Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers (3 page)

Longarm was disappointed. It was not that he had really expected to learn anything new or illuminating from the Park County sheriff's incidence reports. But he had certainly hoped.

As it was, reading through the reports told him nothing more than Charlise Carver already had. In each instance the coach was stopped by two men—well, at least two; there could have been someone else hiding nearby—who held shotguns. One threatened the horses; the other targeted the driver. Neither man spoke.

Longarm sat back in the sheriff's swivel chair and scratched under his chin. He was making an assumption to think that the robbers were men. They wore dusters that hung from head to toe plus slouch hats and bandannas. One or both could as easily have been women. It was something to keep in mind.

He leaned forward and concentrated on the reports, and again all three were similar. The robbers did not speak. They merely motioned with the barrels of their shotguns.

The driver threw the mail pouches down, along with any other express messages, then the robbers stepped back and motioned for the coach to proceed. Which it did, just as fast as it could go.

Longarm did not at all fault the driver. He was not armed and had the lives of his passengers to consider.

Which brought something else to mind.

Longarm shuffled through the incidence reports again. On one trip the coach was empty. On another there was one passenger, and on the third there were three passengers. On no occasion did the robbers attempt to hold up the passengers. They were completely ignored even though it would have been simple enough for the robbers to strip them of cash or valuables while the coach was stopped.

That was not at all an ordinary way for a stagecoach robber to act.

They took only the mail pouches. Those pouches, empty, were found lying beside the road on the next trip around.

That, too, seemed odd.

Longarm took out a cheroot and lit it—at least here he could smoke while he pondered—then laced his hands behind his head and thought about the reports he had in front of him.

They told him little. All three robberies occurred on the Bailey to Lake George leg of the run. All southbound, that is, from Bailey down to Lake George and not from Lake George back north to Bailey on the other side of that run.

Perhaps someone in Bailey was expected to mail something that the robbers wanted to intercept? The conjecture was thin but certainly possible.

Longarm sat smoking—and thinking—until Deputy Hardesty returned from taking his overdue shit.

“Feel better?” Longarm asked with a smile.

“Lots. Thanks.”

“Glad t' do it for a fellow badge carrier.” Longarm stood, stretched, and turned the chair back over to Chance Hardesty. “If I think of anything else, I might be back,” he said.

“Any time at all, Marshal. The sheriff is always glad to help.”

Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson and headed back down the steep stairs.

He idled the afternoon away, wandering from one to another of Fairplay's many saloons, nursing a beer in each and keeping his ears open. The effort was wasted. Well, except for discovering which of the slop joints had the best beer or the prettiest whores. He learned a bit about that; unfortunately, that was not what he was interested in.

When he heard the Carver stagecoach rattle in, the jehu cracking his whip and making a show of the arrival, Longarm shoved his beer mug away and went out to greet the coach.

The driver surprised him. The fellow looked like he was barely old enough to shave. Hell, maybe he didn't. He knew how to handle the whip and the driving lines, though. He brought the lathered four-up in with a swirl of dust and a high-pitched yip.

Charlise Carver came out of the office to greet him.

Charlise, Longarm thought. Now why had he taken to thinking of her as Charlise instead of as Charlie?

He took another look at the woman, standing in the afternoon sun, and realized what the difference was. Of a sudden he was thinking about her as a damned attractive woman and not just a victim of crime.

Not that she had given him any reason to think that way. But he did.

The driver set the brake and Charlise opened the coach door. There were two passengers. They climbed down, brushing at their clothing and chatting back and forth.

The passengers retrieved their bags from the boot at the back of the coach, Charlise standing with them, thanking them for their business and expressing the usual platitudes about hoping they had a good trip.

Meanwhile the driver climbed down off the rig. He, too, brushed the dust from his linen duster—well named—and removed his heavy gloves.

“Will,” Charlise said, beckoning him over to where Longarm stood. “I want you to meet U.S. Marshal Long.” She looked at Longarm and raised an eyebrow. “Curtis, is it?”

“Custis,” he corrected.

