Longarm and the Great Divide (13 page)

“Otis, I need a galloper,” Longarm said, speaking even before he stepped down from the saddle. “I need a message taken over to Lusk.”

“What's up?” the smith said, taking a break from his bellows and wiping sweat off his forehead.

“The last time I was through there I seem t' recall seeing a lumberyard,” Longarm said.

Reed nodded. “That's right. Fella named Bob Marlow runs it.”

“You know him? Is he on the square?”

“You can trust Bob. And yes, I know him. We both belong to the same fraternal organization. I helped initiate Bob.”

“Then maybe you should send the letter asking for the materials I'm wanting.” Longarm grinned. “An' there'll be another levy of both manpower and money. Short-term pain, long-term benefit.”

“What do you have in mind?” Reed asked, picking up a poker and prodding the coke burning in his forge.

When Longarm told him, the blacksmith laughed out loud.

“Cal, I need a galloper,” Longarm said to the Nebraska-side storekeeper. “I need t' get a letter down to Kimball right away.”

“I expect we can come up with that,” Cal Bonham said.

“Oh, you're gonna have to come up with a hell of a lot more than that. I'll be looking for manpower and money, too. But I need the galloper to start with,” Longarm said.

“What do you have in mind?” Bonham asked.

When Longarm told him, the Nebraska storekeeper burst into laughter. “You're serious?”

“Damn right I am,” Longarm said. “An' I'll get it done, too. Count on it.”

“I think you're out of your mind,” Bonham said. “But you can have your galloper. We'll see about the rest.”

“Now if you'll excuse me,” Longarm said, touching the brim of his Stetson, “I'm gonna go invite myself to lunch.”

A short time later, Longarm was saying, “I came over here hopin' to beg a bite to eat.” He grinned. “But you look pretty enough to eat your own self. Can I come in?”

“What a silly question, Custis. You are always welcome here. I thought you knew that,” Liz said, pushing the screen door open for his entry.

“I might not be after I tell you what I'm up to,” Longarm admitted, removing his hat and stepping into the relative cool of Liz's parlor.

“You sound serious,” Elizabeth Kunsler said.

“I am. A little nervous, too. I never done anything like this,” he said.

“Like what, exactly?”

Longarm grinned. And told her.

Liz chuckled. And said, “You can count on me for a generous contribution to the cause, Custis. Now come along. I haven't had lunch yet so we can talk while we eat. Then afterward . . .” She laughed and patted the bulge at Longarm's crotch.

“I'm surprised that Wallace Waterman went along with your idea,” Otis Reed commented.

“Are you kidding? Once I explained what I had in mind, he jumped at it. He'll make more money this way, with all the merchants in town paying a flat monthly fee, and he won't have to work near so hard doin' it,” Longarm said.

They were among a group of Valmere residents who were walking north to the lake, traveling beside three heavy-loaded wagons hauling lumber.

“Does anyone here know how to do this shit?” Garrett Franz grumbled.

“No, but we'll muddle through an' get it done. Just you watch an' see,” Longarm said.

“Or watch and not see,” Franz snapped.

“Always the optimist, ain't you,” Longarm told the Wyoming storekeeper.

“Why are there no workers here from Nebraska?” Franz said.

“You know good an' well they're busy at their end o' things. So would you rather handle a hammer . . . or a pick an' shovel?”

“The way to handle our Garrett,” Otis Reed said, “is to tell him to shut up.”

Longarm dropped back a little and in a low voice that he hoped only Reed could hear, said, “There's things I'd like t' say to the man. Starting with ‘shut up' and going on from there. Going a hell of a long way on from there.”

“Garrett can be annoying, but do what the rest of us do, Marshal. Ignore him.” Reed chuckled. “Insults run right off him, but ignoring him drives him crazy.”

Longarm laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”

As they neared the lake, Longarm hurried to catch up with the wagons. He motioned for everyone to gather close around and said, “All right, damnit. Does anybody know how t' build a water tank?” Smiling he added, “Anybody who's here, that is? No? Well, tough shit. We're gonna build it anyhow. An' don't think the Stonecipher folks weren't invited to the dance. They're all busy ditching an' laying pipe.”

Three weeks later the towns had the beginnings of a municipal water department. Of course to begin with it consisted only of the elevated water tank and a windmill-driven pump to fill it, but the pipe that would eventually carry fresh, clean water to a centrally located spigot was still a half mile away.

And two days after the tank was completed, before the windmill filled it, someone set fire to it.

“Marshal Long. Wake up, sir.”

Longarm blinked, groaned once or twice, and opened his eyes. One of Hettie's whores was standing over him. She looked upset.

