“We are not going to do anything,” Longarm said. “But I mean to go down to Newcastle and see if I can find out more about Claude Blanton. After that, I expect to ride over to Placerville and have a showdown with Art Mead.”
“He’s a dangerous man, Custis. He carries a hideout derringer up his sleeve and he’s-“
“I’ve heard it all before,” Longarm said, placing his fingers over her lips. “But thanks anyway.”
“I want to go with you.”
“It would be better if you didn’t.”
“I can’t just sit around this cabin for the next few days waiting and wondering what happened!”
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to,” Longarm told her. “Besides, you’re supposed to be languishing in some jail cell down in Sacramento, remember?”
Stella shook her head. “Abe and Nick Huffington know better than that by now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re rushing back up the mountain this very minute trying to figure out their next move.”
“Me neither,” Longarm said. “But if I can get Art Mead to confess, then …”
“But he won’t confess!” Stella argued. “Mead is a hard, vicious man, just like Blanton was. Their kind would rather go down shooting than be sent to the prison … or risk facing the gallows.”
“Well,” Longarm replied, “that will be up to Mead. But one way or another we’ll have our little talk, and I guarantee you that I’ll wring some truth out of him.”
“Or die trying,” Stella said, looking miserable. “But let’s not fret about that now. Come inside and eat, then we’ll get you to bed. I can tell that you’re not going to be worth all that much to me tonight, but I want you rested when you find Art Mead and demand your answers.”
Longarm was glad to sit down and eat his fill. Stella was a very good cook and there was plenty of food to satisfy his appetite. He devoured three quarters of the apple pie, but drank little of the coffee because he needed his sleep.
“Feel better?” she asked when he finally pushed his chair back from his plate.
“Much better.”
“Well, then, let’s get you undressed and to bed.”
Longarm figured he was plenty capable of undressing himself, but Stella had always enjoyed removing his clothes, and tonight, despite the grim circumstances, was no different. When she had him stripped down to his underwear, she threw back the bedcovers.
“Get in while I put a few more sticks of wood in the stove,” she ordered.
Longarm climbed into the bed and watched Stella feed the fire, then quickly strip out of her own clothes. She put on a man’s cotton nightshirt, but it didn’t hide her curves, and when she blew out the lantern and slipped into bed beside him, Longarm quickly realized he wasn’t quite as tired as he had imagined.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Stella asked as he pushed her nightshirt up over her waist and prepared to mount her.
“Yeah,” he said, “but this won’t be any too strenuous.”
“Don’t worry,” she puffed, spreading her legs and receiving his stiff manhood with a sigh of pleasure, “I’ll go easy on you tonight.”
“Just once,” he groaned, feeling her moist heat envelop his pulsing rod. “Just once.”
Stella unbuttoned the top of her nightshirt so he could pay attention to her breasts. “We’ll see,” she murmured as their bodies began to thrust together, “we’ll see.”
Longarm made love to Stella, then dropped off to sleep and did not awaken until sunrise. Stella was folded tightly against him and he breathed deeply, savoring the smell of her body and the lingering scent of their lovemaking. As the light grew stronger in the cabin, he admired its glow on Stella’s hair and wished that he could hold her for an hour or two. But he couldn’t. He had to get up, get dressed, and head for Newcastle.
It was chilly outside and there was a patina of frost on the meadow grass when he caught his horse and threw on his saddle. The animal was cantankerous and tried to buck when Longarm swung his leg over the cantle and planted his boots in both stirrups.
“Cut it out, dammit,” he growled. “I’m no happier than you are to be leaving at this hour.”
The horse set off at a rough trot and, with a last look back, Longarm reined northwest, hoping that the sun would hurry up and lift over the hills to give him some warmth. He rode all morning without a break, and finally intercepted the freighting road that followed the Central Pacific’s railroad tracks. He arrived in Newcastle early that afternoon.
Newcastle wasn’t much of a town, and Longarm was not sure where to begin his investigation. But then he spotted a ramshackle building whose faded sign said that it was the marshal’s office, and decided that it would be best to report in and state his business. Quite often, the local authorities were more trouble than help, and it wasn’t unusual to find them resentful of federal officers, but Longarm hoped that would not be the case today.
When he stepped into the office, a sloppy-looking man with a three-day-old beard and food stains dotting his shirt glanced up from his newspaper.
“Are you the marshal?” Longarm finally asked.
“Might be. What’cha want?”
“I’m United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long. I’m working on a case and need some information on a fella named Claude Blanton. Can you help me?”
“My name is Amos Hackett. Marshal Amos T. Hackett,” the unkempt man said, struggling out of his broken chair and looking Longarm over. “So, you’re a Fed, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of a ‘case’ would you be working on and what do you want to know about Blanton?”
Longarm could see the suspicion in Hackett’s eyes. All too often when a federal officer arrived, either the local authorities were envious, or else they started looking for a reward or some personal gain. And this man looked hungrier than most. “He ambushed Marshal Walker in Auburn,” Longarm said. “I had to kill him before I could find out why.”
“Claude shot old Pete Walker?”
Longarm saw no sign that Hackett was either surprised or particularly upset by this news. “That’s right. Walker’s dead. I’m trying to find out why Blanton would do such a thing.”
“Claude was mean and he’d probably been drinking,” Hackett answered. “He hated most everyone. I sure never trusted to turn my back on him.”
Longarm frowned. “He was seen drinking with another hardcase named Art Mead. I’m told that they were friends.”
“Not friends,” Hackett corrected. “They were just a couple of sonsabitches that worked together when there was money to be made. Claude Blanton was no damned good, but since he’s dead, what do you want here now?”
“Maybe someone he knows could help me pin a conspiracy on Art Mead and anyone else that might have had a hand in Marshal Walker’s assassination,” Longarm replied. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling that the ambush was more than a simple vendetta between Blanton and Walker. In fact, it’s been reported to me that Mead was buying Blanton all the whiskey he could handle the night before the ambush.”
“I know Mead. I wish you’d have gunned him down along with Blanton.”
“What about Nick Huffington?” Longarm asked. “Could be there was some connection.”
“I doubt that,” the marshal said. “After all, why would anyone with the name of Huffington have anything to do with murdering a marshal?”
“Money,” Longarm said simply. “And it all ties back to the murder of Noah Huffington. Abe Huffington’s favored son.”
“I heard that he was stabbed to death by that woman he took up with. Her name was …”
“Her name is Miss Stella Vacarro,” Longarm said, “and I guarantee you she had nothing to do with Noah’s death.”
“I don’t see how you can be so sure of that,” the marshal said pointedly. “After all, she’d stabbed a man to death before with a stiletto.”