“That’s right,” Longarm agreed. “But what I’ve been told is that it’s such a close race that just a few thousand votes one way or the other could swing things either way. And the men in Washington want to make sure there’s no monkey business. No ballot-box stuffing, no repeaters, no fighting around the voting places, nobody kept away from them.”

  “You saying there’s supposed to be any of that going on here?” Grover demanded truculently.

  “My chief in Denver’s got word from Washington that there might be some local trouble, yes.”

  “What kind of trouble? Who’ll be making it?”

  Longarm shrugged. “Nobody’s pointing any fingers, Grover. But from what little I’ve seen since I got here yesterday, I’d guess that bunch of homesteaders from Russia are mixed up in it some way.”

  “Nesters!” Grover snorted. “Damn foreigners bring trouble every place they try to push in! The goddamn Santa Fe’s to blame! You know they got the idea of sending land agents over to Europe five or six years ago? To sell all them sections the government handed over to ’em for pushing the rails through?”

  Longarm nodded. “I know. All the railroads are doing the same thing, though. Union Pacific in Nebraska, Northern Pacific in Dakota Territory, they’re sending agents to Europe, just like the Santa Fe is. All of ’em have got more land than they know what to do with, and I guess they need whatever money they can get out of it.”

  “Oh, you can’t blame the railroads for turning a dollar,” Grover agreed. “But will you tell me why the hell they can’t sell that land to ranchers, instead of a bunch of billy-be-damned dirt scratchers? Every one of them foreigners that comes in here gets himself a plow and starts breaking sod.”

  “Sure. The railroads pick out farmers because they want crops off that land to haul for freight. That’s why they’re making it so easy for the homesteaders to buy it.”

  “Ranchers ship cattle, don’t they?”

  “Yep. But ranchers look on any land that ain’t fenced in as being theirs to use free.”

  “Now, damn it, Long, anybody with enough sense to pound sand in a gopher hole knows you can’t dry-crop in these parts. All in God’s name this prairie’s good for is cattle range. Them goddamn nesters are just ruining good rangeland, putting up their damn Glidden wire fences and closing it off like they are.”

  After a moment’s thought, Longarm said, “Well now, Grover, it looks to me like you don’t need to worry much if they can’t make a crop. They sure won’t be here long unless they can. But their wheat looked pretty good to me when I rode out and took a look around today.”

  “It looks good now, maybe. But it won’t head out, or a snow’s liable to come early and kill it off.”

  “Did they make a crop last year?” Longarm asked.

  “Last year and year before both, but it was fluky weather. You’ll see.”

  “That’s as it may be. But we’re getting away from the election, it seems like. How many of those homesteaders will be able to vote?”

  “Half, maybe three-fourths. Most of ’em have been here long enough to be citizens.”

  “And the ranchers just might try to stop ’em? Is that where trouble could start?”

  Grover took his time, pouring himself a fresh drink and taking a long, slow sip from his glass. Finally he said, “Guess it won’t make much difference, Long, since you’re going to be nosing around anyhow. You might as well hear it from me as somebody else.”

  “Maybe I’d sooner hear it from you,” Longarm replied. “Don’t overlook that we’re in the same line of business, in a manner of speaking.”

  “I guess you’ve heard the damn nesters are running one of their own people against me?” the sheriff said.

  “Matter of fact, I hadn’t.”

  “Ain’t that a hell of a note, Long? A good hundred-percent American having to fight to keep a foreign nester from taking his job away from him?”

  “I’d say you’ve got to look for something like that, as long as we live in a free country,” Longarm answered mildly.

  “Oh, it’s pretty easy for you to talk that way. You federal marshals don’t have to go up for election every two years, put your job right out where anybody who takes a notion can grab for it.”

  “You worried about your chances?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Grover asked. Then, when it struck him that he might have said too much, he added quickly, “But I’m not any more worried than usual, don’t get me wrong. It’s not the first time I’ve had to run against somebody to keep my job.”