“They want you downstairs, Marshal.”

“Thanks, Katie. Let me pull some britches on an' I'll be right down.”

He did not take time to wash or clean his teeth, just pulled on some jeans still dirty from helping dig the ditch intended for a water pipe. He also, considering the time and the urgency in Katie's expression, strapped on his revolver.

Once downstairs he discovered a very worried-looking Wallace Waterman—whose name, he had come to find out, was Simon.

“Fire, Marshal. Somebody snuck in and set the water tank afire.”

“Is it . . . ?”

“It hasn't burned complete but at least the one support leg was near about destroyed. I managed to put the fire out before the support collapsed, but I wouldn't trust it to hold once we start putting water into the tank.”

“I don't s'pose you saw who done it,” Longarm said, rubbing his eyes.

Simon shook his head. “Sorry, Marshal, but I didn't.”

“You say the fire was out before you left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, thanks.”

Longarm got his horse out of Otis Reed's corral and hightailed it north to the new water tank that he intended—hoped—would bring harmony and some sense of togetherness to the people of Valmere and of Stonecipher.

It was difficult to see anything by the dim starlight and he had not thought to bring a lantern, but even so he could see that there was extensive damage to the southeasternmost leg of the tower holding the water tank aloft.

Longarm led the horse a little way off and once again squatted on top of the rise there. Watching. Hoping whoever set the fire would return to finish the job.

They did not. Morning found him gritty-eyed and out of sorts.

He rode back down to Valmere and returned the gray to the blacksmith's corral, then went up to his room in Stella's whorehouse to take a shit, wash up, and shave.

Finally he went downstairs and crossed the street to Harrison McPhail's café.

“Hotcakes this morning, Marshal. Can I tempt you?” McPhail greeted.

“Aye, I'd like a double order, Harry.”

“I suppose you heard about the fire out at the water tank,” the café owner said.

“I did. Went out there this morning, but there wasn't nothing t' see. Nothing that would point to who set it.”

“Did they ruin it, Marshal?” one of the other patrons asked from two stools down.

“Not complete,” Longarm told him. “They weakened one leg, but we can replace that. I'll get a crew on that today. They'll see that they haven't thrown us off. Soon as the pipe is finished we can hook things together and have water piped right here into town. We'll put a trough out in the center of the street where any man or any horse is welcome. It will work out fine. You'll see.”

“I just hope they don't try and burn it again,” another customer said.

“I don't reckon they will.” Longarm smiled, expressing confidence that he did not at all feel.

McPhail brought Longarm's hotcakes, a tub of sweet butter, and a crock of sorghum syrup. “On the house this morning, Marshal.”

“Hell, Harry, if I'd known I could eat here for free I'd've been taking all my meals here,” Longarm said with a grin.

Later, that afternoon, Longarm let it be known on both sides of the street that he was tired and wanted to spend some time with a certain lady friend, that he would be unavailable until the following morning.

After that he disappeared from the paired towns. Liz at just about the time Longarm went into seclusion pulled her blinds and locked her front door.

The gray was left standing in the corral behind the smithy, there for anyone to see if they cared to look.

And there was no sign of their visiting lawman.

Longarm shivered. He was sitting on the hilltop east of the lake. He had one of Liz's quilts wrapped around his shoulders and a .44-40 Winchester carbine laid across his lap.

He had dozed a little early in the evening but now forced himself to remain awake.

He was watching. Hoping the son of a bitch who set that fire would return and try to complete the job.

About three o'clock in the morning, judging by the wheel of the stars overhead, he heard something below.

Longarm smiled.

Someone was down there. He could not see well enough to tell who it was who had come a-calling, but there was a darker shadow among the dark shadows beneath the partially repaired water tank.

Whoever it was stayed low to the ground and kept going out from underneath the tank to the lakeshore and back again. Longarm could not tell what the son of a bitch was up to. Then it struck him. The guy was gathering fuel for his fire, pulling dried grass and piling it around the timber that supported the southeast corner of the water tower.

As silently as he could, Longarm racked a cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester.

And waited.

As soon as he saw the flare of a match he lined up the sights—convenient of the bastard to outline himself so handily—and lightly squeezed the trigger.

The Winchester bucked hard against his shoulder, and a huge blossom of fire momentarily destroyed his night vision, but down at the water tank he heard the dull thump of a falling body.

Without consciously thinking about it, Longarm quickly shifted position to the side so if someone took a shot at the muzzle flash from his carbine the shot would go wide.

There was no answering gunfire. He heard no one running away. And there were no more matches flaming.

