“Yes, sir. There’s a livery just one street over and three blocks down.” He pointed.

  Longarm hadn’t thought the town big enough to have three blocks in any direction, but apparently he was wrong about that. “Thank you, son. Sorry I disturbed your studies.” He touched the brim of his Stetson and strode out of the little hotel in search of that livery barn.

  Chapter 14

  Longarm wasn’t sure if he had walked into a livery stable or a social club. There were five old men sitting on chairs that looked like they must have come from a trash heap. Two of them were playing checkers. All were scratching their whiskers and spitting tobacco juice. Longarm smiled. It is a good thing to have friends.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, touching the brim of his Stetson and bowing his head in deference to their ages.

  “What can we do you for, sonny?” one of the checkers players asked.

  “Need t’hire a horse,” Longarm told him.

  “Cash money?”

  “As good as. I can offer you government scrip.”

  “What are you, a surveyor or something like that?”

  “Deputy U.S. marshal,” Longarm said.

  The old fellow grunted and stood, unfolding a lean and lanky frame. He was bowlegged and bewhiskered and looked old enough to have been neighbors with Methuselah. “I expect a U.S. marshal ain’t likely to cheat me. All right then. Let me show you what I got. Billy, don’t you be moving any of my pieces there. I know where ever’ damn one of them sets, and if you try and cheat me I’ll take a strop and whup your ass.” He turned his attention back to Longarm and said, “This way.”

  They went behind the barn, to a set of corrals. A dozen head or so of tall, handsome mules were there. So were three broad-rumped horses. “Take your pick,” the old man said.

  “You know ’em,” Longarm said. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  The old boy took a catch rope down from a peg on the barn wall and deftly shook out a small loop. As easy as if he were tossing a pebble, he made his throw. The loop dropped neatly over the head of a seal brown that was built like a bulldog, broad in both rump and chest and with a good forty-five-degree angle on the shoulder, suggesting a reasonably comfortable trot. Not that any trot is really comfortable.

  He bypassed a much more handsome—or anyway much flashier—black and a tall, red roan in favor of the rather drab brown horse. “You got anything against riding a mare, Marshal?”

  “No, sir. Not unless she’s in season.”

  “This one ain’t. She rides good and she’s steady.”

  “If you recommend her, that’s good enough for me,” Longarm said. “I’ll be needin’ tack on her too. I didn’t expect t’need a saddle this time out, so I left mine back in Denver.”

  The old man cackled. “Helluva town, Denver. I been there a couple times. Can’t hold a candle to San Francisco, though, when it comes to raising hell. You ever been to San Francisco, Marshal?”

  “I have,” Longarm said with a nod.

  “Got me some fine memories in San Francisco.” His grin widened. “Denver too for that matter. And Evanston. Why, I could tell you some things.... You ever smoke any of that opium stuff? I tell you true, Marshal, a pipe of that shit and a couple of those little China girls they got over there and a man could think he’d died and gone to Heaven.”

  While he was jabbering on, the old fellow was busy selecting a saddle from several hung on racks inside the barn, taking down and sorting out a bridle and reins, then getting the blocky little mare tacked up and ready to ride.

  “I’m gonna be charging you a dollar a day for the horse and fifty cents for the gear,” he said when he handed the reins to Longarm. “You take care with this little girl and bring her back sound when you’re done with her. We can settle up then.”

  Longarm adjusted the stirrups, gauging the length against his arm, then stepped into the saddle.

  The brown stood steady but stepped out nicely with a touch of the heel.

  Longarm touched the brim of his hat to the old fellow again as he rode away from the livery.

  Now, if he could just find this Netty person, maybe he could get a handle on why Moses Arthur was murdered.

  Chapter 15

  Longarm judged he was about halfway out to the Birdwell place when a bullet whined past his face. Seconds later he heard the sound of the shot. By that time he had reined the brown to a halt and turned, intending to shout at the simpleton whose careless shot came so near.

  It was only then that he discovered the shot was not a careless one. It was deliberately calculated to kill.

  A second bullet followed that first but was as poorly aimed as the other had been. This slug struck the brown mare in the side of the head. She dropped instantly, taking Longarm down with her.

  He kicked free of the stirrups before the dying horse hit the ground. He rolled away, then scuttled back again so he could hunker down behind the horse’s body.

  His Colt was in his hand although he had no conscious memory of drawing it.

  A wisp of white smoke hanging in the air above an outcropping of gray granite showed him clearly enough where the shots had come from, but the distance was impossibly far for a handgun.

  A little too far for a rifle too, at least for a rifle aimed by whoever it was who shot at him. Obviously the shooter was not a marksman.

  A really good shot might have been able to score a solid hit at that distance. Longarm estimated it to be a little more than two hundred yards. That range was certainly doable with something like a .50-100 buffalo gun, but with a .44 cartridge in a saddle carbine, a cartridge designed to be used in revolvers, shooting at that distance was a matter of wishes and luck.

  This time the luck was on Longarm’s side.

  He lay there, tight against the seat of the saddle where he would be protected, waiting for the shooter to come down to admire his handiwork, but that did not happen. Instead the sun sank lower and lower, eventually striking Longarm directly in the eyes.

  And then it was gone, taking the lingering daylight with it. Once the light was gone the night chill settled in. Longarm shivered and, disgusted, shoved his Colt back into leather.

