Longarm and the Dime Novelist (7 page)

When their train reached Reno, Longarm and Delia had found a hotel beside the Truckee River and then enjoyed a fine dinner in the dining hall. They made love and slept well that night. In the morning both took baths and gave their soiled clothing to the hotel maid to be washed and dried.

Longarm buckled on his gun and cartridge belt, then prepared to meet the local sheriff and get updates on the murder of federal marshal John Pierce and his wife and the abduction of their daughter.

“I'd like to be in on that meeting,” Delia said, slipping into her coat.

“I don't think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because what the sheriff here has to say might be confidential and I'm sure he'd rather not discuss the case with a dime novelist who might use it in one of her future novels.”

“Then don't tell him I'm a writer.”

“What would I tell him? That you're my curious and beautiful lady friend? I doubt that would go over very well.” Longarm picked up his Stetson. “Let's be straight about something, Delia. I've enjoyed your company very much so far, but the real reason you're coming along is that you are the daughter of Colorado's governor. That won't carry much weight here in Nevada. In fact, it won't carry any weight at all.”

Delia didn't like hearing that and it plainly showed on her lovely face. “I could help you with this . . . if the trail doesn't lead to Mexico.”

“And how, exactly, would you do that?”

“Because I've written so many violent scenes in my dime novels I have a unique way of looking at crimes.”

Longarm almost laughed out loud. “Do tell!”

“Yes, I really do. And, I have more money than you and sometimes money can be used to obtain information that could not be gotten in any other way.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Longarm replied. “Are you going to take a stage up to Virginia City today?”

“Not today. I'm planning on looking around the town and taking some notes to use in a future novel. Also, I wouldn't dream of leaving until you've told me what you learn this morning about the Pierce family.”

“Delia, please don't start asking questions about the murders and Emily's disappearance. I want to be able to move around and dig up my own information and I don't want you to muddy the waters before I have a chance to reach some solid conclusions.”

“Perhaps the sheriff has already found the girl dead . . . or alive.”

“I hope he's found her alive and well,” Longarm answered. “If that is the case, I still need to make sure that justice is served. Marshal Pierce was a federal officer and I can't allow his murder or that of his wife to go unsolved.”

“Understood. Can we meet for lunch?”

“Make it dinner,” he told her. “I'll be back here before dark.”

“You will unless someone recognizes and tries to ambush you like they did Marshal Pierce and his poor, dead wife.”

 • • • 

Longarm knew where the sheriff's office was located and he wasted no time with breakfast although a strong cup or two of coffee was in order. When he entered the office, he recognized Sheriff Tom Quinn from an earlier visit and recalled that they had worked well together. Sheriff Quinn young for the job, probably not yet out of his twenties. He was handsome and not especially bright, but tried his best to keep law and order in Reno. People liked Tom Quinn because he was always smiling and congenial, but Longarm had his reservations about the man's dedication or willingness to do any serious investigative work.

“I expected you to come in on the train yesterday,” were the first words out of Quinn's mouth. He picked through the papers on his desk and found a telegram. “Your boss, Marshal Vail, said that you would arrive yesterday.”

“I had a little trouble in Elko,” Longarm replied glancing around the office and spotting a pot of coffee on the man's stove. “Any of that left?”

“Sure, help yourself, but you probably remember that I like my coffee hot and strong like my women.”

Longarm found a reasonably clean cup and poured coffee. He tasted it and found it to his satisfaction. “I remembered that you made a good pot.”

“And I recall you smoke damn good cigars.”

Longarm got the hint and gave the man a cigar, then took one of his own and when they were settled and smoking he said, “You're looking good, Tom. Better than I thought you'd look given the murders and the disappearance of the Pierce girl.”

“I'm pretty sure that we've already caught the ambusher.”

Longarm's cup of coffee stopped halfway to his lips. “Really?”

“That's right. I was leading a posse four days ago when we came upon a man that was considered a strong suspect in the murders. He had more cash than he should have and his rifle had recently been fired.”

“Any other proof and did he say what he did with Emily Pierce?”

“No,” Quinn said, suddenly looking away. “I brought him back here and tossed him in jail. There was a crowd outside that grew big and angry. It became a lynch mob around midnight.”

Longarm glanced at a back door that he figured stood between them and a few cells. “I'm sorry to hear that. How many deputies do you have working for you?”

“None. The damned city cut my budget to the bone and I'm all on my own for the time being.”

“I have a feeling this story is going to get worse.”

“I'm afraid so.” Quinn drew deeply on the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. “I had a shotgun in my hands when I faced the lynch mob just outside the front door and I made it clear that no one was going to get past me. I told the mob that the man I'd jailed would go before a judge and jury and have a court of law decide his fate based on the very strong evidence we'd already confiscated.”

