“The thing is flattened out some but the back end is intact. That isn’t no .22. I’d guess a .32, prob’ly a rimfire like they chamber those little Smiths and the Ivor Johnson breaktops and some other revolvers for. This, o’ course, is out of some gunsmith’s custom shop. Only fires one round at a time, though, and can’t be quick or easy to reload. By the way, Herbie, now that I think about it, you carry the spare cartridges in your tobacco pouch, don’t you?”
“How did you deduce that?”
“It just come to me while we were talking here. When I looked you over this morning you had the pouch in your pocket. But no pipe that I recall, an’ I haven’t seen you smoke. So I figure that must be where you hide your ammunition for this ducky li’l shooting stick here.”
Hancock sighed and tossed the pouch to Longarm. There was no tobacco in it. Just cotton wadding wrapped around a handful of loose .32 rimfire cartridges and four empty shell casings. Hancock was a careful assassin, and obviously hadn’t wanted to point any fingers at himself by leaving unusual brass cases lying about.
“That was another thing I worked out after a spell,” Longarm said. “We all swore we heard a .22 pistol. But then it occurred to me that the report from a short-barreled .22 would be about the same as the noise from a longer-barreled but slightly bigger-size cartridge. I never quite decided if I’d find a .32 or a .38, but I figured it pretty nigh had to be one or the other.”
“Clever,” Burdick said.
“Yeah, just cute as a basket full o’ kittens,” Longarm said dryly, looking square into Herbert Hancock’s eyes while he did so.
“What now?” Burdick asked.
“Now we wait for the mud t’ dry or the ground to freeze, an’ I take my prisoners in for booking an’ arraignment. After that it’ll be up to the U.S. attorney what happens to them.” He grunted and, again looking directly at Hancock first and then at Clementine Bonner, said, “If they don’t give me trouble on the way back, that is. If they do, the United States government will pay the burial expenses. That’s the decent thing t’ do, after all.”
He thought Hancock turned a mite pale at that. Clementine, of course, had already considered it. And come to her own conclusions.
“Herbie, old fellow, I got more cuffs with me, but they’re all in my bag and that’s atop Jesse’s coach up the way a piece. D’you think I can trust you to stay put until I can get you safe in irons? Or would you rather take a chance on the alternative?”
“I can … be quite still, I assure you. You will get no trouble from me. No excuses.”
“That’s kinda a shame, Herbie. If you want t’ change your mind, go ahead. Feel free.” He smiled pleasantly—well, more or less—and lightly stroked the wooden grips on the butt of his .44 Colt.
“No trouble, Marshal. I promise.”
Longarm took a seat where he could keep an eye on both prisoners, and accepted Mrs. Burdick’s offer of coffee while he waited.
George, in the meantime, volunteered to go out to the stranded coach and bring Longarm’s bag back so Hancock could be properly immobilized.
“Would you mind bringing the whole bag back, please, George?”
“Glad to.”
Longarm nodded with considerable satisfaction. After all, Burdick’s panatelas were not bad. But his own cheroots were better by far.
Chapter 36
It was Saturday evening before Longarm, Jesse, and the shotgun messenger, George, walked out into the yard to stand with their heads raised and nostrils flared to the gathering breeze.
“What d’you think, Jesse? It’s your call,” Longarm said.
“Officially,” Jesse agreed, turning his head and spitting a stream of yellow-brown tobacco juice into the dark brown mud at their feet. “You tell us there’s a man’s life hangin’ fire?”
“Yes.”
“Six mules could die if I decide wrong and set out before the ground gets hard enough for us to make it through,” Jesse added.
“That’s true too,” Longarm agreed.
“I do dote on my mules, Marshal. You know that.”
“You treat them good as anybody I’ve ever known,” Longarm said.
“But they ain’t more important than a man,” Jesse said, his voice rather sad at the thought.
“No, they aren’t.”
Jesse raised an eyebrow. “George?”
“I think it’s gonna freeze tonight,” George said. “You can smell it on the air. Almost like before a big snow comes in. Though I don’t look for a snow tonight. Too clear off to the west there. I say we got cold air moving in. Snow behind it, maybe, but by then we’d be well clear to the south. “You think we should try it, George?” Jesse asked his shotgun guard. And friend.
“Yeah, I think we should try it. We won’t ever have the stock any better rested than they are right now. And it was dried enough this afternoon already to get the coach in here, wasn’t it? Well, I say it’s dry enough we can get a start. Slow to begin with. We shouldn’t put too much strain on the stock right off. Let them go slow and easy at first, till the cold comes on and the surface freezes over. After that we should have an easy roll the rest of the way down.”
“Marshal?”
“It isn’t my place to say, Jesse.”
“But if it was?”
“Then you know I’d say we have to try it. That boy will die come dawn Monday if Mr. Overton and me can’t find the proof of his innocence.”
Jesse sighed, and Longarm guessed he was thinking about his beloved mules.
“All right,” the jehu finally said. “George, get the harness laid out ready while I pick the team. Marshal, would you be good enough to tell the passengers that we’ll be rolling out of here in, say, forty minutes.”
“Glad to,” Longarm told him.
“One thing more.”
“Yes?”
“If any of them want to stay over instead of risking the road like it is, the line will house and feed them free until the next southbound comes through. Or they can ride free back north when those boys decide to move.”
“All right.”
“And, um, I wouldn’t want you to put pressure on anybody, Marshal. But I might mention to you that the lighter this coach the better for those of us who are in it. You know?”
Longarm smiled. “I think the only people going south tonight, Jesse, will be the lawyer and me and my two prisoners. Somehow I don’t think anyone else will want to ride out with us.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. I got nothing to do with any of that.”
“No, of course not.” Longarm smiled and touched the brim of his Stetson before turning away and striding—it was dry enough now that he was wearing his own cavalry boots instead of the awkward gum rubber things Howard Burdick provided—back toward the relay station.
Saturday night, he kept thinking. Sunday morning into Bitter Creek. And that was if things went just right the whole rest of the way south. Then hit the rails and get off at Bosler. Then south—somehow; he had no idea how they would manage it—to the new diggings in the Medicine Bows.
After that … well, after that it would be like playing craps. With Gary Lee Bell’s life as the wager lying on the line.
Chapter 37
If Bill Fay couldn’t rightfully be considered one of Longarm’s close friends, then the town marshal at Bosler could certainly be called a damn close acquaintance. The two ace officers had known each other the better part of two years or more, and had been known to share a bottle and to dispute a deck of cards. Longarm not only liked Fay, he trusted the local lawman. Which was more than he could say for a good many men in much more exalted positions.