The silver wasn’t raw ore. It had been roughly refined and shaped into crude ingots. Longarm wasn’t sure how much money this shipment represented; more than he made in several years’ time, that was certain. Still, he didn’t feel any particular temptation as he watched Willard and Jenkins pack the silver into the bottom of the mailbags that would be used the next day. He had long since learned that there were more important things in life than being rich.

  “There’s an extra cot in the tack room, Marshal,” Willard said. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight so we can keep an eye on these bags?”

  “That’s just what I had in mind,” agreed Longarm. “No point in worrying so much about tomorrow that we get careless tonight.”

  “Aye,” rumbled Jenkins. He added something that was largely unintelligible, then laughed and slapped Longarm on the back. Longarm just grinned.

  Longarm and Willard stayed up a while after Jenkins had left, then took turns standing guard over the silver all night. Willard stood the last watch so that Longarm could get some sleep before the coach bound for Carson City rolled in. When Longarm got up at dawn, he checked the mailbags to be sure that the silver hadn’t been tampered with. Seeing Willard watching him, he said, “No offense, old son.”

  “Hell, none taken,” the stationmaster replied. “If you’d had the last watch, I would’ve checked the bags myself. They say every man has his price.”

  “I reckon. I just hope nobody ever offers me mine, ’cause I’d hate to find out it was true.”

  The coach rolled into Tonopah a few minutes after seven. George was driving, and Pryor was riding shotgun again. They had spent the night in Goldfield, several miles south of Tonopah, and were now on the return trip to Carson City. Longarm drank some coffee brewed in a pot on Willard’s stove, grabbed some biscuits from the hash house, and was ready to go when George picked up the reins and yelled at the team. This time, he was the only passenger.

  The trip between Tonopah and Rawhide passed without any trouble. The stage stopped for lunch and a fresh team of horses at an isolated station northwest of Rawhide, then rolled on toward Carson City. With each mile that passed beneath the coach’s wheels, Longarm grew more surprised that there had been no sign of trouble. From what Billy Vail had told him, nearly every stage that was carrying silver had been stopped during the past month. It was beginning to look as if this shipment was going to get through, though.

  The stagecoach had barely rocked to a stop in front of the Carson City station when Longarm swung down through the door. Bat Thompson was waiting for him, and the stage-line owner didn’t seem particularly surprised to see him. “Howdy,” Thompson said. “Figured you’d make it all right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Longarm. “I thought you were expecting trouble.”

  “That was before I heard about what happened up in Virginny City yesterday. Mallory was too busy shootin’ up the place to even think about holdin’ up this stage.”

  Longarm frowned. “Mallory attacked Virginia City?”

  Thompson scratched at his beard and said, “I wouldn’t call it an attack. What happened is, Mallory and some o’ his boys were in town, and a couple of vigilantes spotted ‘em and tried to arrest ’em. Well, Mallory and his men shot those damn fools to doll rags, o’ course, and took off into the mountains north of there with a posse after ’em. But Mallory gave those vigilantes the slip, slick as can be.” The stage-line owner spat into the dust of the street and went on reluctantly. “The worst thing about it is that somebody else got in the way of a bullet when all the shootin’ started. She’d just got off the stage too when it happened.”

  A wind colder than anything that blew over the Nevada wasteland seemed to freeze Longarm’s blood in his veins. His jaw tightened. He stared at Thompson for a moment, then said, “She?”

  Thompson nodded. “Yeah. She stopped by the office before she boarded the stage here and told me she was your friend. Miss Amelia Loftus, she said her name was.”

  “And she was hit by a stray bullet?” Longarm forced the words out. For some reason, he had to hear the truth spoken plain.

  “I’m sorry, Marshal. I reckon she never knew what hit her.” Thompson put a hand on Longarm’s shoulder. “She’s dead.”

  And it was Ben Mallory’s fault, thought Longarm. Fate had twisted around on itself, and the very man Longarm had expected to see today over the sights of his rifle had instead been miles to the north, causing the death of a nice young woman who hadn’t wanted anything except a little excitement in her life. Longarm’s hands tightened on the rifle he was carrying. He had never met Ben Mallory, had never even seen the man.