Longarm waited a good half hour before he stood, his knee joints aching and his butt cold, and stiffly walked down to the water tower.

He reached into a pocket for a match of his own and tried to light it by scraping it against the heavy timber that was holding up the water tank, but the match would not strike.

He touched the wood and discovered it was greasy with coal oil or some similar liquid. Which explained the stink in the chill, night air.

He tried another match, this time striking it on the butt plate of his Winchester, and this time it caught fire.

Bending down, he held the match close to the body of the man he had just killed.

“Well, I'll be a son of a bitch,” he muttered.

The firebug lay dead beside the water tower the man had tried to destroy, a flat-nosed .44-caliber slug square in his chest.

But why . . . ?

Longarm pondered the question for a spell, then pulled Liz's quilt tighter around his shoulders and started walking back to town.

Word spread through Valmere like wildfire. Jacob Potts was dead, shot while trying to destroy the town's water system.

“What I still don't understand,” Longarm said, “is why he done it. What did Jacob have to gain by getting rid of that water tank?”

“It isn't what he had to gain,” Potts's brother Jason said. “It's what he had to lose. I hate to say this but . . . Jacob had a good thing here, and he didn't want to lose it.”

“I don't understand, sorry,” Longarm said. The other residents of Valmere crowded close to hear what the Nebraska Potts had to say, too.

“Jake didn't want these two towns cooperating on the water or anything else. You might have noticed that I serve a good beer and a superior whiskey. Jake cut every corner he could so he could squeeze as much profit out of his customers as was possible. When I sell a mug of beer I make two, two and a half cents profit on the deal. When Jake sold a beer . . . in an undersized mug, by the way . . . he planned on making at least four cents.

“Same thing with his whiskey. I'll make two or three cents a shot. Jake made his own nasty concoction and pulled in four to five cents profit per shot. He was greedy.” Jason nodded toward the plump little black woman, who was standing on the edge of the crowd. “Just as Hettie.”

“What does she have t' do with it?” Longarm asked.

“Jake was one of Hettie's partners in the whorehouse. I don't suppose he would have cared if anyone knew that, but their other partner was dead set on remaining anony . . . anony . . .”

“Anonymous,” someone in the crowd provided.

“Thanks. Yeah, that. The other partner didn't want to be known, so Jake kept quiet, too. Hettie only owns a ten percent share in Stella's. Jake and the other fellow each had forty-five percent.” Jason sighed. “Now I suppose I own Jake's share, me being his brother.”

The crowd milled around in the dead man's saloon, everyone seeming to be speaking at once. Bartender George Griner could have used three sets of arms and six sets of hands to keep up with it all. Longarm suspected the place was taking in more money this evening than it ever had before. He even saw a large contingent of Stonecipher people who had come to listen and commiserate and drink.

Everyone else seemed to be wide-awake, but he was tired. He had gotten barely a wink of sleep during the evening and now was running out of steam.

He excused himself to no one in particular and walked outside into the cool of the night.

He turned to go back to the whorehouse and to bed but stopped short at the distinctive sound of a weapon being cocked.

“You son of a bitch. You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? You had to come here and completely fuck everything up.”

Without turning around, Longarm said, “Good evening t' you, too, Garrett. You're the other partner, ain't you? An' you don't want t' have to drop your prices to just a fair profit. You wanted t' go on cheating all the cowhands on this side o' the line. I'll bet it was you and Jacob working together to get the jealousy started and the lies about who was welcome where. Was it you that shot at me a couple times, too?”

“That was Jacob. The softhearted idiot. He deliberately missed. He said he wanted to frighten you away. I wouldn't have missed.”

“No, I expect you wouldn't have,” Longarm said, still with his back to Franz. “Do you mind if I turn around? I'd hate t' die with a bullet in my back. Better to take it face on an' proud.”

“Go ahead,” Garrett Franz said. “But slowly.”

Longarm nodded. Slowly turned.

The big .45 already in his hand barked. Garrett Franz's mouth opened as if to scream but no sound emerged from his throat. Longarm's bullet ripped his throat out before the storekeeper could pull the trigger of the rifle he held in his hands.

Franz crumpled to the ground. Longarm walked over to him. Stood there looking down at the mortal remains of Valmere's mercantile owner.

“Huh,” he said, shucking the empty brass out of his Colt and replacing it with a fresh cartridge. “Maybe you should've stuck to stocking shelves, mister.”

He thought about the soft bed waiting for him upstairs in Stella's.

Then he thought about a different bed waiting for him across on the Nebraska side.

He walked on to Nebraska. And Elizabeth Kunsler.