The other folks in the saloon were quiet for the most part, so the silence was thick when Garvin and his cronies saw Day striding toward them and stopped laughing. Garvin glowered at the local lawman and said, “What do you want, Day?”

  “That’s Marshal Day, Jake, and you know what I want. I’ve spoken to you before about causing trouble—”

  “I didn’t cause nothin’!” Garvin broke in heatedly. “That bastard started the whole thing!” A chorus of agreement came from the men around Garvin.

  “He did?” said Day. “That’s odd. Phil’s usually a pretty peaceable sort. What did he do, Jake?”

  “Why, he ... he sat in my chair, that’s what he did!”

  Day nodded. “I see. So, naturally, you had to pitch him out of the window for doing that.”

  “Damn right! He got what he deserved, didn’t he, boys?”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t sound justified to me, Jake,” Day said with a shake of his head. He stepped forward and reached out with his left hand to grasp Garvin’s right arm. “You’ll have to come with me and explain things to the judge in the morning. I’m locking you up.”

  Longarm had tensed as Day approached Garvin. The big man looked just as astounded by Day’s audacity as Longarm was. But the surprise faded quickly from Garvin’s face, to be replaced by a twisted expression of rage.

  “You crazy son of a bitch!” he bellowed at Day. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “You’re a man who’s going to jail,” replied Day. “Come along now.”

  Longarm saw Garvin’s shoulders twitch and knew the man was about to throw a punch. Garvin moved fast for such a big man. His left fist whipped up and around in a crushing blow.

  Unfortunately for Garvin, the punch never landed. Day leaned back just far enough for Garvin’s fist to pass harmlessly in front of his face. Then Day stepped in even closer and hooked a punch of his own into Garvin’s midsection. Day’s right fist didn’t move much more than a foot, but the blow packed enough power to make Garvin gasp and start to double over. He couldn’t bend, though, because Day’s left hand was still holding him up. Day chopped another right into Garvin’s face, striking so fast that it was difficult to follow his movements.

  Longarm started to grin as Garvin’s body sagged in Day’s grip. Appearances could sometimes be mighty damned deceiving.

  Then Longarm’s right hand flashed across his body and palmed out the Colt from his cross-draw rig. He had the revolver leveled and cocked in less than the blink of an eye. The barrel of the gun was pointed at one of Garvin’s cronies, who had started to draw his pistol behind Day’s back.

  “I wouldn’t do that, old son,” said Longarm quietly.

  Day glanced over his shoulder. Garvin was no longer a threat, being half-senseless from the clubbing blows he had received. Day smiled at Longarm and said, “Thanks. I was about to turn around, but you’ve saved me the trouble.” He started toward the front door of the saloon, hauling Garvin along with him. Garvin stumbled, but Day held him up with seeming effortlessness. He shoved Garvin out the door.

  The man who had been about to draw his gun stared at Longarm. He was pale, and he licked his lips nervously. He let go of the gun and allowed it to slide back into its holster.

  “That’s better,” said Longarm. “Now leave it there.”

  One of the would-be gunman’s companions punched him on the arm and said, “You damned idiot! You’re lucky that stranger took a hand. If he hadn’t, Day probably would’ve killed you!”

  “Yeah.” The man took a deep breath. He was positively ashen now as he thought about his close call. He looked at Longarm and added, “Sorry, mister.”

  Longarm let down the hammer of his Colt and holstered it. He had misjudged Everett Day, all right.

  “I don’t take kindly to backshooters,” he warned the men at the bar.

  “You don’t have to worry about us, mister,” one of them said. “We don’t want any trouble with the marshal.”

  Clearly, Day had a better grip on this town than Longarm had thought. He went to the door and stepped out into the frigid night. What Day had said earlier haunted him. If the men who had spotted Mallory had gone to the marshal instead of trying to confront the outlaws themselves, Longarm’s job might be over now. Mallory might be either dead or behind bars.

