Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor (17 page)

“If there is anything ...

Norm shook his head. He sighed and turned, finding the jail cell cot and dropping onto it with a thump. He looked suddenly old. Old and haggard and deflated. It was bad enough he was in jail charged by his friends with a crime. Now he was ruined completely.

“It's my damn fault,” Longarm said. “If I'd been sleeping someplace else ...”

Norm looked at him. “Sure. If you had been sleeping someplace else, it would have been the boardinghouse that burned down. Or the mayor's livery would be ashes now, or wherever. Doesn't sound like much of an improvement to me.”

“Not when you put it that way, I suppose. But if I'd gotten awake quicker, or ... or something. I dunno.”

“You can't blame yourself, Longarm. Hell, I'm just pleased you were able to get out alive.” Norm looked at Longarm and managed a smile. “You look like hell, actually. Couldn't you at least have grabbed a shirt on your way out? Or is this really an excuse to show off your chest for the local ladies?”

“I threw my bag out the window. Dunno what happened to it, but I should still have a shirt in there. Socks too. I'll go back later on and see what I can recover. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to do some shopping to replace what I lost.”

“Do you have money?” Norm asked. “Do you need a loan?”

Longarm hadn't given thought to that yet. He patted his pants pockets, then breathed easier. “I got most of the cash I was carrying here in my britches,” he said. It pleased him even more to recall that when he'd gotten undressed last night—well, this morning if one wanted to be picky about it—he'd taken his watch, chain, and derringer and dropped them into his carpetbag. If that had survived intact, the trusted old key-wound Ingersoll would have too.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Norm said.

“Wouldn't that be a fine thing. You're the one been wiped out.”

“Oh, the house is gone and all my things. But I would have left most of it behind when I moved on anyway. And I'm not strapped for cash. I've saved up a tidy sum over the years. You know. Getting ready for my retirement.” Norm's laugh was short and perhaps just a wee bit bitter. “Not that I expected the day to come quite so soon, you understand.”

“Thanks, but I'm all right.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” Norm asked. “Or why?”

Longarm had to shake his head no to each question. “I wish I did.” He grimaced. “Dammit, Norm, I don't know what to think here. At first I thought somebody wanted Dinklemann on me to get me out of the way. Then I thought instead of that, maybe somebody wanted Dinklemann outa the way. Now I'm thinking again that it must be me that's the target here, because this morning it was for damn sure me they were trying to kill.”

“Do you know anything worth killing you for?”

Longarm had to confess that he did not. “I wish to hell I did, Norm, but I'm coming up blank with this thing every which way I turn. I mean, none of it makes any sense to me. You know how that is?”

“Unfortunately, I do know. I've been there more than a few times my own self when I've tried to figure out the criminal mind. You really don't know why anyone would want you dead?”

“No idea at all. It isn't like I've learned anything that'd be dangerous to anybody. I can't honestly say that I know much more today than I did the first time you and me talked.”

Norm grunted. He got up and began pacing back and forth across the small cell. “If nothing else,” he said, “maybe this will convince the court to let me out on a surety bond. Surely Jonas will see that I can't have torched my own house last night.” He smiled, the expression genuine and unforced this time. “I have a pretty good alibi for my whereabouts during this fire, don't you think?”

“I already asked the sheriff about that,” Longarm admitted. “He's inclined to oppose any request for bail. Says now there's really nothing to keep you tied to Crow's Point an' you're likely to slope off in the night if he was to turn you loose.”

“Don't tell me he thinks there can be two arsonists in a town this small?”

Longarm didn't answer that one. There wasn't any need to. Because of course there could be two. Or ten, for that matter, once the first one had passed along the idea for others to copy. Norm knew that. Or would if he thought about it for a second and a half. Any lawman would.

“What can I do for you, Norm?”

“Find the son of a bitch that burned me out. That would be nice. And while you're at it, find out who it was that burned the courthouse records. I'd like you to do that too.”

“Easy as pie,” Longarm told his old friend. He frowned and rubbed his stomach, which was beginning to rumble in protest at having gone so late in the morning without breakfast. “Speaking of which, I expect I'd best go find me a shirt to put on and make myself decent enough to show up in a public restaurant.” He paused before turning to go. “Norm.”

“Mmm?”

“I want you to know I'm not quitting on you. I'll keep on digging. Might not be getting anywhere, but I'll damn sure keep on looking.”

“I know you will, Longarm. That's one thing I've always known about you. Once you start off on a trail, you won't leave it no matter how cold it gets.”

“Yeah, well... I'll be back to see you again later, Norm. Might not have time again today, but you know I won't be far.”

“I know that, Longarm. I surely do.”

Longarm couldn't help but notice that his old friend did not sound especially encouraged by that knowledge. If anything, Norm sounded more down in the dumps than ever.

Longarm made his good-byes and headed back to the smoky, stinking heap of still-hot ash and charcoal that was about all that remained of Norm's little house.

Longarm had seen sights that were more depressing than this one. Of course he had. He just couldn't remember where or when those things might've been. Norm's house was ... gone. Smoke still lifted off the black smelly embers, and even from a distance of several yards away Longarm could feel the heat that radiated from the mess. But if one hadn't already known that this was what was left of a house, it would have been almighty difficult to tell.

The burned-out slag heap was still much too hot to walk around in, but from the yard Longarm could identify damn few items for what they used to be. And none of those few items were salvageable.

He could see a blackened, twisted mass of pipe and rods that he knew from the location would have been the brass headboard of Norm's bed.

The kitchen range was obvious. It lay on its side, its oven door fallen open like the mouth of a dead and decaying animal, next to some more or less flat slabs of metal that probably were what remained of the copper sink.