  “Let’s lay the cards face up,” Longarm proposed. “There’s got to be something special about this election, or I wouldn’t have been sent down here to take a look at things.”

  “Listen, Long,” Grover said, dropping his voice, “I’ll tell you the—”

  Whatever the sheriff had intended to say was lost in the echoes of a woman’s scream that cut through the saloon, drowning the subdued rumble of voices from the gambling tables and the piano’s tintinnabulations. The sudden unexpected shrilling brought the drinkers at the tables and the gamblers at their games onto their feet, and the piano player up from his stool, and turned the eyes of the men standing at the bar from their drinks to the back of the saloon as they looked for the source of the scream.

  Longarm saw it at once. Halfway down the stairs that led to the balcony, one of the saloon girls was struggling with a young cowhand. The girl stood on a step lower than the man. He had his hands locked around her wrists, and she was pulling vainly in an effort to break free. A trickle of blood came from her mouth. The whiskey-flushed face of the youth—Longarm judged him to be less than twenty years old—was twisted in anger.

  “Now, by God, Ruthie!” he yelled, “You ain’t going to work here another night, you hear me? Damn it, I want you to marry me!”

  “Let go, Fred, please!” the girl begged. “Come on, let’s go sit down at a table and talk it over. It won’t help a bit for you to get all wrought up this way.”

  “I’ve talked all I’m going to!” he retorted. “And I’ve waited as long as I can!” He freed one of his hands from the girl’s wrists, drew the pistol that dangled from his gunbelt, and pressed its muzzle to her head. “Like I told you upstairs, if I can’t have you all to myself, nobody else is going to have you!”

  Everyone in the saloon was frozen, watching the deadly drama on the staircase. Only Longarm moved. He started in a slow, deliberate walk toward the struggling pair, and had gotten halfway to the staircase before the young cowhand noticed him.

  “You there! Stop right where you are!” the youth called. He swiveled the pistol’s muzzle away from the girl’s head and waved it in Longarm’s general direction. “You take another step, and I swear to God, I’ll plug you!”

  Longarm stopped. He said mildly, “Now, you don’t want to pull a fool trick like that, Fred. How do you think Ruthie’s going to feel if she has to watch you dangling off the wrong end of a hanging rope because you gunned down somebody you don’t even know?”

  “I don’t give a damn whether I know you or not!” Fred shouted. “I’m taking Ruthie out of here, and nobody’s going to stop me!”

  “What makes you think I want to stop you?” Longarm asked. He watched the young cowpuncher’s face as the drunken youth tried to grasp the meaning of the question. The cowpoke was still shaking his head worriedly when Longarm went on, “I’d say Ruthie’s got the right idea, Fred. Maybe she’d be willing to tell you why she didn’t want to go with you, if you were to talk things over. Then you might be able to argue her around. Why don’t you and her come on down those stairs and set a while, talk about it?” As he spoke, Longarm took another careful step or two toward the stairway.

  “Damn you, I told you to stand still!” Fred called.

  When Longarm didn’t stop his slow forward movement, the youth triggered off a shot. The slug was wide by a yard. It crashed into an unoccupied table, cut a white groove along its top, and set the table to rocking unsteadily.

  Fred yelled angrily, “You’ll get the next one, unless you stop trying to get to me!”

  Still inching steadily forward, Longarm said soothingly, “Now, that wasn’t a right smart thing, Fred.” He spread his empty hands in front of his body. “Look here. I’ve got no gun. You wouldn’t want to shoot at a man who’s not shooting at you, would you?”

  Ruthie’s mind worked faster than Fred’s. She said, “He’s right, Fred. If you killed an unarmed stranger, they’d hang you for sure. Then how could we go off together, the way you want to?”

  Fred took his eyes off Longarm and gave all his attention to Ruthie. “You told me you didn’t want to go away with me!”

  Longarm used the opportunity to gain three more careful steps in the direction of the staircase, but he was still too far away to jump the cowboy.

  Ruthie said, “Don’t you know a girl wants to be persuaded, Fred honey? You never did really ask me, you just told me.”