Longarm nodded with understanding. “I take it that the evidence you were referring to was the cash presumably taken from Marshal Pierce after he and his wife were ambushed.”

“That's right. Only it wasn't nearly as much cash as we'd expected.”

“How much?”

“One hundred and sixty dollars.”

Longarm shook his head. “From what I've been told, Marshal Pierce had a great deal more money that he was taking to someone in Carson City.”

“True, but I figured the suspect had been smart enough to stash most of the money and planned to pick it up after things quieted down.”

“So how do you know the money had been taken from Marshal Pierce?”

“Well,” Quinn said, “this suspect's name was Dub Robertson and he was a known thief and cattle rustler.”

“Being a thief and cattle rustler is a long ways from being a murderer.”

“That's right,” Quinn admitted. “But Robertson had blood on the cuffs of his shirt and bloodstains on his boots. When last seen a few days earlier, he'd been dead broke and drunk as usual. When we overtook Dub Robertson he had a good horse and saddle as well as a Winchester and new Colt revolver with several boxes of ammunition.”

“Were the weapons recognized as belonging to Marshal Pierce?”

“No, but a man with lots of stolen money could buy weapons any place, no questions asked. I'm sure we had the ambusher but he was sober enough to keep his silence. In fact, he surprised us by asking for a good lawyer.”

“So, what's he saying now?”

The sheriff sighed and shook his head. “He isn't saying anything.”

Longarm placed his cigar down and sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Sheriff, I'm starting to think that Dub Robertson isn't around anymore.”

“I'm afraid that's right. While I was out in front that night holding a lynch mob at bay, someone snuck around behind the jail in the alley, struck a match, and shot Dub Robertson to death in his cell. Before I could circle around and try to capture the shooter, he galloped away in the night.”

“You left the cell window
open
?”

“It was barred and not too cold. Dub didn't complain and with all the trouble I had my hands filled with, I just forgot to shutter down that window so that no one could peer through the bars.”

Longarm swore in frustration.

“Yeah, it's not good. The judge was furious. He'd been expecting a huge trial and lots of publicity and he's running for his office again so that would have played right into his reelection campaign.”

Longarm came to his feet and began to pace back and forth. “So we still don't have any idea where Emily Pierce is? Or if she is even alive?”

“That's right. Dub Robertson died with his secrets. But I'll tell you this . . . men have been searching the hills and valleys for fifty miles in all directions.”

“But they never found poor Emily?”

“They weren't looking for the girl although I was hoping they'd find her alive,” Quinn said. “They were looking for the money they figured Dub had hidden.”

“What a mess.”

“I know, but at least the killer is dead.”

“Is he?” Longarm challenged. “How do you know for sure that Dub Robertson didn't rob someone else?”

“Because no one came forward telling me they were robbed.”

“Maybe they didn't because Dub killed them instead of the Pierce family.”

“Damnit, Custis! Don't you dare mess this up any worse than it already is. I've had it up to my eyeballs with all of this and as far as I'm concerned and except for that poor girl, this case is closed.”

“Not by one hell of a long ways it isn't,” Longarm countered. “Not even close, Tom. We don't have any proof at all that Dub Robertson killed John and Agnes Pierce, then abducted their daughter.”

“But . . .”

“Think hard, Tom! If it was Dub, where is the girl?”

“Probably buried in a shallow grave.”

“Maybe, but maybe not.”

“Did you come here just to make my life even more miserable than it has been this past week?”

“I don't give a damn about how miserable your life has been. All I care about is that we get the right man and find out what happened to Emily Pierce. She might be still alive.”

“Highly doubtful.”

“But possible.”

Sheriff Quinn's upper lip curled and he jumped out of his chair. “I haven't had breakfast yet and I'm feeling a little queasy in the guts. You want to join me? I'm buying.”

“Sure,” Longarm said. “But a free platter of ham and eggs isn't going to change my thinking.”

“Never thought it might,” Quinn said, mashing his cigar out and marching over to pull on his hat and coat. “But I see no sense in beating a dead horse or wasting time chasing ghosts.”

Longarm had to bite back a response. It was clear that Tom Quinn wanted nothing more than to put the murders and the kidnapping far behind him. Maybe he was up for reelection, too.

Longarm finished his breakfast and folded his napkin. “Well, Tom, I'd best get busy.”

“At what?” The sheriff wasn't pleased. “So are you going to go around my town sticking your nose into things and trying to make me look like a fool in my own town?”

“Not at all,” Longarm replied. “You're a good lawman and the last thing I want to do is to cause you any embarrassment.”

“In that case, get back on the eastbound train and go home to Denver. Tell Billy Vail that the killer of United States Marshal John Pierce and his wife, Agnes, is dead.”

