Longarm waited an instant longer, and then he put a bullet through the man's brain. He was rocked backward, and tumbled over the side of the cliff.
Longarm wasn't sure how long he lay gasping for breath with the rain washing the mud and blood from his eyes. Maybe it was a half hour, perhaps much longer. But finally, he pushed himself to his feet. The saddle horses were gone, as was his prisoner. His saddle, rifle, bedroll, and saddlebags were all crushed under what was left of his poor horse lying far below.
"Shit," Longarm swore as he pushed himself to his feet and slogged through mud over to the freight wagon.
He had a pocketknife, and used it to cut one of the team horses free. Then he mounted the animal, plow-reined it around, and continued on down the hill toward Wickenburg.
He had only gone a mile when he came upon a dead man lying face-down in the mud of the road. Longarm did not have to puzzle about the man's identity, because he knew it had to be the driver of the freight wagon who had met this sad end at the hands of the three Mexicans.
Longarm slid down from the draft horse and went over to turn the freighter over onto his back. The fellow had been shot right between the eyes. He'd probably never known what hit him, and he'd most certainly had no warning.
Longarm dragged the body as far as he could off the road, feeling bitterness and anger rising in his throat. This man had not deserved to die. He hadn't done anything except be unfortunate enough to have a wagon that the Mexicans wanted in order to knock both Longarm and his prisoner to their deaths far below in the canyon.
Longarm searched the man for some identification, but found none. They had emptied his pockets. He looked to have been a young man, probably no more than thirty years old. It was a damn, crying shame.
"Mister," Longarm said, squatting on his heels in the rain. "It started with Don Luis, and now it's ending with a couple of his dead relatives, that snake Hal Brodie, and finally you."
Longarm came to his feet. "I promise that I'll get someone up here to move you just as soon as I can."
With that simple but seemingly necessary explanation completed to the victim, Longarm rode on toward Wickenburg and a stagecoach that would carry him back to Yuma to wrap up this tragic series of murders.
Before he had gone a mile, Longarm met another freight wagon. He reined his wagon horse directly into the wagon's path, forcing the driver to pull up short.
"Hey!" the driver yelled. "Don't you know how tough it is for these horses when you break a wagon's momentum?"
"I can appreciate that," Longarm said, dragging out his badge and showing it to the man. "I'm a United States marshal and there's a dead freighter lying beside the road just a short ways up ahead."
"You kill him?"
"No," Longarm said. "He was murdered by three men who tried to knock me over the side of this mountain. They halfway succeeded."
"You look like you been crawlin' in a swamp and whipped most to death, Marshal. You look real bad."
"I'm alive," Longarm said. "I wish that I could say the same thing for the young driver that was murdered. How about picking him up and taking him on to Prescott?"
"Sure. Any idea who he is?"
"No," Longarm said. "But I'm sure that someone will be able to identify him and notify his next of kin."
"What about them three that ambushed you?"
"Two are dead but one escaped. I'll be back for him later."
"You tell me who it was, I'll get some of us freighters together and we'll settle the score."
"I wish that I could let you do that," Longarm said. "But I can't. It's my job, and I'll take care of it when I return from Yuma."
"Probably ain't even rainin' down there in Yuma," the driver said, looking grim. "This damn weather makes this road a gutter of mud and they don't pay me enough to drive a freight wagon at times like this."
"I can appreciate that," Longarm said. "Just pick up that body and take it into Prescott."
"I guess you'll want me to notify Marshal Haggerty," the driver said.
"I'm sure that he'll find out. Tell him that Marshal Long will be coming back through to sort out the pieces."
"He ain't going to be too happy waitin' until then."
"Don't mean a damn to me if he's happy or not," Longarm said abruptly. "Just get the body to the undertaker."
"You or the government payin' for his burial?"
"Sorry," Longarm said, "but I'm about broke. Take up a collection. Okay?"
"Sure." The driver pulled his hat down a little lower, and then he spat a stream of tobacco juice into the mud. "No, sir, they don't pay me near enough to drive in this kind of sloppy shit!"
Longarm reined his draft horse aside and the wagon passed. He wiped his face with his sleeve and clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. It was still, he guessed, about twenty miles to Wickenburg and it was going to be a long, slow ride.
CHAPTER 16
By the time he reached Wickenburg, Longarm was a sick and miserable dog. He was sneezing and his nose was running. He felt feverish, and decided that he had better get a hotel room and get to bed before he contracted pneumonia, an affliction that killed almost as many men in the West as did bullets.
He called for a doctor and went straight to bed.
"Marshal," the doctor said a short time later, "you're in pretty poor shape. You're underweight for a man your height and frame and your lungs sound like a bubbling brook. I'm going to give you some medicine and you're going to have to stay put for a couple of weeks."
"A couple of days," Longarm said before breaking into a fit of prolonged coughing.
When he was able to stop, the doctor produced a bottle of Dr. Ormly's Cough Elixir and Restorative. Longarm frowned. "I never heard of this stuff. Who the hell is Dr. Ormly?"
"Beats me," the doctor said. "But the damned stuff seems to work. It's got some tar and licorice in it for the taste, some pure-grain alcohol, and some 'Indian healing herbs' according to the label. All I know is that it tastes good, it makes you feel a whole lot better, and it'll kill that nasty cough."
"I'll take about three bottles," Longarm said. "Money is in my pants pocket."
"You're going to need someone to bring you food and take care of your needs," the doctor said. "I'll be checking with you at least three times a day until you stop feeling feverish and your lungs clear up so that you can take a deep breath without drowning."
"Do you have someone in mind?"
"There's the Widow Wallace," the doctor said, "but she's pretty damned bossy and she looks like she ought to be runnin' a prison chain gang. I will say she's strong and willing."
"Well, I'm not willing," Longarm said. "Anybody else?"
"Mrs. Anastopolos is kinder, but she's Greek and doesn't speak very good English. Mrs. Chang is Chinese and-"
"She doesn't speak good English either."
"Yeah," the doctor countered, "but you're not going to be much for talking until that sore throat starts to feeling better."
"True," Longarm agreed, "but I thought that Dr. Ormly's medicine would take care of that."
"In a few days, if we're lucky."
Longarm pointed a finger at the man. "Dr. Hubbard, luck hasn't got much to do with this. I'm counting on you to pull me through. I've got to get back to Yuma."
"Excellent climate for what ails you," Hubbard said with a tired grin. "And I suppose that you've been in so many gunfights that the idea of dying of pneumonia must surely take some getting used to."
"I'm not going to die," Longarm said, realizing that Hubbard was teasing him in order to lift his low spirits. "But isn't there anyone more... personable who wouldn't mind bringing up my meals?"
"Well, there is that new girl who is working at the Sagebrush Cafe. She's short, only about five feet tall, but fills out her blouse about as well as a man could hope to see. Her name is Willa. Willa Handover."
"Does she act married or engaged?"
"She isn't," the doctor said, "but she's got every bachelor in Wickenburg eating out of her hand."