Toward the street side, in what would have been the parlor, he could see scraps of wire and metal representing lamps and part of the interior frame from Norm's big easy chair.

Crazily, there was a two-by-four-foot section of paneling lying atop a stone pier, one of the porch supports, that still had wallpaper that was unburned and hardly even discolored. Longarm could not imagine the chain of coincidences that must have occurred to allow the entire floor to burn away, yet leave those scraps of glue and paper virtually untouched by all the surrounding chaos.

Shaking his head, he walked around to the side of the place where the bedroom had been. It was somewhere in the side yard that his carpetbag and Winchester would have landed. He hadn't seen either of them since he escaped from the fire. But then he'd been a mite busy up until now.

The innate honesty of the Crow's Point townsfolk was underscored for him. Both the bag and rifle had been discovered by the firefighters this morning. Someone among them had bothered to pick up his things and place them safely aside, the carpetbag fastened shut—he was sure it had been gaping open when he grabbed it up and flung it through the window this morning—and the Winchester wiped free of dirt and grass.

Just about anyplace else Longarm could think of, both bag and rifle would have quietly disappeared during all the excitement. Not here. He breathed a silent thank-you to whoever was so considerate and honest as to do this for a stranger.

He was especially relieved to see that his Ingersoll railroad watch was there inside the bag. And on a more immediately practical note, he was delighted as well to drag out one of his two spare shirts—the only spare left, actually, as of the new accounting—and put it on. Even on a warm day, the air on his chest felt sort of unnatural. He did miss his vest, though, and decided to buy a replacement as soon as possible. He stuffed his watch and derringer into a pants pocket, and rearranged the angle of his holster just a little to accommodate the bulge they made there. Longarm was commencing to feel as heavily laden as a pack mule, and would be a whole lot more comfortable when he could get things back to normal.

That could be done pretty quickly, he decided. But meanwhile, he had to find a place to hole up and to stash his gear. The folks hereabouts might be more honest than a day is long, but a man would have to be pretty much of a damnfool to count on absolutely all of them refraining in the face of constant temptation. Leaving a perfectly good Winchester lying unattended in plain view was asking a bit much of people.

The shed at the back of Norm's property had escaped the fire. Longarm frankly couldn't recall if the night breeze had been blowing in another direction or if the shed's survival was simple luck. In either case, the place was handy. He could leave his things there, and come to think of it, likely sleep there as well. No one would mind, and he didn't particularly want to lug everything all the way to the other side of town and move into the hospitality of the mayor's livery stable. Besides, the inside of an unused shed would likely smell somewhat better than the barn, and have fewer rodents to provide a man with overnight companionship. Longarm gathered up his things and circled around what was left of Norm's house.

He wrinkled his nose as he did so. He surely did hope the wind tonight would be carrying the stink of the fire away from the shed, not toward it. Otherwise it might be worth the trouble to move in on the mayor after all.

Norm's shed was pretty much what one would expect. It was divided in two, the left side an open bay that was just large enough to shelter a small buggy, and the right side closed off to form a stall where one animal could be contained. At the back of the now-empty buggy side there was a wooden feed bin suitable for storing grain. Someone had taken the time to flatten tin cans and tack them over all the right angles on the feed bin to keep rats from gnawing their way inside, and Longarm could see where a hasp and latch might once have hung. Now only the misshapen screw holes remained.

There was no provision for inside storage of hay, so Longarm guessed that would have been stacked outside, perhaps against one of the side walls.

The place looked and smelled like it had been a very long time since any animal larger than a mouse had dwelled in it.

Still, it should be plenty good enough for Longarm's purposes. He could put his bag and rifle in the grain bin, where they would be out of sight if not exactly under lock and key, and the horse stall would be more than big enough for him to spread out a blanket and make a bed for himself. The side and front rails would even offer some measure of privacy in case any of the neighbors wandered along the alley.

Longarm peered into the stall. Remnants of ancient hay cluttered the floor, and he could see from a smoothed-over depression at the back of the stall that someone else must have taken up short-term residence here from time to time—vagrants or the like, he supposed. Whoever it was had already determined where the roof was least likely to leak, so Longarm accepted that as good advice and put his own blanket where that passing someone's had been before him.

He took his carpetbag and Winchester back into the open side of the shed, and lifted the lid of the grain bin.

There was no moldy grain inside to worry about, although a bundle of rags was wadded at one end of the bin. Longarm wondered if this was where they'd found the arsonist's materials that led to the charges against Norm. Longarm figured he would ask Sheriff Brown the next time he saw the man. Not that it would make any difference really, but you never knew which piece of information would prove to be of interest. Ask a whole lot, Longarm figured, and hope to learn a little.

Longarm dropped his carpetbag into the bin, and reached down to rearrange the discarded cloth already there. The rags would provide a soft spot to lay the Winchester where it wouldn't get scratched or banged around. Not that he could count on the sights right now as it was, seeing as how he'd pitched the rifle out a window a matter of mere hours ago. But old habits died hard, and it didn't do to discourage the good ones. Better to go on taking proper care of his weapons, even if he hadn't yet had a chance to sight the Winchester in for accuracy.

He fluffed the rags and spread them a little wider.

And then frowned, trying to think back to something somebody told him recently. It was....

It was Mayor Chesman. And he'd been talking about John Dinklemann and the boy's habit of wearing an old pair of cavalry stable fatigues when he came to work at the livery.

This here, Longarm saw now, was—or used to be—a a pair of canvas britches.

He set the Winchester aside and pulled the wad of “rags” out to where he could examine them better.

There was the pair of fatigue pants, all right. And a faded wool shirt that might once have been army blue. And a tattered kerchief. And a canvas belt. And some socks that were badly in need of darning. And some odd bits and pieces of other shit as well.