“And what do I say about their missing daughter?”

“Tell Billy that she is dead, too.”

“I can't do that yet,” Longarm replied.

“And I can't help you out,” Quinn snapped. “I'm the only lawman in this entire town right now and it's a job too big for one man. I'm up late every night stopping barroom fights and Reno is going to explode if I don't get some help soon.”

“I'm sorry about your situation,” Longarm said, meaning it. “Reno is way too big for you to handle alone and the city council or the mayor is wrong to put the entire responsibility on your shoulders.”

“Yeah, they are. So you can understand how the last thing I need to hear from you is that you think Dub Robertson might not have been the ambusher.”

“Look, Tom. You have your job to do and I have mine. I promise you that I won't step on any toes or cause you any embarrassment. But you're too good a lawman to let this slide. If there's a chance that the murderer or murderers of John and Agnes are still on the loose, I'm sure you want to know about it. And if that girl—”

“She's dead or wishes she was dead,” Quinn interrupted, cutting Longarm off.

“You're probably right, but I'm not leaving Reno until I know for certain.”

They both stood up. Quinn tossed some money on the table and followed Longarm out the door. On the boardwalk the sheriff said, “Look, you're right about wanting to make certain that Robertson was the killer and abductor. And maybe I was a little hasty in closing the book on this, but it makes sense to me that the guilty man died in my jail cell by one of the members of that lynch mob.”

“Did you ever consider that Dub Robertson was shot to death in order to cover up the truth?”

Quinn ran his hands through his graying hair and replaced his hat. “Just keep me posted on what you find, okay? And when you leave, I'd like to think that we'll still be friends.”

“I'm sure we will be,” Longarm told the man before walking away.

 • • • 

Longarm didn't make his presence all that obvious as he moved about the bustling town. He kept his badge hidden and when he entered business establishments he pretended to be a customer and then casually dropped remarks about the Pierce family. It was surprising how many of the townspeople wanted to talk about those killings and the missing Pierce girl. On his fourth visit to a local business Longarm finally got a good, solid lead.

The man who owned the biggest feed store in town was named Howard and he became impassioned when Dub Robertson's name was raised. “Robertson was a drunk, a whoremonger, and a pickpocket. I never thought he'd have the stomach for murdering a federal marshal and then kidnapping the man's daughter. God only knows how much she suffered at his hands. Robertson had a good woman, but I never could figure out why she put up with his drunken rages.”

“He had a wife?”

“No, I said a woman. And Shirley isn't a whore, either. She's a fine woman, not much to look at but she goes to my church and she's been through hell. I think she believed that she could save Dub Robertson's soul if she kept working on him and she actually did drag him to church a few weeks ago.”

“What does she do?”

“Besides trying to save lost souls? She's a seamstress and does pretty well at it. Shirley Morton's first husband owned the livery but he was no good. Dub Robertson wasn't a damn bit better. Some women just seem to feel bound and determined to save the worst of mankind.”

“Yeah, I expect you're right about that,” Longarm said, thanking the man for his time before leaving.

 • • • 

Five minutes later he entered the small business owned by Shirley Morton. Her shop wasn't much bigger than the interior of a stagecoach and it was piled high with shirts, pants, coats, and all kinds of dresses needing attention. Longarm saw Miss Morton bent over stitching the hem of a gown.

“Can I help you, mister?”

“Maybe.” Longarm had thought about what he would say to this woman and had decided that, if he really wanted any valuable information on Dub Robertson, he needed to be honest and forthright.

Shirley Morton was probably in her late thirties and she might have been pretty at half her age but time and long hours bent over her sewing had quickly aged her. Her hair was tied at the back of her head in a bun and she wore spectacles. Her face was lined and pale and she carried a definite air of weariness about herself and her tedious livelihood.

“What do you need fixed and how soon do you need it?” she asked, returning to her needlework. “Unless it's just a little repair, I can't get anything done for you in less than four days.”

“I don't need anything mended, Miss Morton. I want to talk to you about Dub Robertson.”

Her body stiffened and she looked up at him through the spectacles. “And who might you be?”

Longarm showed her his badge. “I'm a federal officer from Denver and I've come all the way out here to find out who killed Marshal Pierce and his wife and who took their girl.”

“She wasn't a ‘girl' anymore. She was a woman in every way.”

Longarm tried to figure out if he was reading the statement correctly. “Are you saying she had known a man?”

“She was a Jezebel.” The woman's voice hardened with hatred. “Oh, Emily came off as a real sweet, innocent little thing, all godliness and goodness.” Shirley's eyes flashed. “But Emily was a scheming, conniving little harlot!”

If there had been room for a chair, Longarm would have collapsed into it. He chose his next words carefully. “Miss Morton, Emily was just sixteen and the daughter of a United States marshal. Everyone that I've talked to about her said that Emily was a lovely young girl.”

