“You ever think about being a businessman?” Longarm asked.
“Me?” The grease-stained brakeman laughed. “I ain’t smart enough for that, mister. Me, I’m just a easy-going ol’ boy with a broad back an’ no brains. Ask anybody. Draw my wages the end o’ every day an’ drink ’em up every night. That’s all I want outta life, neighbor. That an’ to be left alone.” He inspected the glowing tip of his cheroot, then added with a wink, “An’ to have me a good smoke now an’ again. For which I thank you.”
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, friend,” Longarm said, meaning it.
“Any time,” the cheerful little day laborer said as he went on his way.
Longarm figured it was time for him to get along on his way too. He went back to the hotel for breakfast, and as a precaution asked the dining room to make him up a box lunch, then went up to his virtually unused hotel room to reclaim his gear and carry everything down. By that time the box lunch was waiting for him. He paid for it and tucked it into his bag.
He hadn’t even started out yet, but already he was grumbling under his breath.
This wasn’t the sort of country, nor the sort of trip through it, that would lend itself comfortably to a man
traveling with luggage and a saddle.
Yet there would be no point in trying to hire a saddle horse. Even if one was available—and that wasn’t real likely in a mining camp like this—he probably would only have to abandon it in a few miles anyway. He hadn’t been paying all that much attention to the hillsides while he was on that train yesterday, but what he did see wasn’t country that would be easily covered from horseback. This was country where a man was apt to require good handholds and a keen sense of balance.
And now he was having to tackle it with a saddle in one hand and a suitcase in the other?
Longarm scowled. He also set out walking down the railroad tracks, though, awkward encumbrances or no. The sooner he got started, the sooner the ordeal would be done with. And the sooner those Utes would benefit from the writ of habeas corpus Lawyer Able had managed to scare up for them.
That, after all, was what this nuisance was all about.
Chapter 12
Hell, Longarm thought as he walked into Snowshoe, this hadn’t been half as bad as he’d expected. The going had been slow but not particularly difficult. Not even getting from the Silver Creek, Tipson, and Glory tracks up to the level of the Bitterroot and Brightwater. That had just been a matter of picking a likely spot to climb, and then going slow and easy on the way up.
Except for that little distance, though, the journey had been a flat, boring hike along graded and ballasted railroad rights of way, walking the tracks of first the one line and then the other.
Longarm would have actually enjoyed the fresh air and exercise if it hadn’t been for having to carry his bag and saddle. Toting those hadn’t been especially fun. His shoulders ached now from the day-long strain, and his hands were just the least bit sore. But there wasn’t anything that a drink and a good supper wouldn’t cure, he figured.
He didn’t have a hand free to pull his watch out and check the time, but his belly told him it was coming supper time. That impression was reinforced by the chill in the evening breeze. At this altitude the days might be nice and warm so long as the sun was shining, but the nights were cold the whole year round, and evening shadows could drive a chill into a man’s bones. The sun had slid down beneath the westerly peaks the better part of an hour ago now, and the daylight was commencing to slowly, almost imperceptibly
diminish like a lamp with the wick being eased lower and lower.
Not that he would’ve been worried about getting lost even if it had gotten dark before he got to the town. Not with the railroad tracks to follow. Still, he was glad to be getting there.
Snowshoe looked from this angle about like any other young mining camp. Which is to say raw and roaring.
Physically the camp was laid out like a soup bowl, the buildings of the town being in the bottom of the bowl and the mine openings and tailings dumps scattered all around the sides and rim. Most ore finds tended to be in canyon bottoms, but a good many too were found in cirques and bowls like this one. Longarm had heard geologists say that such locations were the craters of ancient volcanoes. He couldn’t say that they generally looked much like his notion of what a volcano ought to be, but then he wasn’t going to argue with the experts just because of that, being no experienced hand when it came to volcano recognition. The one time he’d been stony cold abso-damned-lutely certain sure positive that he was seeing a volcano was when he was young and wet behind the ears and was making his first trip into the Yellowstone country. And that, he’d been assured at the time, hadn’t been volcano after all but just a geyser. Right there and then he’d determined to retire from volcano wrangling and leave that business to others who cared about the distinctions a whole lot more than Custis Long ever would.
Whichever it was then, fizzled-out volcano or the remains of a big-ass geyser, Longarm marched into this bowl where Snowshoe was located.
The lamps and lanterns were already lighted and in the windows to welcome him. Or to welcome somebody. He was willing to concede that the merchants of the town likely had workers soon to come off shift more in mind for their welcome than they did the deputy marshal who was going to piss them all off. But he would accept the lights as a nice sort of gesture anyway.
He walked past a slightly startled agent at the Bitterroot and Brightwater depot—the man no doubt was unaccustomed to seeing well-dressed gentlemen stroll in off the tracks—and on to the nearest decent-looking hotel, located predictably enough within easy reach of the railroad station.
“And how long will you be staying with us, sir?” the smiling desk clerk asked.
“Couple nights. Maybe longer. I’ll let you know.”
“Would you care to leave a deposit for the room then, sir?”
“No need for that,” Longarm told him. He dragged out one of the voucher forms he’d gotten from Henry back in Denver and laid it down. “When I check out, friend, we’ll fill this in an’ I’ll sign for the charges.”
The clerk’s smile faded and was replaced by a frown. “And what branch of government do you represent, sir?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course not, sir. Not at all. Regardless of the branch we, um, have no vacancies at the moment.”
“Now ain’t that a shame,” Longarm observed mildly.
“Yes, sir. Quite a pity.” The clerk gave Longarm an oily, up-yours sort of look that said he was lying and didn’t particularly give a shit that Longarm knew it.
“Funny how you had a room available till I laid down that voucher.”
“Did I say that, sir? My error if so. Please accept my apologies.”
Longarm opened his mouth to speak.
Then closed it again.
What the hell was he gonna say? Give me a room or else? Not really. This SOB hadn’t done anything to be arrested for, and it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for a deputy U.S. marshal to commence his visit in Snowshoe by beating up on the citizens there.
And if nothing else, this little experience gave Longarm a hint about the kind of reception he could expect in the town. Just about what he’d figured, of course, but he sure would’ve been willing to be proved wrong.
What it came down to, the folks there had been warned that there was a deputy on the way to spring the Utes. No surprise about that. The judge’s ruling back in Nebraska would be announced to the public at the time the writ was issued. By now anybody who cared could know that the Utes of Snowshoe, Colorado, had gone and secured their release.