There was no damned gun! Except … except someone had fired at him. With a gun.
Three damn times. There had to be an explanation. Of course there was. There was always an explanation. The only trick was finding out what the hell that explanation might be.
And in this case Longarm was beginning to think that the explanation, however logical and simple it might really be, was somewhere way over his head.
Maybe he was more tired than he realized. Not thinking straight. Or something.
“Aren’t you guys done in there yet?” George, the coach jehu, called from the doorway for probably the twelfth time. “Miz Burdick is getting upset about breakfast going so cold and her with still so many to feed.”
Longarm sighed. “Tell her we’re on our way, George.”
Hell, they might as well go eat. He wasn’t accomplishing anything in here.
“We can go now?” one of the engineers said.
“Yeah,” Longarm said in a low, defeated voice. “Everybody can go now.”
The men finished buttoning and tucking and made their way swiftly out of the hay shed and on to the station building, where their meal had long since been waiting. The men who’d slept in the other hay shed were probably finished eating by now and the food was no doubt as cold as a new-caught trout.
The only one of the other men who did not make a rush for the table, oddly, was Tyler Overton. He hung back.
“Yes? What d’you want?” Longarm demanded.
“I just wanted … I wanted to tell you that I harbor no grudge here. I understand.”
“You do?”
“You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about why you did all that, Long, but it doesn’t take any genius to work it out. Someone shot at you. And since I am the only one who really knows you, and knows why you are here and the mission you are embarked on, it’s only natural that I would be your prime suspect. Well, I just wanted to say that I understand. I’m sure I would come to the same conclusions if our situations were reversed. I don’t blame you and I don’t resent the search. And I … I’m not sure how you will take this, Long, but I mean it sincerely. If I can help in any way …”
Longarm gave the Talking Water lawyer a long, searching look. Then he scowled, as much in confusion as for any other reason. “Yeah. Thanks, Tyler.” He managed a weak smile. “I think.”
Overton nodded. “Like I say, Long. The offer is sincere. Any time. Any way I reasonably can.”
Longarm chuckled. “Now there’s a lawyer for you, all right. Even an offer like that you’re careful t’ qualify. Anything you reasonably can, huh?”
Overton laughed. “Really, Long. You can’t expect me to ignore years of careful training surely.”
“No. But if you weren’t the one shooting at me…”
“Then who could it have been? And why? Am I right?”
“Afraid so, Tyler. I reckon I’m ‘feared that you are.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Yeah, shoot.” Longarm grinned. “Figuratively speakin’, that is.”
“Let’s ponder those questions after breakfast, shall we? I for one am damned well hungry.” He patted his more than ample belly as a reminder that he was a trencherman of no small consequence.
“Yeah,” Longarm reluctantly agreed. “Reckon we ought to.”
Innate caution, though, made him hold back so Overton could take the lead on the way to the station building. Longarm had just established beyond any shred of doubt that the lawyer was unarmed. Even so …
Chapter 30
By the time Longarm and the lawyer joined the others inside the station building, everybody in the place knew about the gunshots that had, presumably, been directed at the deputy U.S. marshal during the night.
That was not the way Longarm would have preferred it. There are times—in fact, most of the time—when it is better to listen than to talk, he figured. And generally speaking, he would prefer to be the one to make any announcements or declarations concerning … well, concerning just about anything affecting him personally or the conduct of his job. He tried to be pleasant and friendly enough with anyone who would allow it. But he wasn’t much when it came to blabbing every thought that passed through his head.
It was damn sure too late for that here. As soon as he walked in he was greeted with sympathetic comments from some and by big-eyed looks from the rest of the folks who were stranded at Burdick’s station.
Howard Burdick himself was apologetic as hell about the whole thing.
“Hell, Howard, it ain’t your fault. And you didn’t do nothing. I know that. It was somebody sleeping in that same room with me that did the shooting. That leaves you and your missus out of it. And these ladies here an’ half the rest o’ the menfolk on hand.”
Telling that to Burdick was enough to remind himself of it. And remind him as well that the fact of the shootings being common knowledge among the others should have no ill effect. After all, the shooter—whoever the sonuvabitch was—knew that Longarm was alerted now. The futile search for the pistol in the hay shed had made sure the shooter was warned.
So probably there was no harm done if the rest of the crowd knew about it too.
Still, Longarm was one who liked to keep his own counsel and not give out any information without a good and specific reason.
Longarm made a point of sitting beside Tyler Overton during breakfast. After all, if everyone knew about the shootings they would also know that Overton had been Longarm’s first suspect as the assassin. Better to avoid forcing any labels onto the lawyer by making a show of friendship with him now.
What the onlookers wouldn’t be able to tell, of course, was that Overton was still Longarm’s primary suspect for being the nighttime shooter.
But a clever one.
Where in hell had he—or, okay, who-the-hell-ever—hidden that pistol?
It hadn’t been on his person. Longarm would swear to that. Hadn’t been on him or any of the other men who’d been in that hay shed.
And the damn thing almost certainly hadn’t been hidden anywhere in there either.
Longarm had practically examined the hay stems one by one in that whole huge stack. And even though there hadn’t been time enough for anyone to shoot, cross the room, and then get back to his bed before the others stirred and started striking matches, Longarm had gone so far as to pry up the lid of each and every grain barrel and feel around inside them too.
The gun wasn’t anyplace. That he could find. Except, dammit, everything has to be someplace.
If a gun existed—and a gun for sure did exist—then it naturally had to be somewhere. If only Longarm could find it.
“The boys have been telling us about the excitement over there last night and your search for the weapon. We’ll go out after breakfast,” Burdick offered, “and move all that hay out of the room. I can close off a couple stalls in the barn and move it in there. Take everything out to the bare walls and floor. Could be your man buried it or something like that. If we take all the hay out and sweep the floor, we’ll be able to see if anyone dug a hole or found a crack in the wall boards or the like.”
“That’s mighty nice o’ you, Howard. It’s a lot o’ work, I know.”
“It’s important,” Burdick said. “The line will do it gladly. Any volunteers to help?” he added in a slightly louder voice.
“George and me,” Jesse offered. “We’ll pitch in.” He looked around. “So will Roy and Charlie.” This appeared to come as something of a surprise to the crew of the northbound coach, but they did not seem inclined to argue the point with the take-charge driver of the other coach.
“Anyone else?” Burdick asked.
Leonard Groble fidgeted a little but stopped short of speaking up. The cowhand looked away, an expression of mild embarrassment on his face and a hint of flush creeping into his earlobes. All the rest of the gents put on frozen expressions and acted like the suggestion couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.