Then she was sweeping out the doorway, nose in the air, and only Longarm laughed. The would-be Texas badman who still seemed willing to fight over her asked uncertainly, "What's she jawing about? Are we supposed to be up to something I never knew we were up to?"
Longarm nodded and said, "Yep. She thought we took turns insulting gals in railroad depots so's we could take turns rescuing 'em. I can see how that might be a good way to meet women, once you study on it."
The younger and obviously less -experienced cuss scowled at Longarm and insisted, "Hold on! I never agreed to let you rescue her from me. I don't even know you. I thought I was out to rescue her from you!"
Longarm shrugged and said, "Either way, she's gone and I got my own train to catch. So it's been nice talking to you, but like I said..."
"What about our showdown?" the depot desperado asked in a plaintive tone.
Longarm said, "I'm sure you could find plenty of other young gents willing to shoot it out with you at this hour for no good reason. But the only quarrel betwixt us just dismissed us both as a pair of unskilled country boys, if we ever had a quarrel to begin with. Fighting over a woman is sort of dumb. Fighting over a woman who doesn't like you is just plain stupid."
Longarm didn't wait to hear any counterargument. The depot loiterer wasn't crouched as tensely now, and while Longarm kept an eye on everyone as he circled for that same doorway, he was really more worried about the older-looking cuss who'd come from the kitchen in a cook's apron carrying a foot of carving knife.
Nobody drew or threw as he got out of range in the steamy light of the big depot. He'd only polished off a third of his chili and maybe half his coffee. But sure enough, his Saint Lou night train was fixing to pull out as he hurried along Track Number Four in the tricky light. Way down the platform, he saw that pretty but sort of snotty gal in the tan duster boarding one of the Pullman sleeping cars and staring his way, as if worried he was fixing to lope after her all the way to Saint Lou. He had no call to go on down and assure her he'd be getting off in the wee small hours. So he never did. He boarded a coach car carrying no more than that bulky manila envelope, and took a seat under an oil lamp to catch up on all those onionskins Henry had typed up for him not a full twelve hours earlier. Time sure could drag when you weren't having any fun.
As his train pulled out of the depot the Harvey night manager, who'd been watching through a door crack, came out from the back and said, "That was close. I thought we had your word you'd start no more trouble if we let you have free coffee, Pronto."
The kid with a hat and gun a mite big for him returned to the counter with a smirk, saying, "I wasn't looking for trouble. I was courting a lady fair when that jasper in the sissy suit horned in."
The night manager said, "That was no jasper in a sissy suit, you romantic young cuss. He's passed this way before. So I'm sure it was that deputy marshal they call Longarm!"
Pronto grinned and said, "I backed him down, no matter who he thought he was. Polly here heard him say he didn't want to fight me and saw him go around me!"
The Harvey girl just looked confused. The manager said, "I saw it all from the kitchen too. You're lucky to be alive, Pronto. Had he been anxious as some to run up his score, you'd have never stood a chance. For they say Longarm's taken on some of the fastest guns in both the East and West, and won easy!"
Pronto sneered, "Don't care what anyone says about him. All I know is that I made him crawfish! Wait till I tell all the boys I backed down the famous Longarm in the flesh! Mayhaps then I'll get me some respect around Amarillo!"
The cook headed back for his kitchen with a snort of disgust. The night manager sighed and said, "I wish you wouldn't brag too loud, Pronto. We try to run a decent place here, and gunfire can play bob with a customer's appetite!"
While they were talking, a brakeman off a night freight came in to take a seat at the far end of the counter. Pronto had that effect on the regulars around the Amarillo depot. The burly brakeman was a decent tipper who never got too fresh. So Polly moved quickly up the counter to serve him.
The newcomer naturally asked the Harvey gal what the argument at the far end might be about. Polly told him, "Pronto's filled with himself just now because he thinks he backed down the famous lawman Longarm. You know how Pronto likes to glare at smoother-shaven gents. His victim was as likely a whiskey drummer as a famous gunfighter."
The brakeman frowned thoughtfully and muttered "Longarm, you say it might have been? That's funny. Someone on that night rattler crew from the north was just jawing about some little squirt in seersucker chasing that same Longarm out of the Denver depot at a dead run!"
Polly looked unconcerned as she replied, "We all have to grow up sometime. What if the famous Longarm has just gotten tired of silly showdowns?"
The brakeman flatly stated, "Then he's as good as dead. Once a man has established a rep as a gunfighter, he can't afford to lose his nerve."
Polly said, "The customer Pronto just had words with didn't seem all that terrified. He just walked away from a silly fight with a silly kid, if you want to know what it looked like to me."
The brakeman shook his head and explained, "Nobody's likely to ask what it looked like to you, Miss Polly. Your point's well taken that a serious gunfighter may take pity on an occasional squirt. But should word get about that a man of Longarm's rep backed down within the same twenty-tour hours from not one but two untested nobodies... well, do I have to go on?"
He did, because Polly said she didn't understand what on earth he was talking about. So the brakeman said, "They all seem to lose that edge it takes after they've been through enough gunfights. That's all greener gunfighters, who still feel immortal, have to hear. The most famous but far from the only example would be Wild Bill Hickok up in Deadwood. He'd taken to drinking more and practicing with his pistols less, and Cockeyed Jack McCall wasn't the only one who'd noticed. So if McCall hadn't gunned Wild Bill in the Number Ten Saloon, it would have been some other gun waddy in some other saloon." He paused. "I reckon I'll have ham and eggs," he said casually.
CHAPTER 6
Longarm had been studying his railroad timetables, and so he'd seen that if he rode on down the line to Cruces, he'd be better than forty miles further from Fort Sill and there wouldn't be a northbound for the next two days.
On the other hand, a body getting off at Spanish Flats in the chill before dawn might hire a livery mount and make it on up to Fort Sill by the time that weekly combination serving the Indian Territory ever left Cruces.
So as the moon still hung high, Longarm got off at Spanish Flats, due south of Fort Sill, thankful to be packing so little baggage for a change. Since he hadn't been planning on getting off there before he'd consulted his timetable after midnight, Longarm felt no call to worry about the few other passengers getting off at the same stop in the tricky light. He could still taste his midnight snack back in Amarillo, and he knew he'd sleep lighter if he quit while he was ahead. He knew they'd expect him to pay in advance at that hotel across the way whether he arrived with his usual McClellan and saddlebags or just this fool envelope. So he did, and in no time at all he was sound asleep in his small but tidy hired room.
It felt as if he'd slept less than an hour, but the sun was up outside as somebody commenced to pound on his locked door with a heap of authority and what sounded like a pistol barrel.
Longarm rolled out of bed in his underdrawers and grabbed for the.44-40 slung from a handy bedpost as he rose and called out, "I hear you, damn it. Who is it and what do you want?"
The pounding was replaced by: "Clovis Mason of the Texas Rangers, and we've had a complaint about you, stranger. Where did you get off signing the register downstairs as a federal deputy, by the way?"