“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Longarm retorted hotly. “In fact, I only hit him three times, once in the gut and twice more in the kidneys. After that, Fergus said he’d had enough and I walked away.”
“There are witnesses that said Mr. MacDonald was spitting up blood as he ran down the boardwalk after you. That he looked as if he was dying.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Longarm took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ll grant you, Judge, that I hit the man hard. There was no choice because he was big and strong. And maybe a couple of hard shots to the kidneys will cause a man to spit up a little blood, but I assure you that Fergus MacDonald was not dying on account of my blows.”
“That remains to be seen,” the judge snapped.
“What are you driving at?” Longarm demanded.
“Simply that I have ordered an autopsy,” the judge said. “One that will allow us to complete a full report on this matter.”
“Are you saying that you think I was somehow at fault? That I shouldn’t have killed Fergus MacDonald even though he’d already shot a horse and was wild enough to have shot innocent bystanders?”
The judge’s eyes grew frosty. “I don’t like your attitude, Marshal Long. You seem to be a little too quick to kill a man. You should have left that saloon and lodged a written complaint with Marshal Rouse.”
“A written complaint?” Longarm asked, hardly believing he’d heard correctly. “Judge, surely you jest!”
The judge, however, wasn’t jesting. His face paled and his thin, heavily veined hands palsied with agitation. “I am just about to have you jailed for contempt of my court!”
“This isn’t a court!”
Judge Potter snapped. He jumped up and pointed a bony finger at Longarm, then screeched, “Marshal Rouse, arrest this man!”
Longarm took a backward step. “Now wait a minute,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a federal officer of the law, and I will not be arrested on the order of some senile old judge who should have been forcibly retired from the bench years ago.”
“Arrest him!” Potter shrieked, spittle flying from his mouth. “Arrest this man and lock him up in jail!”
Longarm didn’t want to defy the local authorities, but enough was enough. He turned toward Marshal Rouse and there was a hard warning in his voice when he said, “Don’t even try. I’m sick and tired of this farce and I’m not about to go to jail.”
“You’re breaking the law,” Rouse said, his voice reedy with nervousness. “If you submit, I’m sure that His Honor will soon turn you loose.”
“To hell with His Honor!”
“Arrest him!” Potter screamed again.
“Try it,” Longarm warned, “and you’ll be sorry.”
Potter jumped to his feet, almost losing his balance and spilling to the floor. He began screaming obscenities. Marshal Rouse looked terrified, probably even more so of the judge than of Longarm.
“I’ll have you thrown in prison!” Potter sputtered, finally collapsing back into his chair.
“No, you won’t,” Longarm said. “You’re just a sick, twisted old man and I’m going to pull whatever strings I can to see that you are removed from the bench. Frankly, I think you are mentally unstable.”
Potter went insane. He jumped to his feet, took two steps toward Longarm with outstretched hands, and then pitched forward with a gasp and then a cry of pain.
“Oh, God!” Rouse cried. “He’s having another stroke!”
“Another …”
Longarm dropped to his knees and rolled the old man over. Potter was turning blue, and then his frail little body stiffened and his head shook violently back and forth a moment before he went completely limp as his final breath wheezed from his lungs.
“He’s dead!” Rouse cried, looking stunned. “Judge Potter is really dead!”
Longarm felt for a pulse. “Yep,” he said with a barely suppressed grin, “the mean old bastard is finally dead and now he’s the one who will be judged.”
Rouse staggered backward and puddled into a chair. “I need a drink,” he whispered, pointing vaguely toward the judge’s fully stocked liquor cabinet. Longarm marched over to the cabinet, found a flask of what looked to be rye whiskey, and poured them both glasses.
“Salute!” he said gravely, handing the marshal a brimming full glass.
“Salute,” Rouse replied in a subdued tone of voice.
They drank, emptying their glasses, and when Rouse signaled he wanted a refill, Longarm thought, What the hell, why not? They drank several more rounds.
“Sorry you missed your train,” Rouse finally offered.
“That’s all right,” Longarm said, taking a cheroot from his pocket and stuffing it into his mouth. “Wasn’t your fault, exactly.”
“Thanks. I guess you aren’t too used to putting up with paperwork, huh?” Rouse said cautiously.
“Oh,” Longarm mused, splitting the last of the whiskey between them. “I’ve got my share of paperwork to do, but I sure never took statements when someone shot someone else in order to protect their life.”
“Judge Potter was a stickler for that,” Rouse said, his voice thickening as he stared at the dead man. “I guess now I’m probably going to have to leave this job.”
“How’d you get it in the first place?” Longarm asked. “I mean, no offense, but you don’t really seem to be cut to the mold of a lawman.”
“Well, I’d have to agree with that,” Rouse said. “Mainly, I just was trying to impress a town girl. But she married someone else anyway, so I guess that didn’t work.”
“I guess not,” Longarm agreed. “And speaking of girls, where does Miss Riley live?”
At the mention of her name, Rouse’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “You don’t want anything to do with her!”
“I take it that you don’t exactly hold each other in high regard.”
“You could say that again,” Rouse snapped. “She thinks I’m worse than dog-shit!”
“Naw.”
“It’s true!” Rouse exclaimed. “But it’s also true that no man could fill the job that her pa was forced out of because he got too old and blind. To her, Old Wild Bill Riley will always be the finest lawman that ever lived.”
“Well,” Longarm sympathized, “I can see how that could easily happen. But I’d still like to pay Miss Riley and her father a visit. He used to be a real fine lawman and we got along very well.”
“The old devil lives just south of town. Big ranch house with a front porch and a rooster weather vane on the barn. It’s faded brown, and there’s a tall cottonwood out front with a kid’s swing attached to it.”
“Megan’s kid?”
“Naw,” Rouse said, “it’s just some kid that lived there before ‘em and they never took it down. Bill Riley isn’t the kind of a man who puts much value in appearances, as you are probably aware.”
“Yes,” Longarm said, “I am aware of that. What does his daughter do?”
“She’s a worker,” Rouse admitted. “She breaks horses, mostly, but she also mends saddles and such.”
“That’s unusual for a woman.”
“She looks like a woman, but she swears like a ranch hand and she’s tougher than rawhide,” Rouse warned. “I tell you, if a man tried her on, he’d be in for a rough, rough ride!”
Longarm didn’t appreciate that comment, but Rouse was pretty drunk and obviously he’d considered the judge a friend, so Longarm guessed he’d let the crude comment pass. “Well, I guess I’ll go see them. How far south of town is the Riley place?”
“About a mile.” Rouse shook his head looking completely demoralized. “I guess I better go get the undertaker. Barney is going to be a happy man today, what with two bodies hitting the slabs at the same time. Everyone knows that old Judge Potter had a lot of money, and Barney will charge plenty to bury him and really put on the dog. Flowers. Big marble headstone with lots of poetry and carved angels and vines. You know, just everything including polishing up the big hearse and renting a pair of matched white horses.”