Longarm’s interest had definitely quickened when Man Who Breaks Wind brought up the band’s confrontation with a group of whites.
Because by then Longarm believed he knew what was coming. But he waited for Man Who Breaks Wind to confirm what Longarm already suspected.
A few matter-of-fact sentences offered by Man Who Breaks Wind. A few routine questions by Longarm. Then the tall deputy had stood and reached for cheroots to share among the Utes.
“You are free to go in peace, Grandfather,” he told Man Who Breaks Wind. “May your spring hunt be a good one. May all your wives be fertile. You have been much help to the Great Father in Washington.”
“Big help?”
“Big help.”
Man Who Breaks Wind grinned and said something to the people who had gathered close behind to listen in on the conversation between their own leader and the trusted white man they knew as Long Arm.
Longarm had gone through the motions of formally presenting Brad Crannock with the writ of habeas corpus that granted the Utes their freedom.
Then he’d said, “Now, Brad, you’d best take me to Chief Bevvy about as quick as you can. If you think he’d like to clear that train robbery off his books and maybe make some recovery of the stolen gold, that is.”
“If I think he’d ... shit, I reckon. Grab your guns and let’s go, boys,” Crannock had said.
Now, half a day later, Crannock’s men, Boo Bevvy and his posse, and Longarm were all footsore and sweating, but were still marching along at a steady rate.
With any kind of luck, Longarm figured, they should have everything over and done with before the witching hour tonight.
With or without bloodshed. Longarm frankly didn’t much give a damn which.
“I’m going to report you to your superiors. I want you to know that,” the conductor hissed.
Longarm plucked a pencil stub out of the conductor’s pocket, borrowed a scrap of paper from Boo Bevvy, and wrote down Billy Vail’s name and office address. He handed it to the train conductor. “If you want to go any higher than that try the Attorney General. I don’t know the address offhand, but I reckon you can look it up. Someplace in the District o’ Columbia” .
“Don’t think I won’t report you,” the conductor threatened again. “You’ve commandeered this train under protest, sir. Under protest.”
“Mister, before your letter ever has time t’ get there, I’ll already have reported the whole thing myself. Count on it.” Longarm winked at Police Chief Bevvy and looked back through the narrow passenger coach. All the men seemed awake. But then they would be. They all knew they were riding toward a good likelihood of gunsmoke and hot lead. A man tends to pay attention when that’s what he expects to see in front of him soon.
“How far?” Longarm asked the conductor.
“I won’t tell you.”
“All right.” Longarm leaned out of the window and tried to look ahead down the tracks, but the night was dark and all he could see up front was a yellow glow coming from the engineer’s cab and a pale white glow farther ahead from the weak carbide lamp mounted on the front of the small engine.
“You want me to arrest him, Longarm?” Bevvy suggested. “What charge?”
“Obstructing justice.”
“It wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“No, but it might be three, four weeks before the judge has time to hear the case. He’d have to sit in jail until then.” “You do what you think best, Boo.”
“Four miles,” the conductor said quickly. “Uh, more or less.”
“Thank you.”
The conductor turned and beat a retreat in the direction of the tiny caboose. Bevvy winked at Longarm and got a grin back.
“We’ll be in Tipson in ten minutes or less,” Bevvy called to the men in the coach. “Everybody get ready.”
There was a rattle of steel clashing on steel when Winchester levers were cranked as the posse members checked the function of their guns. Others snapped shotgun breeches open to inspect their chambers and make sure the guns were charged with man-sized buckshot and not puny bird shot. If there was any shooting tonight it would be to kill, not to scare.
“Five minutes,” Bevvy called out.
“Remember, dammit, don’t any of you start anything,” Longarm reminded them. “I’m taking responsibility for this, so don’t none of you jump the gun on me. We’ll do this nice and easy if we can, or the hard way only if we have to.”
A few of the possemen looked like they would have preferred to go it the hard way regardless, but those men were in the minority.
Bevvy leaned out and peered ahead. “I can see the town lights. Less than a mile to go. Everybody get ready now.” Somewhere ahead the engineer—under close guard and thorough instruction—closed his throttle and passed a signal for the brakemen to tighten their wheels. The entire inventory of rolling stock belonging to the Silver Creek, Tipson, and Glory Narrow Gauge Rail Road began to slow for its arrival in Tipson.
All they had to do to find the smelter was to follow their noses. Literally. The place stank of sulfuric acid and wood smoke. Wood, not coal. The difference was important, Longarm knew. Trying to operate a smelter without coal—which couldn’t be hauled in until or unless the railroad was put through; wood was a resource that was quickly exhausted in the vicinity of any mining town—was a makeshift proposition. A desperation gamble that the people there believed would pay off, now that they had their own ore concentrates to process, plus whatever they could steal from Snowshoe and the other high-mountain towns.
“Quiet now. Let’s do this easy if we can,” Longarm cautioned.
He guided the posse—at this point it was his posse, not Police Chief Bevvy’s, and had to remain so for purposes of jurisdiction since Bevvy had no authority there and would not have until Longarm’s suspicions were confirmed—into position surrounding the Tipson smelter.
Despite the late hour the smelter was operating at full speed. Smoke poured from its chimneys. The inside of the big, bamlike structure was alive with light and noise and noxious fumes. Longarm’s nose wrinkled as he approached the door. “I’ll go in first, Boo. You cover me and give the signal for the rest of them to rush in if anything happens.”
Bevvy nodded.
Longarm stood outside for one moment longer. He held his badge displayed in the palm of his left hand where
anyone could see. His right hand held his Colt revolver. “Ready.”
“Go,” Bevvy said.
Longarm kicked the door open and stepped through.
“Freeze! United States marshals here. No one gets hurt unless you start it.”
The two guards who were supposed to prevent unauthorized entry were caught flat-footed. So were the workmen who were within sight or hearing of the door.
“Stand easy. We’ll work out in a minute who’s under arrest here and who isn’t.” Longarm sidled out of the doorway and motioned with his left hand. Boo Bevvy and half a dozen Snowshoe possemen poured in with shotguns held at the ready. It probably helped that each of them was already wearing a badge issued by the town of Snowshoe. It wouldn’t matter that that wasn’t who Longarm had said they all were. The startled smelter workers wouldn’t be thinking of such details. Not yet. All they would be seeing would be gun muzzles and steely eyes, never mind the rest of it.
“That’s fine, boys. All of you with guns, pile them on that table there. That’s right, thank you. Yes, you too, dammit. Thank you.”