  But he would be mighty glad when the sorry son of a bitch was dead.

  Chapter 5

  Virginia City was only about fifteen miles northeast of Carson City. Longarm got his saddle and warbag from the boot of the stagecoach and pitched the bag into Bat Thompson’s office. “Keep an eye on that for me, will you?” he asked the stage-line owner.

  Thompson nodded. “Sure. You headin’ up to Virginny City?”

  “That’s the last place anybody saw Mallory, and everybody’s convinced that he’s the one behind the holdups. Seems like the best place to start.” Longarm turned and headed down the street toward the nearest livery stable, carrying his saddle and rifle.

  The sky had been clear earlier in the day, but now thick gray clouds were blowing in. That suited Longarm’s mood just fine. He couldn’t believe Amelia was dead. He had seen her only yesterday morning, he thought, had held her and kissed her and listened to her laugh.

  And promised her that he would come see her in Virginia City.

  The owner of the livery stable must have seen that Longarm was in no mood to haggle. He named a fair price for the rental of a horse, and Longarm picked out a rangy line-bred dun with a mean look in its eyes and a broad chest that indicated it had plenty of stamina. He saddled the horse himself, ignoring the stablekeeper’s offer of help, then led the dun back down the street to Bat Thompson’s office.

  Longarm used the tack room to change clothes, shedding the brown tweed suit in favor of denim pants, a work shirt, and a sheepskin jacket. If he was going to be riding, he wanted to be comfortable.

  “Anything I can do to help, Marshal?” asked Thompson as Longarm prepared to mount.

  Longarm swung up into the saddle and shook his head. “Chasing down owlhoots like Mallory is my job,” he said.

  “Well, good luck. I hope you catch the bastard.”

  So did Longarm. As he rode out of Carson City, he tried to tell himself that when he apprehended Ben Mallory, he would be professional about it. He was sworn to uphold the law, not to take it into his own hands. He couldn’t just blow Mallory’s head off in cold blood, no matter how much he wanted to every time he thought about what had happened to Amelia Loftus.

  Of course, if Mallory resisted arrest, that was a whole ’nother matter ...

  Longarm grimaced and put that thought out of his head. First he had to get to Virginia City and hope that he could pick up the outlaw’s trail.

  Longarm had been to Virginia City before and recalled that the town was hard to see until a rider was almost on top of it. That hadn’t changed. The settlement was surrounded by rocky hills dotted with scrubby pine trees. The hills gave way suddenly to a long, shallow valley where the predominant color was a sandy brown. That was due not only to the ground itself but to the thick layer of dust that lay over everything, deposited there by blasting from the mines. A few years earlier, during the so-called Big Bonanza, the ground had shaken almost constantly from the explosions. Now, the mines were not as active any longer, though many were still steady producers.

  And Virginia City’s main thoroughfare, C Street, was still busy night and day. At the moment, as night was falling, the street was clogged with wagons, pedestrians, and men on horseback, most of them bound for one of the many saloons that lined the avenue.

  Longarm reined the dun to a stop in front of a small stone building with a sign out front that read City Marshal. He dismounted and tied the horse to the hitch rail along the boardwalk, then crossed to the door and opened it without knocking. A man stood near a potbellied stove in a corner of the room, extending his hands toward it to warm them. The man was somewhat potbellied, too, although his shoulders were thick with muscle, not fat. He had a mustache and dark brown hair that was shot through with gray, despite the fact that he was only thirty or so, Longarm estimated. A tin star was pinned to his leather vest.

  The man gave Longarm a nod and said in a friendly voice, “Howdy. Something I can do for you?”

  “You the city marshal, like it says outside?” Longarm knew his tone was a bit curt, but his mood hadn’t improved any during the ride up here.

  “That’s right. Name’s Everett Day.”

  “I’m a lawman, too. U.S. deputy marshal out of Denver.” Longarm took out the folder containing his badge and bona fides and handed it to Day.

