?"
"Need a room," said Longarm.
"For how long?"
"Don't rightly know. Two or three days, more'n likely, maybe longer."
The clerk turned the register around so that it faced Longarm. "Come to Timber City on business?"
"Mostly just seeing the country." Longarm grinned. "But I wouldn't mind combining a little business with pleasure, if the right opportunity was to come along." He scrawled his name on the register.
The clerk was good at reading upside down, probably from long practice. "What line of business're you in, Mr. Long?"
"Little o' this, little o' that," Longarm said, being deliberately vague. He had hinted to the ticket clerk over at the depot that he was a cowboy. Maybe he should have intimated to this fella that he was in the timber business. Keeping folks off balance was generally a good idea, especially in a case with as many unanswered questions as this one. Until his investigation had shed some light on things, it usually paid to keep everybody else in the dark too.
"Well, if there's anything we here at the Ponderosa House can do for you, you just let us know." The clerk took a key from the board behind him and slid it across the desk. "You'll be in Number Eighteen. Go to the top of the stairs and down the hall. Room's at the far end, on the left."
That would put it at the back of the hotel. "Best you've got?" asked Longarm.
The clerk shrugged. "This town's a busy place, in case you hadn't noticed."
Longarm had noticed. The streets of Timber City were full of wagons and buckboards and horsebackers. Though it was named for the heavily wooded slopes of the Cascades to the west, the town was also the supply center for all the ranches in the area, which were also flourishing. That was what they called the best of both worlds, Longarm supposed.
But right now, they appeared to be worlds in collision, and that could cause a heap of damage unless someone intervened.
That was his job, to plunk himself right down between two incredible forces rushing head-on at each other. And try not to get crushed in the process.
CHAPTER 2
The ticket clerk at the train station proved to be right about the livery stable. Longarm was able to rent a long-legged roan gelding for a price that wasn't too outrageous, and since he had his own saddle, he didn't have to pay extra to have the livery supply one. The hostler was a stove-up old cowboy, which came as no surprise. Hostlers seemed to come in only two varieties, Longarm reflected: geezers like this one or wet-behind-the-ears kids. The old-timer's name was Charley Dodge, not that Longarm asked. The old fellow volunteered it as Longarm was saddling the roan.
"And you'd be... ?"
"Name's Custis," Longarm supplied.
"Well, howdy do, Mr. Custis. What brings you to Timber City?"
"Looking around the country," said Longarm. "Thought I'd get me a job. Maybe riding for one of the ranches hereabouts, or even cutting down trees."
Charley shook his head solemnly. "You don't want to cut down trees for a livin'. "Taint honorable. Man like you needs a ridin' job."
Longarm had changed into denim pants and a butternut shirt with a dark brown vest over it. He wore the vest so he would have a place to keep his pocket watch and the deadly little derringer that served as a fob on the other end of the watch's chain. He had to admit that he looked more like a cowboy than a lumberjack.
"You look like you've pushed a few cows in your day," he said to the old hostler as he finished tightening the cinch on the saddle.
Charley slapped his thigh. "Still would be if a bull hadn't busted this here leg of mine in two places."
"Ever ride for the Diamond K? I hear that's one of the best spreads around here."
"Matt Kinsman's ranch? Sure, I rode for ol' Matt for a while."
"What sort of gent is he?" asked Longarm.
"Hard as granite. You don't never want to cross him. But I reckon he's fair. Boys who ride for his brand seem to swear by him."
"Maybe I'll ride out and see him."
"If'n you do, tell him ol' Charley Dodge says howdy do. He'll remember me. Kinsman's riders are loyal to him,'cause he's loyal to them."
Longarm swung up into the saddle. "Much obliged. Be seem' you, Charley."
He rode out through the big double doors of the stable and turned the horse to the left, which pointed him north. According to the talkative clerk at the depot, both Matt Kinsman's ranch and the Mcentire Timber Company's camp were about ten miles north of town. It was only early afternoon; he would have plenty of time to pay a visit to the lumber camp and let Mcentire know he was on the scene. Then he could ride on to Kinsman's place and maybe get there around supper time. Odds were, he would be invited to join the Kinsman family for the evening meal. That would give him the chance to do some more unobtrusive digging.
One thing you could say for this country--it was mighty pretty. Steep-sided mountains covered with pines shouldered their way into the sky, and the blue of the heavens contrasted with the dark green of the forests to create a restful picture. Throw in some billows of white clouds floating above the snow-crested peaks in the distance, add the crisp, clean, pine-scented air and the murmur of crystal-clear, ice-cold streams running through the valleys, and you had some downright beautiful scenery. Longarm took deep breaths and kept his eyes wide open as he rode, trying to drink it all in.
He was unsure how far he had ridden from town when he heard some new sounds in the distance, blending with the bird calls and the rustling of small animals closer by. A steady thunk-thunk-thunk and the muttering of an engine, counterpointed by the faint, echoing shouts of men. Loggers at work, he thought, the axes biting deeply into the flesh of the trees, donkey engines hauling the fallen logs to a stream where they could be fastened into a boom, warning shouts of "Timberrrrr!" as the great giants of the forest toppled. Each of the industries that were spreading throughout the West had their own distinctive sounds, never to be forgotten once they had been heard... and Longarm had heard damn near all of them at one time or another.
When he turned onto a side trail that led up into the mountains a few minutes later, he heard another, all-too-familiar sound: the metallic clatter of a Winchester's lever action being worked.
"Hold it, mister!" rang a shout from a nearby stand of trees. The growth was thick and provided good cover for the rifleman concealed there. As Longarm reined in, he saw the blued-steel snout of a Winchester poking through the green pine boughs.
Longarm sat still in the saddle, making no move except to half-raise his hands, even though the rifleman hadn't told him to put 'em up. He didn't want to give the man any excuse for an itchy trigger finger. "I'm not looking for trouble," he called out.
"You're a cowboy, aren't you?" The angry, accusing words shot out from the trees.
"Not right at the moment, no, I ain't," said Longarm. "I won't lie to you, I did some cowboying when I came out West after the Late Unpleasantness, but I ain't pushed steers in a long time."