“Custis, meet my son and business partner, Will C. Carver.”

The young man grinned and stuck a hand out to shake. “My pleasure, Marshal.”

“Only a deputy,” Longarm said. “The marshal is down in Denver settin' behind a desk while I'm up here tryin' to find out what's up with these robberies. Did you have any trouble today?”

“No, sir. It was all smooth. Took one fella from Bailey down to Lake George, picked up those two in Hartsel, and brought them over here.”

“You were carrying mail today?” Longarm asked.

“Yes, sir. Every day. Two pouches from Bailey, one coming here and the other going down to Buena Vista and beyond. One pouch from Colorado City and Manitou coming here.”

As if to affirm that, the postmaster showed up to collect the pair of canvas pouches.

“Do you two know each other?” Charlise asked.

Both men shook their heads.

“Deputy Marshal Long, this is our postmaster, Jon Willoughby. Jon, this gentleman is Custis Long. He came up from Denver to look into these mail robberies.”

They shook and Willoughby said, “I hope you can clear this up, Deputy. We can't have such a thing. No, sir, not at all.”

Willboughby was a small man with thinning gray hair. He seemed fussy and nervous, perhaps prissy. Almost certainly a political appointee. Which meant that as a Federal employee whose bosses for the most part were politicians of one stripe or another, Custis Long should watch his step around Postmaster Willoughby.

“Excuse me, please,” Longarm said, nodding and touching the brim of his Stetson. He walked over to the front of the coach, where Will Carver had retired. “Help you with these horses?” he offered.

“I can handle them.”

“Sure you can, but I'd like to help.”

“All right, thanks. We'll take them around back still in harness then pull the harness and rub each down before turning it loose in the corrals. Then once they're fed and settled, I'll clean the harness and lay it out ready for tomorrow.”

“Different team tomorrow?” Longarm asked.

“Oh, yes, of course. We use three teams plus a pair of fill-ins for if one gets sick or is lamed. We change the team in Lake George, so the horses only go in one direction when we take them out. Then they get to rest until it's their turn to come back, either the next day or the day after.”

“Well, let's us get these boys cleaned up and fed an' settled in for the night,” Longarm said, taking the bit chain of the near leader.

There was a small barn behind the express company office. Will and Longarm led the heavy cobs inside and tied them to rings set high on the support posts then groomed them and cared for their feet before leading them out to one of the small corrals, where they had a good supply of mixed grass and alfalfa hay in a bunk.

Will Carver pumped the trough nearly full with clean water, wiped his hands, and with a grin said, “Thanks, Marshal. That was good of you to help.”

“Glad t' do it, kid. Say, you handle these big boys just fine.”

“Them and me get along good.” He laughed. “When I was a button, I was all the time sneaking out of school so I could fool around with Mr. Blaisdell's horses.” The laugh turned into a grin. “And now they're our horses, Mom and me. They know me real well.”

“I expect they do. Coffee? Or a drink?” Longarm asked.

“I could use a cup of coffee. Mom doesn't like for me to drink it, but I've liked that since I was a button, too.”

“Then let's go over to the café and get a couple cups. I want t' ask you about the robberies. Everything you can remember 'bout them an' then I'll pump you for stuff you don't even know that you know.”

“Whatever you want. We need to stop these robberies. I don't suppose it's any secret that we're riding right on the edge. If we lose our mail contract, we're fucked.”

From the way the young fellow said that, Longarm suspected he did not want his mother to know he used language like that. Still, Longarm could not blame him. Their whole livelihood depended on the express company. And the express company depended on the mail contract.

“How much money is involved here?” Longarm asked as they walked down the dusty street toward a small café on the corner.

“Sixty-five dollars a month,” Will said. He shrugged and added, “The contract amount was set before the railroad got up this far. There was a lot more mail to carry then. You, uh, you won't say anything about that, will you?”

“Mail isn't my department so I got no cause t' stick my nose in there. All I care about is the law. An' the law says folks aren't supposed to fuck with the United States mail.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder and said, “An' that
is
my department.”