  The town badge glanced at the identification papers and said, “Custis Long, eh? You’d be the one they call Longarm?”

  “Some do,” admitted Longarm. He was always a little surprised whenever he ran into someone who had heard of him. He didn’t see any reason he should be famous, since he was just a fella doing what he’d signed on to do.

  Day stuck out his hand and shook with Longarm. “Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you, Marshal?”

  “I heard that Ben Mallory was here yesterday.”

  Day’s beefy face lost its cheerful expression. “He sure as hell was. Killed two citizens and an unfortunate lady who had just arrived in town. Then he took off into the mountains. I gathered up some men and went after him but didn’t have any luck,” said Day with a rueful shake of his head. “Are you on that rascal’s trail, too?”

  “I’m told that he and his gang have been holding up stagecoaches in these parts.” Longarm didn’t know how much this local lawman might know about the silver shipments in the mailbags, so he kept that to himself. “I plan to stop him.”

  “Well, good luck to you, that’s all I can say. Wish I could tell you where he’s holed up. If I was you, I think I’d try Galena City first.”

  Longarm frowned. “Where’s that? Don’t reckon I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s a boomtown north of here about twenty miles. The place has gone boom and bust several times, in fact. Started out as a Mormon settlement called Hyrum, and after that some wag called it Doldrums. This latest silver boom gave it life again, and it was renamed Galena City. Galena’s a mixture of silver and lead, you know, and I reckon that’s a pretty apt description—silver from the mines and lead from all the bullets that go flyin’ around. It’s a wild place, from what I hear.” Suddenly, Day lifted his hand and smacked himself lightly on the forehead with the base of his palm. “Hell, wouldn’t you know it? I get to talking, and I forget all about my manners. You want some coffee, Longarm?”

  The fella was talkative, all right, and so friendly that he didn’t seem like he’d be much of a lawman. But that made him a good source of information, so Longarm said, “Sure. Coffee sounds good.”

  Day fetched cups for both of them and used a piece of leather to protect his hand as he picked up the pot that was simmering atop the stove. He poured Longarm’s cup first and gestured for him to have a seat on the battered old sofa just inside the office door. Day took his cup behind the desk and sat down there in a simple ladderback chair.

  Longarm sipped the coffee. It was bitter, but he had tasted worse. “Hear you’ve got some vigilantes here helping you keep the peace,” he commented.

  Day grimaced. “I’d just as soon they’d keep their noses out of the law-and-order business,” he said, “but what can you do when they’re some of the most influential men in town? Still, if a couple of ’em hadn’t decided to confront Ben Mallory themselves yesterday, instead of coming to tell me that he was in town, they’d still be alive now.”

  “And so would that woman,” said Longarm.

  Day nodded solemnly. “Yep, probably.” Something about Longarm’s voice must have alerted him to the fact that there was more to Longarm’s words than a simple comment, because he leaned forward and added, “Did you have some connection with her, Marshal?”

  “I knew her,” Longarm said grimly. “I reckon you could say we were friends.”

  “Then I’m mighty sorry about what happened to the lady. We found a letter she’d written in her bag when it was unloaded from the stage. I take it she was Miss Amelia Loftus?”

  Longarm nodded. “That’s right. She was from Salt Lake City.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. The letter was to her folks there. I sent it on to them this morning, along with a note explaining what had happened. We, ah, had the funeral this morning, too.”

  Longarm’s face was like granite as he nodded. “I’ll be visiting your graveyard to pay my respects before I ride out in the morning.”

  “I’ll take you out there myself.”

  “You say Mallory and his bunch headed for Galena City when they rode out of here?” Longarm forced his mind away from his memories of Amelia and back onto the job at hand.

  “Well, they started in that general direction. That doesn’t mean they went to Galena City.”

  “But that’s where you’d start looking?”

  Day hesitated, then gave a firm nod. “If I was you, Marshal, I sure would. Mallory’s bunch has to be getting their supplies from somewhere, and it’s sure not here.”

