“What was his name?” Longarm asked quietly.
“Luther Barcroft.” Catamount Jack shook his head. “Ain’t no tellin’ how he wound up down here in the Brazos country. Must’ve just drifted around after he lost his mind, gettin’ farther and farther away from folks.” With a sigh, Catamount Jack added, “I ain’t sure I’d feel right collectin’ a bounty on an old friend like this, but I reckon you and me and Lucy got it comin’, Marshal. And that feller over there who had the sword, if he’s got any kin that can claim it.”
“We don’t have to worry about that,” Longarm said bleakly. “There won’t be any bounty. Nobody to pay it. Thorp’s dead.”
“Dead?” Lucy repeated in surprise as she came up to them. “What happened to him?”
“I found his wife,” Longarm said. “She’s dead too, though. It’s a long story, and it’s sure not pretty.” Catamount Jack opened the breech of his Sharps and started reloading it. “You mean to say ever’body’s dead ‘ceptin’ us three and them two English folks?”
Longarm nodded. “Looks like it.”
Catamount Jack shook his head. “I reckon I’ve had enough of monsters and such.”
“So have I,” Longarm said tiredly. “So have I.”
“I’m still not sure I’ve got the straight of all of it,” Marshal Mal Burley said late that afternoon. He and Longarm were in the little office in front of the jail in Cottonwood Springs, and Longarm had just explained everything that had happened. He didn’t blame Burley for having trouble grasping all the bizarre turns this case had taken. Right from the start, when Longarm woke up facedown in that grave, the whole business had seemed like the kind of nightmare a fella would get after eating some bad beef.
Maybe that was it, Longarm thought with a faint, weary smile. Maybe the whole thing had been just a bad dream.
He knew it had been real, though. All too real …
“I’ll have the fella who plays the typewriter in my boss’s office send you a copy of the report I turn in when I get back to Denver,” Longarm said. “Old Henry won’t mind—too much—and then you’ll have something official if there are ever any questions about any of it.”
Burley nodded. “I’d be much obliged for that, Marshal.” He shook his head. “Ben Thorp dead … that’s hard to believe.”
“Reckon you can go about your business now without worrying whether or not Thorp’s going to like it.” Longarm knew the comment was a bit rough, but he hated to see a lawman under the thumb of some rich, influential citizen.
For a second, Burley looked like he was going to take offense, but then he sighed and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon you’re right. I hope I’m up to it.”
“I’ve got a hunch you will be,” Longarm said as he stood up.
He lit a cheroot as he left the office and turned toward the hotel. Earlier, he had left Lord and Lady Beechmuir there, and the doctor had been checking Helene to make sure she wasn’t injured. Longarm was confident she was all right, other than being shaken up and scared half out of her wits. All the way back into town, she had clung to her husband and pleaded with him to take care of her, to never let her go.
If that attitude lasted, then something good might come out of the ordeal after all. Booth and Helene would need to be closer than they had ever been if they were both going to find the strength they would need to break Helene’s addiction. Longarm wished them the best of luck, but he didn’t particularly care if he ever saw either one of them again.
He regretted the deaths of everyone except Thorp and Rainey. He even regretted the death of Randamar Ghote, as unlikable as the oily little cuss had been. Some folks might say that Emmaline Thorp was better off dead, after what she had gone through, but Longarm couldn’t bring himself to see it that way. Maybe … just maybe … some folks were so bad off that death was the best way out for them. Longarm had never been able to fully accept that idea, though. He drew on the cheroot, savoring the rich flavor of it, and thought about all the good things in life: the touch of a woman, the laughter of a little kid, the air on a spring morning in the high country when the wildflowers were blooming.
The way Longarm saw it, there was nearly always something to live for. And he intended to go on doing it for a long time to come.
He was still pondering the matter when he let himself into his hotel room a few minutes later. As he stepped into the room, he stopped in his tracks and looked at the big tin washtub in the center of the floor. It was filled with hot water, soapsuds, and Lucy Vermilion.
“How the hell’d you know?” Longarm blurted. “The clerk downstairs just rented me this room!”
Lucy smiled at him. “Who do you think slipped that slick-haired fella four bits just to make sure you got this room? I figured after everything we’d been through, you might want to clean up a mite.”
A grin spread over Longarm’s face. He threw back his head and laughed, then went forward to meet Lucy as she rose from the washtub, all pink skin and blond hair and feathery white soapsuds. He was naked by the time he got there.
Yep, he thought as he stepped into the hot water and drew her into his arms, there were definitely some good things worth living for.
And then he didn’t waste any more time or energy philosophizing about it.