“Isn’t that the truth,” Longarm said, removing his hat and going inside to wash up and then to eat.
There were six other travelers who had decided to put up there for the night, and when Longarm sat down at the community table, they all nodded silently and went right on with the important work of filling their empty stomachs. Longarm did the same. Doug Paulson, the owner of this establishment, employed a grinning Chinese cook who served nothing but beef, potatoes, stewed tomatoes, and beans, along with the best sourdough bread for hundreds of miles around and cherry pies that would make any man come back for seconds.
Longarm wasn’t disappointed in the meal, and afterward he dragged his chair over to a big rock fireplace. Feeling full and content, he lit a cheroot and smoked it in contented silence while the other guests chatted about the weather and the latest news concerning ore strikes and the general state of the world. Eventually, the subject of Judge Getty’s murder came up as a topic of conversation.
“I heard from a stagecoach driver that someone murdered Judge Franklin Getty, that old sonofabitch who was always letting criminals off with just a slap on the wrist,” a large, whiskered freighter remarked to no one in particular.
“Whoever killed that judge ought to be given a damn medal!” another guest opined. “I hear tell that judge was taking money under the table from the accused and that’s why he was letting them off so easy. I also heard that he had a pretty woman living with him in a big mansion and that he owned half a city block in downtown Denver.”
“Then he must have been crooked as a damn dog’s hind leg,” another snorted. “Damned judges got way too much power, you ask me. Same as anyone that works for the damned federal government.”
Longarm saw Paulson wink, but managed to keep his silence. It was not unusual to hear complaints about the federal government, and Longarm had long ago stopped trying to defend his badge, his profession, and his employer. Besides, he had a very important assignment—to track down and arrest or even kill, if absolutely necessary, the members of the Marble Gang—and he was not a man who allowed himself to be easily diverted. At the same time, he would not duck trouble or turn his head when he saw the law being broken or abused.
Longarm smoked quietly, letting the conversation ebb and flow around him. Most of these men were tough miners and freighters with whom he held little in common. Gradually, the conversation began to die out and men started to get up and head off to one of the bunks that Paulson rented in a separate, community cabin for only fifty cents a night. Private rooms were a dollar, but Longarm figured they were well worth the extra price, especially when the “damned government” was picking up the tab.
He was about to leave when one of the men yawned and said, “Glad that scar-faced sonofabitch that was here last night left. He was one scary bastard.”
Longarm froze in mid-stride. “Excuse me,” he said, “did you say that a scar-faced man was here?”
“Yeah! You could see where he’d been burned like toast. He smelled like liniment too.”
Longarm looked to Paulson. “What else can you tell me about this man?”
“Not much,” Paulson replied. “Why the interest?”
“I might know him. Did he give you a name?”
“Nope, and I didn’t ask. He was a rough-looking customer but he had enough money for a private room. He just ate by himself without saying anything to any of us. Then he went to bed and was gone this morning.”
“Any idea where?”
“No.”
“What kind of a horse was he riding?”
“Bay gelding. Nice-looking horse but nothing real special. Certainly not as nice as that palomino you’re riding.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?” Longarm persisted, eyes swiveling from one man to the other. “Anything at all?”
“Why, is he in trouble?” the boarder asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“You just seem mighty interested in him all of a sudden, that’s all.”
“He might be the same man who used to work for the people I work for,” Longarm said, purposefully vague. “I’d heard that he was in a fire and burned pretty bad. Thought maybe I could cheer him up a little, that’s all.”
“He looked like the kind of a man that could use plenty of cheering up,” Paulson said. “He looked … angry. That’s what he looked like.”
“How big is he?” Longarm asked.
“Hey,” the boarder said, “I thought you said you worked together. What the hell is your story anyway?”
Longarm could see that the man was becoming belligerent. Taking a step back, he reached into his coat pocket and showed his marshal’s badge. “I’m a United States deputy marshal.”
Instead of getting angry or becoming abusive, the boarder threw up his hands and retreated a few steps. “I don’t want no more trouble with the law, mister! I mean it! I’ve been doing honest work since I got out of the federal pen almost three years ago. And Mr. Paulson can tell you that I been driving a wagon for the-“
“Whoa,” Longarm said, putting his badge back into his pocket. “I’m not interested in arresting or even questioning you about your personal business. I just need to know a few things about the man with the burns that you saw here.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. Anything else you can tell me?”
“He was heavily armed,” the boarder said. “And he had a lot of cash.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw that he was wearing two side arms, and what looked like a derringer was bulging up his left sleeve,” the man told Longarm. “As for the money, Mr. Paulson told me that he had a pocket full of double eagles and a wallet full of greenbacks.”
“That right?” Longarm asked the owner.
“Yeah, he was loaded with guns and cash,” Paulson answered. “What did he do, rob a bank and try to torch it?”
“No,” Longarm replied. “We think he might have been the man that murdered Judge Getty.”
“But I hear Getty was hanged, not burned.”
“It’s a long story that I can’t disclose,” Longarm told the two curious men. “But if you see that man again, you need to immediately alert the federal authorities. The suspect is probably going to murder a lot more men if he isn’t apprehended as soon as possible.”
“Well, I’ll do that,” the boarder vowed. “I see that ugly jasper, I’ll arrest him myself—if the feds have posted a reward.”
“They haven’t,” Longarm said, “and I would strongly advise you not to brace him under any circumstances.”
“He’s a real killer, huh?”
“He is,” Longarm agreed. “About as bad as you’ll ever find. That’s why I need to know if he said anything about where he was going next.”
“I’m afraid not,” Paulson said with a frown. “But come to think of it, I did happen to notice that there was a lot of dew on the meadow grass this morning.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I could see that a horseman had ridden out and he was heading southwest, in the general direction of Leadville.”
“Thanks,” Longarm told both men, “I appreciate the help and the information.”
“No trouble at all, Marshal,” the boarder said, looking very relieved. “Always happy to be of assistance to the law.”
Longarm managed not to laugh out loud before he turned on his heel and went up to enjoy a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 6
“Howdy,” The Assassin said when he reined up in front of the open-doored blacksmith’s shop and peered inside the dim recesses. “Can you please tell me where I can find a man named Hank Trabert? I understand that he hails from these parts and I’ve ridden quite a distance to find him.”
The blacksmith, a thick, taciturn man, was laboring at his forge. His attention was riveted on the orange-colored horseshoe he was beating into shape across the horn of his anvil. And though the air was cold, his front shirt was unbuttoned almost to his waist and stained dark with perspiration.