Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) (2 page)

“I hope you don’t have plans for the weekend,” he said.

“I do, but that don’t matter, Boss,” Longarm said.

“Have you heard of the Salter gang?” Vail asked.

“Sure. Who hasn’t. They’re smart sons o’ bitches. They rob in one territory an’ escape into another where the law can’t follow them, an’ they never, ever make the mistake of doing anything that could put us onto them.”

Billy smiled. “Well, they made their mistake this time. Or, rather, some very smart postal clerk got a step ahead of them.”

Longarm’s eyebrows went up in inquiry.

Billy’s smile became even broader. “The gang has been taught that they take strongboxes and shake down passengers but they studiously avoid touching the U.S. mail pouches.”

Longarm nodded. “That’s the word about them, yeah.”

“Well, this time a mail clerk in Cheyenne stuck a handful of mail into a strongbox that was being shipped to Deadwood. That shipment was basically minted coinage intended for the bank there. Payroll money for the most part. Salter or one of his people found out about it, something they have been particularly good at. The Salters hit that shipment and took the strongbox. Mind you, they did not intend to steal any undelivered mail, but thanks to that clerk in Cheyenne they did. There were six registered letters. The clerk, his name is Osgood, even wrote down the names and addresses of the senders and the addressees of those letters. So now thanks to him the Salters have stepped across the line and committed a crime under federal law.”

“Osgood, you say?” Longarm said. “I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”

“You’ll get the opportunity to do just that,” Billy said. “I want you to go after the Salter gang and bring them in on charges of theft from the United States mails.”

His date with Carrie Gibson was forgotten for the time being. This was much more interesting, especially since it went outside the routine of transporting prisoners to and from court dates.

“I can leave just as quick as the train schedule allows, Boss,” he said.

“Good. See Henry for your vouchers. He has already been briefed.” Which confirmed what Longarm already suspected about Henry’s pretended ignorance of the assignment.

“Right away, Boss.” Longarm stood and touched a finger to his forehead, then spun around and headed for the door.

Cheyenne lay pretty much due north from Denver yet the fastest way to get there was to take a train east on the prairie to Julesburg, then another straight west on the UP tracks to Cheyenne. It was assumed that one of these days some enterprising railroader would build a line direct from Cheyenne to Denver. One of these days. Longarm had that same faint hope every time he had to go to Cheyenne—which was one of his favorite towns; it was only getting there that was a pain in the ass.

On his way to one of his favorite towns he wiled away the time with one of his favorite hobbies, that being the admiration of beautiful women.

As it happened there were three seated in his car. Well, two and a half. One of them lost points because of her thick ankles.

The most delightful of the females available to be admired was a half-grown filly whose age he guessed would be something in the neighborhood of twelve or thirteen. She was young and pretty and flighty, flitting
from seat to window to platform and back again, eagerly chatting with her mother and then dashing off again on another adventure.

There was not a lewd thought in Longarm’s mind when he watched her. Just the sheer joy of admiring youthfully vivacious beauty. Had he ever been that young and carefree, he wondered. Surely not. Never mind that. The child was a pleasure to admire.

And her mother was not bad herself. Mama had soft brown hair tucked into a close-fitting bonnet. Both she and the little girl wore nicely tailored dusters so he could not judge Mama’s figure but no matter. She was pretty enough that her body seemed almost unimportant. Longarm grinned at the thought. Almost!

It was well past dark when the coach rattled into Julesburg, glowing coke cinders dropping out of the night sky onto the sleepy-eyed passengers, most of whom would be changing to other trains here as Julesburg was the terminus for the Denver branch.

“This way to the Union Pacific mainline,” a uniformed conductor bawled. “This way to the omnibuses. Eastbound passengers that way”—he pointed—“westbound, follow me.”

The woman with the thick ankles turned toward the eastbound platform. The mother and little girl trudged sleepily toward the horse-drawn omnibus that would take them to the platform for westbound trains.

Inside the close confinement of the omnibus Longarm could not avoid overhearing them when the child tugged on her mother’s sleeve and in a rather loud whisper asked if she could have something to eat.

“When we get to Grandma’s, sweetie,” the mother told her.

