“I’ve never been to Gold Mountain,” he admitted.
“Ain’t no mountain at all,” the guard told him. “Just some damned hot hills. They got six saloons and three whorehouses and they’re all busy any hour of the day or night. The mines are running around the clock. As long as the ore holds steady, Gold Mountain will stay on the map. But after it peters out, that town will dry up and blow away same as all the others out in this country that came and went.”
“I’m sure that you’re right.”
“Better not drink the water either,” the driver warned. “It’s alkali and it’ll rot out your guts.”
“If Ford Oakley don’t ventilate’em first,” the guard quickly added.
Longarm closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. He had a headache caused, he supposed, either by this awful August heat or simply because he was just tired of hearing advice supposedly offered for his own good. Longarm could hardly wait to take custody of Ford Oakley and bring him to Denver for a dose of long-overdue rope justice.
Chapter 2
Gold Mountain, Nevada Territory, was just about like any other high-desert boom town that Longarm had seen in the West. Oh, maybe it was a bit larger and tougher, but Longarm knew that Gold Mountain was at its zenith and, in a few years, would dry up and blow away just like most of the other flash-in-the-pan mining bonanzas.
As their stagecoach rolled onto the main street, Longarm noted the usual collection of saloons, cafes, hotels, and dry-goods stores. All of them had false fronts, and it was clear that they had been hastily constructed. They were fire-traps erected at the least possible cost in order to generate the most possible revenue. And when the nearby mines failed, they would be dismantled almost overnight and their skeletons hauled off to the next Nevada boom-town.
“There’s the marshal’s office,” the driver said, pointing out a small, clapboard building with a badge painted on its door and no name.
“Odd that Marshal Abe Wheeler doesn’t even put his name on the place,” Longarm said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Wheeler,” the shotgun guard replied. “He’s a loner. Real quiet and likes to stay outa sight.”
“What kind of a marshal is that?” Longarm asked with a shake of his head.
“Not much of one,” the driver conceded. “Especially now that he’s got this smart-assed young deputy that likes to swagger around with a six-gun on his hip and a great big chip on his shoulder.”
“He fancies himself a gunfighter.”
“That’s right,” Ray said. “How’d you guess?”
“I’ve seen all too many of that type before. They’re nothing but trouble. They’ll either shoot someone or get themselves shot. Either way, they’re trouble.”
“Well, Rick Trout is real trouble. And he’s shot a couple of fellas. Made a big deal of it too. Course, the boys that he shot were drunk as loons and couldn’t hardly even find their own guns, but Rick acted as if he’d braced and outgunned Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickock at the same time.”
“Did the deputy kill the drunks?”
“Yep. Shot them both through the guts,” the guard said as their coach slowed and eased off the main street and into the entrance of a livery. “Course, Deputy Trout claimed that they gave him no choice but to kill ‘em, but that don’t square with what was told by the witness.”
“Ernie is right,” the driver added. “Deputy Trout is a braggart and a bully. Someone is going to shoot him in the back one of these days.”
“And Marshal Long, you should hear him crow about how he and the marshal are going to collect a big reward offered on Ford Oakley’s head.”
“The reward is sizable,” Longarm admitted. “Two thousand dollars, but it won’t be paid until Oakley is brought to trial in Denver.”
“Haw! Haw!” the driver guffawed. “I never heard anything said about that part of it! The marshal and his damned deputy are tellin’ everyone that they’re to get paid the reward as soon as you take Ford Oakley into custody!”
“Well,” Longarm said, “I’m afraid that they’re quite mistaken. The reward is always paid after the accused has been delivered into the jurisdiction of the federal office that has issued his arrest warrant.”
“Huh?”
“It means that they won’t get paid until I deliver Ford Oakley to Denver,” Longarm repeated. “That’s to keep some enterprising and unscrupulous law officer from getting the bright idea of perhaps helping a prisoner escape from federal custody just so that he can apprehend him again and collect the reward a second time.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the driver said. “I never even thought of someone doing that.”
“A few law officers have,” Longarm confessed. “It’s a sorry commentary on some of us in the law profession, but it’s been known to happen more than once.”
“I expect that the marshal and his deputy haven’t heard of that one,” the guard said, jumping down as their stage ground to a crunching halt. “Not that they wouldn’t try something like that if they’d thought of it—but they’re both too damned dumb.”
“Yeah, and Ford Oakley would kill ‘em for sure if they ever let him go,” the driver added. “The fact of the matter is, what most people in Gold Mountain believe is that the marshal and his deputy are counting on getting that reward money and then leaving for parts unknown.”
“That’s not going to happen till I get Ford Oakley to Denver,” Longarm assured them as he also jumped down from the top of the stagecoach. He opened the door and grabbed his bags out of the coach.
“Mr. Richmond, it’s time to rise and shine,” Longarm announced.
The drummer had succumbed to the combined effects of the heat, the rocking motion of the coach, and his whiskey. He was snorting heavily, mouth hanging open, lips quivering with every labored breath.
“Just leave him be,” the driver suggested. “Mr. Richmond always arrives in this kind of shape. He’ll sleep right here in the coach until sundown, and then he’ll revive and crawl off to one of the whorehouses. Once there, he’ll sample the goods and then try to sell them workin’ women some goods.”
The driver grunted. “Have you noticed the brand of whiskey he drinks?”
“No.”
“It’s called Old Gut Rumbler, and even the Paiute Indians won’t touch it because some of ‘em have been poisoned to death.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse than bad. They make it out of things that would turn your stomach,” the shotgun guard said. “Richmond might wear nice clothes, but the inside of his body has got to look like a shit-hole.”
“Well,” Longarm said, looking up and down the busy street, “that’s his business. I’ve got my own business to take care of and it starts at the marshal’s office.”
“I sure wish you weren’t planning on taking the next stage back to Elko on our run,” the driver lamented. “We’re holding over tomorrow and leaving early the next morning.”
“I’ll be on that run and so will Ford Oakley,” Longarm told them, “but don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll have Oakley under control.”
“And what,” the shotgun guard asked, “if he gets out of control?”
Longarm tapped the hammer of his pistol, a double-action .44-40 Colt which he wore high on his left side, butt forward so that he could use it in a cross-draw. “If Ford gets out of control, then I’ll just draw this here piece of iron and give him a firm tap on the noggin.” Longarm winked. “That generally settles ‘em all down right quick.”
The stagecoach driver relaxed and actually chuckled. “I’d give a week’s pay to see Ford Oakley get his skull cracked open. I’ve seen Ford pistol-whip a few men and I’ll tell you that he’s none too gentle about it. One of ‘em never regained his senses and hasn’t but half a mind to this day. He was a right fine fellow before that happened.”
“You’d be talking about Paul Smith,” the guard said. “Yep, Paul made the mistake of fallin’ in love with a girl that Ford had his eye on. Molly Bean is the prettiest filly in town, but she never gave Ford Oakley the time of day. Now that Paul is only half in this world, Molly hates Ford Oakley more than anyone else in Gold Mountain.”