  And Amelia might still be alive.

  Longarm squared his shoulders and headed back down the street. The sound of hammering followed him. Somebody was already nailing boards over the broken window in the saloon.

  Chapter 6

  A cold wind plucked at Longarm’s hat and coat the next morning as he stood on the small hill where Virginia City’s graveyard was located. The winds in these parts were called Washoe Zephyrs, he remembered, a term that was both a tribute to the Washoe Valley and an ironic comment on the strength of the winds. Despite the chill in the air, he reached up and plucked his hat off in a gesture of respect as he looked at the new grave marker and the mound of freshly turned earth.

  Amelia’s name was burned into the wood of the marker, along with the date of her death. That was all the undertaker had known about her. He hadn’t, known anything about her dissatisfaction with the life for which she seemed to be destined, or her thirst for adventure, or the way she laughed, or how sweet her mouth had tasted ...

  “I’m sorry, Amelia,” Longarm said aloud. “I wish I’d been able to keep my promise to come see you earlier. But I’m here now, and I’m making you another promise. I’ll track down the skunks who did this, and I’ll see to it that they pay.”

  “Amen,” said Everett Day. The Virginia City marshal had brought Longarm up here and showed him the grave, and now he stood a few feet behind Longarm, also holding his hat in his hand respectfully.

  “I’d like to get that marker replaced with a permanent headstone,” said Longarm as he turned away from the grave. “Better wait until you hear from her folks, though. They can tell you what ought to be on there.”

  “They may want to pay for it,” Day pointed out.

  Longarm shook his head. “Tell the undertaker to send the bill to me at the chief marshal’s office in Denver. I’ll take care of it.”

  Day fell in step beside Longarm as the tall lawman started down the hill toward C Street. “I’ll tell him,” Day said. Both men put their hats on.

  “Is there a road from here to Galena City?”

  “Sure. It goes from here to Galena City and then on up to Reno. You can take it, or you can circle around to the east and hit the old trail the Mormons, who settled the place, used, and come in that way.”

  “I want to get there as soon as possible,” said Longarm.

  Day nodded. “Then you want the new road. Go on over to A Street and follow it out of town. When you get to the end of it, keep going.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “You got plenty of supplies? If not, there are several stores here where you can stock up.”

  “I reckon I can make it all right,” said Longarm. He got the impression that Marshal Day didn’t much want him to leave town. Maybe Day was a little worried about what might happen when he let Jake Garvin out of jail and wanted Longarm around to lend him a hand. But having seen the way Day could take care of himself the night before, Longarm didn’t really think that was the answer.

  Still, he asked idly, “What’s going to happen with Garvin?”

  Day shrugged his thick shoulders. “Judge’ll fine him and turn him loose.”

  “Is he liable to try to even the score with you for throwing him in jail?”

  “I doubt it,” Day said with a short laugh. “Jake and I have had our share of run-ins before. He always forgets from one time to the next that he usually winds up with the short end of the stick. Don’t worry about Jake, Longarm. He’ll be peaceable for a while now, until he gets it in his head again that he’s the cock of the roost around here.”

  “And when he does, you’ll point out to him that he’s wrong,” said Longarm.

  “That’s my job.”

  They had reached the livery stable where Longarm had left the dun the night before. He stopped and turned to Day, extending his hand. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Marshal,” he said, “and I’m much obliged for all your help.”

  Day shook hands with Longarm and sighed. “I got to admit, there’s a big part of me wishing I could go along with you, Longarm. I’d like to see Ben Mallory and his boys get what’s coming to them.”

  So that was it. Day didn’t particularly want Longarm to stay in Virginia City; he just wished he could go along with the federal man. Longarm nodded and said, “Mallory and his gang will get what’s coming to them, all right. You can count on that.”

  “You know,” said Day, “I believe I can.”

