“Very well,” he said. “I’ll scratch out a few sentences.”
“Thank you,” Marshal Rouse said, looking extremely relieved. “And never mind about seeing the judge. I’ll explain that you were needed somewhere else.”
The marshal turned to Megan and tried to smile, but didn’t quite succeed. “Miss Riley, I know that you don’t have much respect for me …”
“At least you’ve got that much right.”
“… but if you would just try and cooperate, just a little, we can have all of this settled in a very few minutes and the marshal can be on that train. Won’t you please try and be reasonable?”
Megan relented. “Very well. But let’s hurry up. I’ve got an engagement to keep.”
“Thank you.” Rouse drew a dirty handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped his perspiring face. He looked very nervous and upset when he said to Longarm and Megan, “Would you both please come along?”
Longarm offered Megan Riley the crook of his arm while saying, “I’m obliged to you for this inconvenience, miss.”
“It’s worth it to see Fergus finally get what he had coming for a lot of years. My father should have shot the bastard years ago and done everyone in this town a service.”
Longarm was shocked at Megan’s rough and seemingly callous language, but then realized that he shouldn’t have been. Old Marshal Bill Riley had been a heller and had always sworn like a mule skinner. It was small wonder that his daughter possessed a sharp tongue.
When they reached the marshal’s little office, they were ushered inside and directed to a pair of scarred old desks. Marshal Rouse was nervous and in a hurry.
“Here,” he said, extending pads to them both, “just write down a few paragraphs describing the events that took place and then sign your names.”
“Damned foolishness, this,” Megan groused.
“You’re right,” Longarm agreed.
Just then, Longarm heard the shrill and unmistakable sound of a distant and approaching train whistle. He bent over the pad of paper and began to scribble.
His statement was brief, hastily written, and no doubt riddled with hurried misspellings. Longarm did not care. He stated in his long, flowing script that he had been forced to defend himself, first in the saloon, then later outside when Fergus MacDonald had attempted to shoot him in the back as he was walking down the boardwalk.
“This ought to do it,” Longarm said, laying his pen down and coming to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s that train to catch.”
“Don’t worry,” Rouse said. “The train has to take on wood and water and also new passengers after the ones from Sacramento disembark. I promise that your train will be here for at least forty minutes, and probably an hour.”
Longarm sat back down while Rouse read the hastily composed statement. When the marshal of Reno looked up, he was frowning. “You’re rather blunt with your words, aren’t you.”
“I say what I mean,” Longarm growled. “Paperwork isn’t my long suit, but I expect you’re a real whiz at it.”
Rouse blushed. “I guess you think you’ve just insulted me, but the fact of the matter is that I do take considerable pride in the work that I do. Reports are very important.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Megan said, finishing her own statement.
“It’s the truth,” Rouse persisted. “And that’s one of the reasons why Marshal Riley needed to retire.”
Megan’s blue eyes flashed. “That’s a lie! He retired because he’s old and his eyesight failed him. Otherwise, he’d still be in this office and you’d still be a miserable, second-rate little clerk at the Wells Fargo Bank.”
Rouse shook with pent-up anger. “You’ve a bad habit of speaking without thinking, young woman.”
Megan came to her feet, then stomped toward the door, where she turned and shouted, “You’re out of your element, Rouse. Someone is going to shoot you down or run you out of town with your tail tucked between your legs. You don’t have the ability, the courage, or the brains to be a lawman.”
“Why, you-!”
But Megan was already stomping outside, slamming the door behind her.
“Sonofabitch!” Rouse shouted hoarsely. “That woman needs a good whipping!”
Longarm was amused. “Well,” he said, “she does have a sharp tongue and a lively way about her. But I’d say that you’re not the one to put Miss Riley in her place. Hell, Marshal, I think she’d whip you in a flash.”
Rouse looked ready to explode with anger when Longarm excused himself and went out the door with a chuckle.
“Well,” Rouse said, heading out the door too, “we’ll just see how smart-assed you really are after I talk to Judge Potter and he summons you to his chambers!”
It was a surprisingly short hour later when Marshal Rouse boarded the waiting train out of breath but wearing a look of triumph on his round, sweaty face.
“Marshal Long,” he said formally as he found Longarm reclining in a coach seat, “I’m afraid that Judge Potter has summoned you for further questioning.”
“What!”
“That’s right,” Rouse said, barely able to suppress a grin. “I have his subpoena right here in my hand. Would you come along, please.”
“Hell, no!”
Rouse’s smile turned nasty. “I had anticipated that you would be uncooperative and took the liberty of sending a telegram to your superior in Denver.”
“You telegraphed Billy Vail?”
“I did and he sent an immediate reply.” Rouse extended the telegram. It read simply:
CUSTIS COOPERATE STOP “You low-down, sneaky little sonofabitch,” Longarm breathed, crumpling up the telegram and hurling it at the leering marshal as he came to his feet.
“Would you follow me, please,” Rouse said almost sweetly as he pivoted on his heels and headed toward the vestibule of the coach.
Longarm was powerfully tempted to ignore Billy’s terse telegram, but after a second of indecision, he decided that he had better follow his boss’s orders and get this matter settled. He’d miss his train, sure enough, but he did want to see and pay his respects to old Marshal Riley, and he sure wanted to see Megan again. She was the kind of passionate and strong-willed woman that Longarm found almost irresistible.
Chapter 2
Judge Leroy Potter was a withered and taciturn old man who preferred to wear a silk bathrobe and slippers, even when his court was in session. His face was gaunt, his eyes dull, dark spots in deep sockets, his lips thin, bloodless, and perpetually disapproving.
“So,” he said in a weak, raspy voice as he leaned forward, surrounded by walls of his library’s books, “did you really think, Mr. Long, that you could kill a man in Reno and then just walk away without an investigation or interrogation?”
“There was a witness,” Longarm said pointedly. “Miss-“
“I know, I know,” the judge snapped impatiently. “Miss Riley. But she hated Fergus MacDonald because the man gave her father so much grief during his later, declining years as our city’s marshal.”
Longarm decided to keep his opinions private. It was clear that this judge was irritable and mean-spirited. What was not clear was his intention, which, Longarm suspected, would not be good.
“Tell me, in great detail,” the judge ordered, “exactly what happened.”
“I was walking down the boardwalk and Fergus jumped out. He shouted my name and opened fire. I jumped into the millinery store and warned the customers to stay low and not to panic. Then I eased out the door and shot the man as he came rushing at me firing his pistol and spraying bullets everywhere.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He hated lawmen,” Longarm said. “MacDonald confessed that to me after we had a minor disagreement in his saloon.”
The judge’s eyes tightened around the corners. Potter looked as old as an oak, but crafty as an alley cat. “I understand,” he said, eyes darting to Rouse, “that you whipped Mr. MacDonald quite viciously.”