“But, Mama, I’m hungry now.”

The woman’s expression hardened and she looked furtively around to see if anyone else in the coach was paying attention to this exchange.

“Not now,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Ma…”

“We don’t have money for such so be quiet, Liberty.”

The little girl wilted on the rough cloth of the omnibus seat. “Yes, Mama.”

It was but a short ride to the westbound platforms. The coach emptied out there. Most of the passengers filed into the waiting room. A few, including mother and child, waited outside on the platform even though at this middle-of-the-night hour it was fairly chilly out there in the night air.

Longarm went inside the terminal and spotted a butcher boy hawking dried-out sandwiches and somewhat fresher crullers. He bought three of the crullers and carried them out onto the platform.

“Ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I made a mistake in there. I gave the boy too much money an’ he didn’t have change so I took three t’ make it all come out even, never mind that I only want the one of ’em. Would you think me too forward if I was t’ offer these extras t’ you an’ the child there?”

“Thank you, sir, but I couldn’t.”

“I understand that, ma’am, but they’re way more than I can handle. Reckon I’ll just have t’ throw them away if you won’t take them.” He feigned a sigh. “I surely do hate t’ waste perfectly good food.”

Like most women of his experience, this lady, too, abhorred waste. “If you are sure…”

He smiled. “Downright positive, ma’am.”

“In that case…just so they do not go to waste…”

He handed over the spare crullers, touched the brim of his Stetson, and wandered off to the other end of the platform to eat his sticky, somewhat-too-sweet cruller by himself.

Longarm yawned and stretched, then picked up his carpetbag and looked around for a hack. Cheyenne in the middle of the day was busy, wagons and heavy drays hauling goods to and from the railroad. He stood on the platform and considered where to go next. The first thing he needed to do would be to learn more about the robbery that led to the Salter outfit taking as yet undelivered U.S. mail. He needed to speak with the local law and to the mail clerk. Probably he would need to go to Deadwood.

First things first, though. He needed some lunch after the long haul east from Denver and back west again. After lunch he should talk with the county sheriff, then the mail clerk, then…he would see how things developed. He would…

“Mister.” He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Mister?”

He looked down into the wide blue eyes and freckles of the little girl from the trains. He smiled; he could not help it. “Yes, miss?”

“My gramma wants to see you.”

Longarm raised an eyebrow.

“Over there,” the child said, pointing to a handsome and obviously very expensive phaeton complete with driver and coachman, both wearing matching white shirts and bright yellow vests.

“That is your grandmother’s rig?”

The kid nodded and took Longarm by the hand.

“One second, please.” He stepped over to the station agent’s cubicle and set his carpetbag inside with a quick, “Watch this, will you?” Then he went with the little girl.

Gramma turned out to be a woman in her fifties or thereabouts. Tall, slender, with silver-gray hair, high cheekbones, and striking green eyes, an ice queen with the look of someone who had been pampered and rich all her life. She was a beauty despite her age and she obviously knew it. She held herself rigidly upright.

The little girl’s mother was already seated in the phaeton. The coachman was busy loading luggage into the boot.

“You are the gentleman who was so kind to my daughter and granddaughter, I believe,” the older lady said. “I want you to know that we…that they…are not beggars. They were robbed while they were in Denver. Robbed of everything. The only thing the scoundrel missed, or did not want, was their return train tickets. That is why they were in such desperate circumstances when you found them and took pity on them.”

“Why, ma’am, if I’d’ve known that I would’ve set them both up to a good feed,” Longarm said. “I’m sorry they didn’t mention it.”

“I believe you would have done exactly that,” the lady said. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am Cornelia Blaise. This is my daughter, Melody Carmichael, and my granddaughter, Liberty.”

Longarm doffed his Stetson and made a leg toward Mrs. Blaise. When he straightened up he said, “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, ma’am, an’ I’m pleased t’ make your acquaintance.”

“A marshal! My goodness. And quite the gallant, too. It is approaching the noon hour, Marshal Long. Would you be free to join us for luncheon?”

“I’d be pleased t’ do that, Miz Blaise. If I wouldn’t be intruding on your family time.”

“It would be our pleasure, Marshal, and the least we could do to repay your kindness.”