“Woman! She was not a girl, Marshal, and I don't care what anyone said about her because she was a conniving slut.”

“All right,” Longarm said slowly. “So how do you know that?”

“She liked to seduce men. Men who couldn't see anything past her prettiness. Oh, she was real good at being coy and a seductress. I could name you at least three married men whose lives and marriages Emily ruined.”

“Tell me their names.”

“No.” Shirley Morton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I will not speak anymore of the dead and the wicked. Emily is in hell now and that is justice enough.”

“Did Dub Robertson love Emily?”

The question was not one that Longarm had given thought to; instead it just popped out of his mouth and once asked could not be taken back.

“He did, years ago.”

“But he stopped loving her?”

“Yes, he broke free from her evil spell and came to love me and the Lord.”

“Miss Morton, people tell me that Dub Robertson was a drunk and a thief. So . . .”

“Dub was fighting the Devil every day, but he was winning his battle and comin' around. We were going to get married as soon as he got baptized and completely accepted Jesus as his savior. He wasn't there yet, but he was moving that way. He had the makin's of a good, honest man, but then the sheriff found him with money and figured he was the killer that shot the Pierce family and took that Jezebel. But my Dub came by the money honestly.”

“He was carrying almost two hundred dollars. How could a man drunk come by that much money?”

Shirley Morton's lower lip began to tremble and then tears slid down her cheeks. She sobbed and covered her face.

“I'm sorry,” Longarm said quietly. “I didn't mean to upset you so badly. I'm just trying to find out the truth.”

She used a cotton rag to dry her tears and then turned to look up at him and say, “I gave Dub that money.”

“You?”

“Yes. He was on his way to Carson City to buy me a sewing machine and an engagement ring. And he would have done it, too, if that ignorant sheriff and his bloodlusting posse hadn't come upon my Dub and charged him with murder and abduction.”

Longarm stared at the woman's face. “I don't suppose you have any way to prove what you just said.”

“I got something.”

“What?”

The seamstress slowly rose out of her chair and turned to a desk littered with her business paperwork. She rummaged around for a few minutes and then found a scrap of paper. “Here,” she said, shoving it at Longarm. “Here is a paper showing you the sewing machine that he was going to buy. And as for the engagement ring . . . well, Dub wanted to surprise me so I don't know what it was going to look like or where he'd planned to buy it. But there's a fine jewelry store in Carson City and the man who owned it told Dub that he would get him something real special for me.”

“Do you happen to know his name or the name of his jewelry store?”

“Sure. It was the Mint Jewelry Store and Mr. Elias Teagarden is the owner. Dub told me that he was making a gold ring special for me with a real diamond. It was a small stone, but Mr. Teagarden swore it was of good color and high quality. I didn't want anything big and gaudy even if we could have afforded it.”

Longarm read the little paper ad showing a sewing machine and noted the merchant's name in Carson City. He looked up and asked, “Did you tell Sheriff Tom Quinn about this?”

“What good would it have done? They'd already decided that my Dub was the killer and a few pieces of paper weren't going to change his mind. Dub was tried and sentenced to die before he even saw a judge or jury. I visited him for a few minutes in the cell and Dub was crying and telling me that he loved me and didn't do the crimes he'd been accused of. He begged me to get him a lawyer and I swore I would spend every penny I had ever saved . . . but they murdered him that night instead of lynching him.”

“Can I keep this ad for the sewing machine?”

“Sure. My money is gone now along with Dub and everything else. I don't care anymore about anything except Jesus and God and justice.”

Shirley Morton suddenly reached out and grabbed Longarm by the coat. Her hands were blue-veined but strong and her voice was even stronger. “Are you going to prove to everyone in this town including that damned Sheriff Quinn that they got the wrong man killed?”

“If Dub Robertson was the wrong man, I will discover the truth and tell everyone.”

Shirley Moore looked deep in his eyes. “If you find out who really killed that husband and wife, then you'll find the girl and I wouldn't be at all surprised if she and the killer were off somewheres spending all the family money and laughing about how poor Dub Robertson died for their crime.”

“I will uncover the truth,” Longarm promised.

“See that you do.”

“Just one thing before I go.”

“Spit it out.”

“Don't tell anyone what you've just told me or that I'm a lawman. And if you have any idea of who Emily was seeing just before her disappearance, then tell me right now.”

“Maxwell Pennington. He owns a gold mine up in Virginia City but it is my understanding that the mine hasn't produced very much in the last five or six years.”

“Are you sure that Emily Pierce was seeing that man?”

“As sure as I know Emily Pierce is either in hell or on her way.”

Longarm nodded and left the woman with his mind all awhirl.