Longarm said, “let’s ride in” and kicked the bay gently with a heel, loping slowly down the slope with du Val following.
He made for the building with the most people around it and reined in again. Nodding down at the quartet of cowhands in front of what he now saw was the general store, he said, “Howdy.”
Nobody moved, so Longarm said, “Name’s Long. U.S. Deputy Marshal. This other gent’s called du Val.”
One of the men looked up and stared soberly for a time before he asked, “Is that a McClellan saddle?”
“Yep. They tell me there’s a Federal prisoner being held here in Crooked Lance.”
“Maybe. How do you keep from bustin’ your balls on that fool saddle? You couldn’t give me one of them durned fool rigs to ride!”
There was a low snickering from the others as Longarm looked at the one who’d voiced the comment. Longarm said, “I ride a government saddle because I ride On government business and because a McClellan’s easy on a horse’s back. So, now that I’ve answered your question, friend, suppose you answer mine?”
The village jester turned to one of his cronies and asked, innocently, “Did you hear him ask a question, Jimbo?”
“Can’t say. He talks sort of funny. Probably on account of that ribbon-bow round his neck, don’t you reckon?”
The French Canadian swore, swinging his Sharps around as he roared, “Sacre God damn! You make the jest at Chambrun du Val?”
The one called Jimbo snickered and said, “Hell no, Pilgrim, we’re making fun of your funny-looking sidekick, here. Where’d you ever find him? He looks like a whisky drummer. Hey, do you sell whisky, boy?”
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you sold whisky, boy.”
Longarm dismounted, ominously, and strode over to the one called Jimbo as the latter got to his feet with a smirk. Longarm said, “Asking a man what he does for a living is reasonable. Calling him a boy can get him testy.”
“Do tell? What do you do when you gets testy, boy?”
Longarm’s sixgun appeared in his right hand as he kicked Jimbo in the kneecap, covering him and anyone else who wanted a piece of the action as Jimbo went down, howling in agony.
The first lout who’d spoken leaped to his own feet, gasping, “Are you crazy, mister?”
“I could be. But now that we’ve changed boy to mister, let’s see what else we can workout. As I remember, I was asking some fool question or other, wasn’t I?”
Jimbo rolled to a sitting position, grasping his injured knee as he moaned, “God damn it, fellers, take him! He’s busted my fucking Leg!”
One of the cooler heads among the Crooked Lance crowd sighed, “You take him if you’ve a mind to. This is gettin’ too serious for funnin’. The man you want is across the way in yonder log house, lawman.”
“Now that’s more neighborly. Who do I see about taking him off your hands?”
There was a moment of silence. Then the informative one shrugged and said, “You’d have to clear it with Timberline, I reckon. He ain’t here.”
“He’s the ramrod of the Rocking H, right?”
The other nodded and Longarm asked, “Who’s guarding the prisoner over there, right now?”
“I reckon it’s pop Wade. Yeah, it’s Pop’s turn over to the jail. pop won’t give him to you, though. Nobody does anything hereabouts ‘less Timberline says they can.”
Longarm saw that the Canadian had turned his big gelding around and was heading for the jailhouse. He trotted after du Val and called out, “Slow down, old son. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t try it.”
Du Val ignored him. The Canadian crossed the open stretch just ahead of Longarm and pounded on the plank door, shouting curses in French. Longarm took him by the elbow and swung him around, trying to disarm him as gently as possible. But gentleness wasn’t effective. The old man was redfaced with rage and Longarm’s English wasn’t making any impression on his hate-filled mind. So as the others ran across the street toward the jail, he tapped du Val with the barrel of his.44, hitting him just below the ear.
Du Val collapsed in the dust like a rag doll as the jailhouse door flew open and a worried, middle-aged man peered out. One of the hands from the general store looked soberly down at the unconscious man and opined, “You do be inclined to testiness, by God! Was you birthed this ornery, mister? Or is it something you et?”
Longarm handed the unconscious Canadian’s weapon to the jailer, saying, “You’d best put this away. This old boy rode all the way from the Red River of the North to gun your prisoner. I’d like a look at him myself.”
The jailer hesitated. One of the town loafers suggested, “You’d best let him, Pop. This one’s a purely ornery cuss!”
“Timberline ain’t going to like it,” the jailer said, as he stood aside to let Longarm enter.
The interior was divided into two rooms. The rearmost room was closed off by a door of latticed aspen poles and barbed-wire mesh. As Longarm’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a tall, blond man standing just inside the improvised cell, staring at him with a mixture of hope and utter misery. As the jailer followed him across the room, Longarm nodded to the prisoner and said, “I’m from the Justice Department, Mister Younger.”
The prisoner shook his head and said, “that well may be, but I ain’t Cotton Younger! I keep telling everyone I ain’t, but will they listen?”
Pop Wade snorted, “Listen to the jaybird, will you? The son of a bitch was catched fair and square stealing Lazy K cows and he matches them reward posters to the T!”
“I never stole cow one! Where in hell would I go with a stolen cow?”
“You saying you never had that running iron in your possibles, Son?”
“all right, I did have a length of bar-iron I sort of picked up along the way. That don’t prove all that much!”
“It proves you had the tools of the cow thief’s trade, God damn your eyes!”
Longarm had heard this same discussion almost every time he’d talked to a man in jail and it was tedious every time. He said, “What you done hereabouts ain’t the question, Mister Younger. I’ll be taking you to Denver to talk to the judge about some other matter.”
“God damn it, I ain’t Cotton Younger! My name is Jones. Billy Jones from Cripple Creek!”
“Jesus H. Christ, son, can’t you do better than Jones?”
“Hel, somebody has to be named Jones, don’t they?”
“How about James? Ain’t the Younger and the James boys kin?”
“How should I know? I ain’t kin to nobody named James or Younger. I’m just Billy Jones, from Cripple Creek, and everybody hereabouts is crazy!”
“Well, then, you got nothing to worry about when I carry you back to Denver, have you?”
“Why in hell do I want to go to Denver? I was on my way to Oregon when these crazy folks hereabouts damn near killed me and started calling me an outlaw! I don’t want to go to Denver!”
“‘Fraid you’re bound there, just the same. You answer the description and I’m just the errand boy, not the judge.” He turned to the jailer and said, “I got his papers right here. You want me to sign for him, Mister Wade?”
Pop Wade said, “Can’t let you have him. It ain’t my say who goes in or out of here, mister.”
“What are you talking about, you can’t let me have him? I’m a U.S. Deputy Marshal with a Federal Warrant on this cuss, God damn it!”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, mister. There’s a Canadian mountie, a Missouri Sheriff, and a whole posse of other lawmen over at the hotel who say the same thing. The committee says it ain’t made up it’s mind yet.”
“What committee, what mind, and about what?”
“Vigilance Committee of Crooked Lance. This here Cotton Younger is their prisoner until they says different. Ain’t nobody taking him no where ‘til Timberline and the others say it’s fitting.”