“That ain’t necessary, ma’am,” he said.

“Please, mister,” Liberty pleaded, tugging at his coat sleeve. “Please come. I never met a real marshal before. Please?”

Longarm looked down into the little girl’s eyes. That was enough to make up his mind. He smiled. “Can I sit next t’ you if I come?”

The child hopped up and down with pleasure. “You can. I promise.”

“Well, in that case…”

Longarm stared. He could not help himself. The Blaise mansion was larger than some—hell, it was larger than most—hotels he had stayed in. It sat on three acres or so of carefully groomed lawn on the edge of Cheyenne, out past the territorial capitol building. It was three stories tall with a small porch and white columns at the front. A doorman waited for them as the phaeton rolled through the wrought-iron gate and up a curving, graveled driveway.

“Welcome to Blaise House,” the grand dame said.

“Yes, welcome,” Mrs. Carmichael echoed. Liberty just grinned and hugged Longarm’s arm.

The phaeton crunched to a halt on the gravel and the coachman jumped down from his perch to open the door and assist the ladies to the ground. Liberty made a game of hopping down. And Longarm was left to get down without professional assistance while the doorman dashed out to fetch in the luggage.

Inside, the entry was a hall large enough to hold dances. The furnishings were dark and heavy. The lighting was
from electrified chandeliers, suggesting that Blaise House had its own generating plant because Longarm was fairly sure the town had none. Even Denver had few such plants. A setup like that would surely cost a fortune. But then the Blaise family quite obviously had a fortune to cover it.

“We will be in the parlor, Donald. Please inform us when dinner is ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The doorman, who apparently performed double duty as the butler, too, actually bowed his way out.

Longarm wondered if he should run into town and buy a formal outfit so he would be properly attired here.

“This way please, Mr. Long,” the grand lady said, taking his arm and guiding him through the foyer to an equally large and impressive parlor. It was furnished with large, overstuffed pieces. The far wall was open to a glassed sunroom with a concert piano in the center.

She led him to a sofa, Liberty clinging to his other arm, and settled him there with Liberty tucked in close beside him.

“Coffee, Mr. Long?”

“That would be nice, ma’am, thank you.” Actually a shot or two of rye whiskey would have been better after a night spent on the rails, but coffee would do for the moment.

Mrs. Blaise nodded in the direction of the doorway and the butler instantly stepped into the room. “Coffee, Donald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was only a matter of seconds before Donald came in wheeling a cart with silver service and china cups. The coffee was steaming hot, the cream thick and heavy. It occurred to Longarm that a fellow could get used to
living like this…from the master’s point of view, that is, less so from that of the servants.

The coffee was predictably excellent, the dinner that followed equally fine, the meal rich and heavy. As they were nearing the conclusion of the feast—a feast for most folks but normal enough here, he guessed—Liberty left her chair at Longarm’s side and ran to the head of the table. She leaned close and whispered in her grandmother’s ear. Mrs. Blaise gestured to Donald and in turn whispered in his ear. Then she smiled and patted Liberty’s cheek. Liberty jumped up and down with joy and ran back to Longarm.

“You can stay here with us, Mr. Marshal. Isn’t that fine?”

“But I…”

“It is all arranged, Mr. Long,” Mrs. Blaise said before he could finish. “My coachman has already been dispatched to bring your bag from the depot, and Donald is having a bedroom prepared for you.” She smiled. “Believe me, we have enough guest rooms that you will be no intrusion.”

“Please, Mr. Marshal? Please?” Liberty clung to his arm and practically swooned with excitement.

He looked down into those guileless blue eyes and melted. “All right,” he said. “But I can only stay the one night. I have work to do, you know.”

The little girl kissed the back of his hand and shivered with delight while her mother pretty much ignored the whole thing.

Marcus Carmichael, Liberty’s father, put in an appearance about six o’clock, arriving in a light runabout drawn by a sleek, black trotter. Carmichael himself was plump and sleek, with oiled hair and a diamond stickpin. He accepted Longarm’s presence in his house as a commonplace occurrence. Both his welcome and his handshake were perfunctory, and he immediately retired to his study with the instruction that he be called when supper was served.