  “I didn’t!” he protested. “I asked you to marry me the best way I knew how!”

  Again Longarm gained a step or two. This time his movement caught Fred’s eye. He leveled his revolver at Longarm once more.

  “Now damn you, mister, I told you to stand still!” the youth said menacingly. “I don’t want to have to kill you, but I damn sure will, if you keep snaking up on me!”

  Ruthie interrupted again. “Fred. If you really want me to listen to you, you’ll have to listen to me first. Let’s go down the stairs now, and sit at a table and talk, like I’ve been begging you to.”

  With a drunk’s unpredictability, Fred suddenly snarled, “Damn it! You’re pushing at me, all of you! Quit it now!”

  He raised the revolver and fired at the ceiling. Wood splintered as lead tore through the ceiling and roof.

  It was the chance Longarm had been waiting for. Before Fred could lower the muzzle of his pistol, Longarm leaped across the short distance that now separated them. He closed the gap with two bounding, catlike strides and grabbed the youth’s wrist as the gun started down. The two wrestled for a moment, their arms seesawing, as Fred tried to bring the pistol down and Longarm, at a disadvantage on the step below him, fought to keep the menacing weapon pointed upward.

  For a moment they swayed, almost falling, then Longarm got a foot on the next higher step. There, his superior height and strength quickly settled the contest. With both hands on Fred’s wrist, Longarm’s callused, steel-strand fingers put such a punishing pressure on bones and nerves that the younger man’s hand was numbed. The gun fell from his limp grasp. Longarm pressed his advantage. He brought the cowhand’s wrist down with a whiplash jerk and twisted his arm, throwing the youth off balance. When Fred turned, trying to stay on his feet, Longarm twisted the wrist back and upward until the hand that had held the gun was between Fred’s shoulder blades.

  “Damn it, you’re killing me!” Fred panted. “Let go!”

  Without bothering to answer, Longarm grabbed the young cowpoke’s free wrist and twisted it too, behind his back. Then he used the painful pressure to force the youth down the steps to the floor of the saloon. Ruthie stood aside, pressing against the wall, to let them pass.

  When they reached the bottom step, Longarm didn’t pause. He forced Fred across the floor ahead of him until the two reached the table where Sheriff Grover still stood.

  “I’ll give him over to you, Grover,” Longarm said. “Lucky for him, about all you can lock him up for is being drunk and creating a disturbance.”

  “I’ll tuck him in jail until he sobers up,” Grover said. He pulled handcuffs from his hip pocket and snapped them around Fred’s wrists. Then he hesitated. Obviously the next words were hard to bring out. “I—I’m glad you jumped him before he hurt somebody.”

  “No thanks needed, Sheriff.” Longarm stressed the title. “You and me have still got our talk to finish, but we’ll do that tomorrow. Right now, you’ve got a prisoner to book, and I’m going to hit the hay. It’s been sort of a long day.”

  Longarm stood watching as Grover hustled Fred out of the saloon. The brief fracas seemed to have created no lasting excitement; from the way those in the saloon reacted, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Longarm had taken a step toward the batwings when he was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned. Ruthie stood there, tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.

  “I guess I owe you a lot,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know how to thank a man who’s just saved my life. I thought I’d been in every kind of mess a girl can get herself into, but this is the first time anybody’s ever kept me from getting killed.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing, ma’am,” Longarm replied. “I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.”

  “I think I owe you a lot, mister.” She hesitated before adding, “If—if you’d like to come up to my room with me, I’d be real pleased to show you how grateful I am.”

  “Now, I wouldn’t feel right if I did that. I reckon I know how you feel, and it doesn’t mean I think any the less of you if I don’t take your offer. But what you need to do right now is go back up to your room and clean the blood off your face. Then get a good night’s rest. I’ll drop in tomorrow or the next day, and maybe we can sit down and have a drink together. We can talk then.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure. You do what I tell you, now. Go on to bed. You’ve had a tough time, and you need some rest without anybody around.”