“Good. Then can you catch the sons of bitches quick, please?”

Longarm chuckled and led the way into the café, where pie and coffee waited.

“I'd better go now,” Will said an hour or so later. “Mom will be expecting me for dinner. Uh, Marshal, don't tell her I had anything to eat, will you, please?”

“Sure, no problem,” Longarm told him.

Will Carver excused himself from the table, thanked Longarm, and left. Longarm remained in the café and had supper, then in the early evening ambled over to the nearest saloon for a drink.

The whiskey spread its warmth through his belly.

“Another?” the barman offered.

Longarm nodded. The first had been good. The second was even better. He turned with his back to the bar and contemplated the gaming tables. He thoroughly enjoyed the game of poker although he did not claim to be an expert at the play. His purpose was relaxation when he played, not income.

At the moment the few tables in the place were already occupied. If a seat came open, he would consider asking in, but there would be time enough to think about that if or when it happened. In the meantime he intended to relax. The thought of another whiskey was pleasant. He turned to motion for a refill and accidentally bumped the arm of the man standing next to him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You son of a bitch, you made me spill my whiskey,” the man growled.

“I said I'm sorry, mister. I'll buy you another drink.”

“I ought to pound the shit outa you,” the man snarled.

Longarm took a closer look at him. The fellow was big. He stood a good three inches taller than Longarm and probably weighed in at two hundred fifty, not a bit of it fat.

“Look, I'm not going to say it again,” Longarm told him. “Now let me buy you that drink an' forget about it.”

Longarm looked down the bar to the gent in the apron. He raised two fingers and motioned toward his empty glass. The barman nodded and picked up a bottle and a pair of glasses.

The next thing Longarm knew, he was lying in the sawdust on the saloon floor, his head aching and his jaw feeling like it was broken.

“Wha—what the f-fuck?”

The bartender was kneeling at his side. “Are you all right, mister? Do you want me to call a doctor or somebody?”

“No, I . . . I think I'm all right,” Longarm said. It was a struggle to sit up, but on the third try he managed. With the help of the bartender tugging on his arm.

“I was worried for a bit there, Marshal. You been out for a while.”

“Really? Damn!”

“Stay there. I'll get you a beer or something.”

“I think . . . can you help me up?”

“Yeah, sure. You aren't going to pass out or anything, are you?”

“No, I'll be all right. Just help me up. I'll be fine.” Longarm did not feel fine, but he wanted to stand on his own hind legs. Being on the floor was not his idea of a pleasant evening.

The bartender and another customer took Longarm's arms and helped him upright. He leaned against the bar and looked around. The big man who had sucker punched him was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you looking for Lennox?” the bartender asked from back on his own side of the bar. He set a whiskey glass and a beer in front of Longarm.

“He's the guy that punched me?” Longarm asked.

“Yes. His name is Lennox but I understand his friends call him Ox.”

“The son of a bitch has friends?”

“At least one. That one told him who you are, and the both of them hustled out of here quick as rabbits. I guess they thought you might arrest Ox for assaulting a peace officer or something.”

“I ought to,” Longarm said, not meaning it. He kept personal grudges separate from the line of duty. “Bastard.” He picked up the beer and took a deep swallow. The crisp lager tasted good. The whiskey he chased it with tasted even better. He cleared his throat and spat and finished the whiskey.

“Another?” the bartender asked.

Longarm shook his head. “No, I'd best quit now. My head feels bad enough without asking for a hangover on top of it. But I thank you for your kindness.”

“My pleasure,” the bartender said.

“How much do I owe you?” Longarm asked.

“Nothing. Those two are on the house.”

“Thank you again.” Longarm extended his hand. “For more than the drinks.”

“Any time. Well, not for . . . uh . . .”

Longarm laughed. “No, not for that again.” He found his Stetson. Someone had laid it on the bar. He put it on and touched the brim in silent salute, then headed for his room. He definitely wanted a bath after lying amid all that sawdust, and a solid night of sleep might help to quell the pounding in his head.