  The trail from Virginia City to Galena City was narrow but not too small to accommodate stagecoaches, so anyone who wanted to ship silver from Galena City could send it to Virginia City on one of Bat Thompson’s coaches and then on to Carson City. From there, the railroad linked Carson City to the rest of the country.

  Longarm wondered if Mallory’s gang had carried out any robberies in these parts. The gang had hit the stages traveling between Virginia City and Carson City several times, according to Everett Day, but the local lawman hadn’t said anything about trouble in this direction, other than the fact that Galena City was supposed to be a pretty wild place.

  Which meant it might make a good headquarters for a bunch like Mallory’s, reflected Longarm. Some of these boomtowns came and went so fast that no real law ever had a chance to be established. There might not be any badge-toters in Galena City to represent a threat to Mallory, not even a vigilante group.

  But he was getting ahead of himself, he supposed. Since it was impossible to eat an apple more than one bite at a time, he’d just have to wait until he reached Galena City to find out what the situation was there.

  Thick gray clouds scudded through the sky above Longarm, and sometimes he had trouble determining where the clouds began and the craggy mountain peaks ended. The ride took several hours, and it was well past noon by the time he came in sight of Galena City. His stomach was rumbling from hunger, but he decided it would be better to wait and get something to eat in the settlement. Ironically, considering what he had been told about the place, the first thing he saw was the spire of a church steeple. So there was a little bit of heaven to be found here, to go along with all the hell.

  The town was built at the end of a valley that opened up to east and west at its northern tip, so it was laid out in the shape of a large T. The road Longarm was on turned into the main north-south street, which he saw from a sign tacked onto a post as he was entering the settlement was called Greenwood Avenue. The church was at the southern end of this street, on the right, and as Longarm rode past, he saw that the building was rather dilapidated. It might still be in use, or it might be just a vestige of the town’s Mormon origins. Longarm couldn’t tell.

  The rest of Galena City was bustling, though. Many of the buildings were new, and even the older ones had fresh coats of paint. New boards had replaced older, rotted ones in the sidewalks in front of the buildings. Several wagons were parked along both sides of the street, and horses were tied up at most of the hitch racks. People hurried along the boardwalks and went in and out of stores, and none of them paid much attention at all to the tall stranger riding down Greenwood Avenue. Longarm figured that the sight of a newcomer was nothing unusual to them. Folks came and went all the time in a boomtown.

  He saw several general mercantiles, a hardware store, the stagecoach station, a saddle shop, a gunsmith and a blacksmith, an apothecary, even a newspaper office where the Galena City Bugle was published. But he didn’t see a marshal’s office or a jail, which confirmed his guess that this incarnation of Galena City was too new to have any real law and order. The citizens here would have to solve their own problems as they arose.

  Though most of the people he saw were roughly dressed men, there were a few females on the boardwalks, too, and he could tell from their dark, sober dresses and coats and bonnets that they were respectable women, probably the wives and daughters of mine superintendents or owners. If he had been married, thought Longarm, he wouldn’t have brought his wife to a place like this. But since it was pretty damned unlikely he would ever settle down and get hitched, he supposed he didn’t have any right to make a judgment like that. He’d had enough experience with women to know that it was pretty near impossible to say no to them once they had their mind made up.

  Amelia Loftus, for example.

  Longarm’s mouth tightened at that thought. He looked more closely at the men he was passing on the street. He had only a rough description of Ben Mallory, and almost any of the men he saw in Galena City could have been the outlaw leader.

  When he drew even with the newspaper office, Longarm veered his horse to the side of the street and reined to a stop. He swung down and looped the reins over the hitch rack. If the editor was in the office, that ink-stained wretch would be as good a place as any to start.

  “Afternoon,” Longarm said as he stepped into the newspaper office and shut the door behind him. A short wooden fence with a gate in it divided the single large room. A man stood on the other side of the fence next to a printing press. Judging from the angry expression on his face and the hammer he clutched tightly in his hand, he was having trouble with the press.