  Reluctantly the girl turned away. Longarm went to the bar and said to the barkeep, “I guess I owe you for whatever drinks the sheriff and I had.”

  “You don’t owe me a damn dime. The shoe’s on the other foot, I’d say. Wait a minute.” The man went over to the backbar and studied the bottles displayed there. He selected one and passed it to Longarm. “You favor Maryland rye. Compliments of the house.”

  Longarm saw the label and whistled softly. “Now, that’s right proud whiskey. Don’t see much of it in this part of the country. It’ll slip down right smooth.” He nodded his thanks to the barkeep, tucked the bottle under his arm, and walked the short distance to the hotel.

  In his room, Longarm made quick work of opening the whiskey and found that it was as silky smooth as he’d known it would be. He sipped now and then while he shed his clothes and puffed on a freshly lighted cigar. Finally he hung his holstered Colt on the left side of the bed’s headboard and let himself sink to the lumpy mattress with an appreciative sigh. He was just dropping off to sleep when a light tapping sounded at the door.

  Instantly alert, Longarm slid his Colt out of its holster and padded barefoot to the door. Standing to one side of its thin panels, his Colt poised, he called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Ruthie.”

  Years of experience had made Longarm cautious. He unlocked the door and cracked it open. When he was sure the saloon girl was alone in the corridor, he opened the door wide enough to let her slip through.

  “As long as you’re here,” he told her, trying to keep the sleepiness out of his voice, “I guess you might as well come in.”

  Chapter 3

  “You’re not mad at me because I decided to come see you after all, are you?” Ruthie asked. “I still feel like I need to thank you proper, you know.”

  “I’m not mad,” Longarm assured her. He indicated the long balbriggan underwear he had on. “I wouldn’t say I’m dressed for company, though.”

  “That won’t bother me. You’re not the first man I’ve seen in a union suit. Or without one, either,” she smiled. She stepped inside.

  Closing the door, Longarm moved to the bed and fished a match out of the pocket of his vest, which hung on the headboard. As he lighted the lamp and trimmed the wick down low, he said without looking at his uninvited guest, “Except you don’t owe me any more thanks than you’ve already give me, Ruthie.”

  “No thanks for saving my life? Listen, I can still feel that ice-cold pistol barrel pushing into my ear. Every time I think about it, I get the shivers.”

  “Chances are that young fellow wouldn’t’ve had the nerve to shoot you, even as drunk as he was.”

  “He was wild.” Ruthie shook her head. “I thought I’d seen some crazy men, but he’s the worst ever.”

  Longarm motioned to the single chair the room held. “You might as well sit down and be comfortable while we talk. And I can’t think of anything better than a sip of good Maryland rye whiskey to settle down a case of the shivers.”

  Ruthie smiled as she crossed the little room and sat down in the chair. “This is something I’m not used to, now—sitting down in a chair when I’m in a room with a man. Most of the time, they can’t wait for me to flop on the bed. But I guess you’re right, I can use a drink. All they let us have at the saloon is weak tea, unless we’re at a table with a customer and drinking from his bottle. I guess you’d know how that works, though, being a lawman.”

  “How’d you find that out?” Longarm frowned. “I don’t recall saying anything to you about who I am or what I do.”

  You didn’t.” Ruthie was settling herself comfortably in the chair. “Sheriff Grover came back after he’d put Fred in jail. He told Bob, and Bob told me.”

  “Bob? That’d be the barkeep?”

  Ruthie nodded. “Bob said the sheriff didn’t place you right off. Then he remembered what some folks call you. Longarm, isn’t it?”

  “Some do, I guess. Others ain’t quite so polite.”

  “Enough to give you quite a reputation as a lawman, the sheriff told Bob.”

  With his back toward her while he poured whiskey from the bottle of bonded rye into his only glass, Longarm said, “I’ve found out that the farther a man gets away from home, the bigger his reputation gets, too. So don’t put too much stock in what you hear.” He handed her the glass, took the bottle, and sat down on the bed.