  Longarm drained the rest of the coffee from the cup and pushed himself to his feet. As he set the empty cup on the desk, he said, “Much obliged for the information.”

  “You’re not pushing on to Galena City tonight, are you?”

  “No, I reckon I’ll get a hotel room—”

  Before Longarm could finish his reply, the door of the office burst open and a man hurried in, his eyes wide with excitement. “There’s trouble down at the Pioneer Saloon, Everett!” he exclaimed. “Looks like there’s fixin’ to be a brawl!”

  Longarm glanced at the newcomer. He was a townie wearing a suit and a felt hat. A storekeeper, maybe, who had spotted the trouble he was reporting while he was on his way home to his family.

  “A brawl, huh?” repeated Day. He didn’t sound particularly alarmed, nor did he seem to be in any hurry as he put his palms on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, we can’t have that, Johnny, so thanks for letting me know about it. I’ll go down there and see if I can sort out the trouble.” He smiled at Longarm as he reached for his hat. “Be glad to point out a good hotel to you if you want to walk part of the way with me.”

  Day was liable to be walking into more trouble than he expected, thought Longarm. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “Could be you might need a hand.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate that.” Day settled his hat on his head and walked toward the door. “I’ll be glad for the company.”

  Longarm left the dun tied up at the rail and walked alongside Day down C Street. Day pointed out the International Hotel, a five-story structure of brick and stone that was probably the biggest building in Virginia City. “Best place in town to hang your hat while you’re here,” said Day.

  The townie who had burst into the marshal’s office trailed along behind Longarm and Day, obviously eager to see what was going to happen. Day headed for the Pioneer, a good-sized saloon whose front took up half a block. The doors were closed against the chilly night air.

  Longarm and Day were still several yards from the entrance when a man came sailing through the big front window, shattering the plate glass into a million pieces.

  Day stopped short and said, “Good Lord. Johnny was right. There is trouble here.”

  That seemed pretty damned obvious to Longarm. His instincts told him to get in there before somebody else got thrown through the window. But this was Day’s town, so he reined in the impulse and told himself to follow the local lawman’s lead.

  Day went to the man who was lying half on the low boardwalk and half in the street. He bent over him and asked, “That you, Phil? Are you all right?”

  The man mumbled something. Longarm caught a name—Garvin.

  Day helped the man called Phil to his feet and gave him a gentle push toward the townie who had reported the fight. “Johnny, see that Phil gets home all right, would you?”

  “But Everett,” protested the townie, “I was hoping—”

  “Now, just go along like I asked you,” Day said mildly. “I’d take it as a personal favor.”

  “All right, all right.” Johnny grasped Phil’s arm. “Come on, Phil. Let’s go.”

  Day turned toward the saloon’s front door and said to Longarm, “Jake Garvin is the bouncer in here. He fancies himself a tough man, and he likes to prove it. Sometimes he provokes trouble just so he can toss somebody through that window.” Day sighed. “If I was LeClerc, the fella who owns this place, I’d take the cost of replacing that glass out of Jake’s wages about half the time. But I reckon LeClerc’s scared of Jake, too. I should have put a stop to this a long time ago.”

  “I’ll back your play, Marshal, whatever you want to do,” Longarm told him.

  “Thanks.” Day grinned. “I’ll holler if I need a hand, so you be ready, Longarm.”

  If it had been him, thought Longarm, he would have gone into the place with a gun already in his hand. But Day just opened the door and strolled in. Raucous laughter filled the air, along with tobacco smoke and the smells of stale beer and unwashed human flesh. In short, it smelled like every other saloon Longarm had ever been in.

  The laughter came from the bar, where a tall, burly man with a bald, bullet-shaped head was holding court. That would be Jake Garvin, Longarm speculated, and the guess was confirmed as Garvin began to explain how he had grabbed hold of Phil and thrown him through the window. That brought more howls of laughter from the sycophants around him. A few feet away along the bar, a small, dapper man stood with a worried look on his face. Longarm pegged him as LeClerc, the owner of the saloon, who right about now was undoubtedly regretting the fact that he had ever hired Garvin.