  The man confirmed that by striking the machine a ringing blow with the hammer. “Damned thing!” he said. “I ought to load you in a wagon and tumble you off into a ravine somewhere!” He glanced at Longarm. “What do you want?”

  Well, that wasn’t the friendliest greeting he’d ever gotten, Longarm thought. He said, “I reckon you’re the editor here?”

  “Publisher, editor, salesman, and I sweep out the place and empty the slops jar.” The man hit the press again with the hammer. “And wrestle weekly with this ungodly piece of the Devil’s machinery.” He threw the hammer aside in disgust and turned to face Longarm. “J. Emerson Dupree at your service, sir.”

  “Name’s Custis,” said Longarm, leaving off the second half of his handle just in case this fella Dupree was another one who had heard of him. “I need a little information, I reckon.”

  “Then why in the name of all that’s holy would you come to a newspaper? You’d be better off inquiring of the lowest drunk writhing in the gutter.”

  Longarm couldn’t help but chuckle. Some folks were so bitter and cynical that he couldn’t quite take them seriously. J. Emerson Dupree appeared to fall into that category.

  The newspaperman was short and stocky, with gray hair and a neatly pointed beard. He wore black trousers and a black vest over a white shirt, and the clothes were protected by a long, ink-stained canvas apron. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up over muscular forearms. His hands had splotches of ink on them, too. His bushy eyebrows were drawn down in a frown as he glowered at Longarm and demanded, “Do you find me amusing, sir?”

  “Nope,” Longarm lied, “it’s just that I’ve had to handle mules that were just as balky as that printing press of yours, Mr. Dupree. I reckon I know how you must feel right about now. You want the loan of my Colt so’s you can shoot that infernal machine a time or two?”

  Dupree sighed. “No, I suppose that wouldn’t do any good. I can get the damned contraption working again with a little time and patience—two items of which I’m in short supply. So whatever you want, spit it out, man.”

  “I’m told there’s silver in these parts,” said Longarm. “Is that true?”

  Dupree rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you see the headframes of the mines on the slopes above the settlement as you rode in? I wouldn’t go so far as to say this field will be another Comstock Lode, but yes, there is silver to be had in this area.”

  “Good. I thought I might try my hand at mining.” Longarm put a worried frown on his face. “But I’ve heard tell that some gang of robbers has been stealing a lot of the silver shipments. What about that? Any truth to the rumor?”

  Instantly, Dupree’s expression changed. Longarm saw the nervousness come into the man’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said gruffly.

  “You being a newspaperman, I figured you’d have heard the stories—”

  “Well, I haven’t,” Dupree cut in. He flapped his ink-stained hands. “Nothing to it, as far as I know. Now, if that’s all ...” He turned back toward the press, clearly dismissing Longarm from his thoughts.

  Longarm wasn’t going to give up that easily. He said, “What about the law? Is there a marshal or sheriff around here?”

  Without looking around, Dupree snorted in contempt. “This was a ghost town until six months ago, mister. The nearest law is in either Virginia City or Reno, depending on which direction you want to go.”

  “You mean there’s not even a vigilance committee?”

  “People are too busy to worry themselves with such nonsense.”

  “Well,” said Longarm, “I don’t know if I want to settle here or not. I’m the mild-mannered sort, you know. Don’t care for trouble.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong damned place, all right,” snapped Dupree. He bent over and picked up his hammer, then glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. “Look, I’m busy. Is there anything else?”

  The rumble of Longarm’s stomach reminded him that he still hadn’t eaten. He asked, “Where can a fella get a good surrounding of chuck?”

  Dupree gestured with the hammer. “Four doors down on the left. The Chinaman’s place.” The newspaperman’s surly attitude eased a little as he went on. “It’s simple fare, fried steaks and potatoes for the most part, but you won’t find much better around here.”

  Longarm tugged on the brim of his hat. “Much obliged. I reckon I’ll see you around, Mr. Dupree ... if I decide to stay in Galena City.”