  The shooter, whoever he might have been and whyever he wanted a deputy United States marshal dead, was long gone now, and Longarm had not gotten so much as a brief glimpse of him.

  Longarm stood, leaned down, and brushed himself off, then set about the rather unpleasant task of pulling the old liveryman’s saddle and bridle off the dead horse.

  Chapter 16

  Longarm’s feet hurt. Hurt like hell, in fact. He hated to think how they would have felt had he been wearing the tall heels and high arches of the boots normally favored by cowhands and wranglers. His cavalry boots were intended to allow troopers to fight dismounted and thus made the pain considerably less than it might have been.

  Even so . . . his feet hurt like hell, and he would have been very pleased to one more time run up against the bastard who shot at him.

  Longarm was not striding out quite as comfortably as he had to begin with and his feet were kicking up dust, as he made his way up the lane from the gate to the Birdwell place. It was just as had been described to him back in Medicine Bow: a set of tall gateposts with a board mounted overhead. There was just enough light from the stars and moon to let him make out the stylized bird burned into the board, flanked by Flying B brands on either side.

  The ranch headquarters consisted of a large and handsome two-story main house, barns and sheds on one side of the ranch yard, and the cookhouse and a low-roofed bunkhouse on the other side. Longarm wearily headed for the owner’s home.

  No lights showed anywhere on the place. But then it was probably well past midnight now. Sensible folks would be abed.

  Longarm mounted the steps onto a porch that ran across the front of the Birdwell house. He chose a wicker-back rocking chair and settled into it, tipping his hat over his eyes and crossing his arms. With any sort of luck he should be able to catch a little sleep before the family—and perhaps this mysterious Netty—woke up.

  Longarm heard stirrings inside the house before any lights came on. Through the open window close to his rocking chair he could smell a hint of baking bread and coal smoke. Obviously the Birdwell cook was up and busy.

  He stood, his knee cartilage popping, and carefully made his way down the steps in the near-dark of an approaching dawn. He was fairly proud of himself; he only tripped twice as he went around to the back of the house.

  There was a small utility porch on the back with a stand and washtub and—amazingly—a hand pump where the cook and washwoman could draw water. Longarm could see a little better by the time he got to the back of the house, either because his eyes were better adjusted or because of the increasing light. He climbed the three steps onto the porch and lightly knocked on the back door.

  Moments later the door was opened and light flooded the utility porch. “Sí?”

  Longarm frowned. No one had suggested that his missing Netty was Mexican.

  “Are you called Netty, ma’am?” He would have said it in Spanish but could not recall how to do that. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers in annoyance with himself and said, “Es su nombre Netty?”

  The cook shook her head and answered, “Mi nombre es Maria.”

  “Shit,” Longarm mumbled.

  Maria raised her eyebrows.

  “No, not . . . not you, ma’am. Mr. Birdwell. Can I see Mr. Birdwell, please?”

  Haltingly, Maria said, “The mister he not up.”

  “When he gets up, when he’s awake, tell him there is a deputy United States marshal out here that needs to see him.” The words sailed completely over the woman’s head, but when Longarm produced his badge and showed it to her, her eyes went wide and she grabbed a handful of apron and skirt before whirling around and dashing inside the house.

  The back door remained open, and Longarm could hear Maria’s footsteps pounding on a staircase somewhere inside.

  He leaned against the door frame—it had been a long and tiring night—and waited. Quickly, very quickly, a tall man with a mop of unkempt gray hair appeared.

  “What is this about you putting Maria under arrest?” he asked.

  Longarm chuckled. Then explained. Birdwell turned his head and called out something in Spanish that was much too rapid for Longarm to follow. Then he opened the door wide and said, “Come inside and have some breakfast with us. My wife may be able to help you. She will be down as soon as she is dressed. In the meantime you and I can have some coffee.”

  Longarm smiled. “I can’t tell you how good that sounds.” He removed his Stetson and stepped inside Maria’s kitchen.

  Chapter 17

  “I had just cause to fire her and that is all I shall say on the subject,” Ophelia Birdwell said, her chin high and lips primly compressed. Mrs. Birdwell was a rather stern woman and—Longarm sought a way to think of her charitably—not handsome. She was, in fact, homely. Figure like a beer barrel and a face that would stop clocks. Longarm marveled that Birdwell could abide waking up to that sight.

  Of course it was always possible that Mrs. Birdwell was a great asset to her husband. The poor sap might be getting up before dawn and sneaking out of the bedroom so he did not have light to see by. Imagining this woman naked . . . Longarm shuddered at the thought.

  He raised his cup and took a swallow of the coffee, reached for another biscuit and the honey pot. Biscuits and honey. By themselves not a bad way to start the day, and this meal included pork chops and fried potatoes too. He finished his third chop and, stuffed, pushed his plate away. He even refused Maria’s attempt to refill the coffee.

  “I’m full t’the top and thank you both,” he said. “You been most kind.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t help you,” Birdwell said. “The hands will be ready to ride out by now. My foreman is a man named Jess Moore. Tell him you’re to have a horse to get you back to town. Just leave it at the livery and one of us will pick it up the next time we’re in.”

  “That’s might nice of you,” Longarm said. He meant it quite sincerely. He had expected it, of course, but it was not something Birdwell was required to do. “I got one of the livery’s saddles back there by the dead horse, so if you’ll give me the loan of a bridle an’ bit, I’ll ride your animal bareback that far.”

  “Fine. Tell Jess what you need. He’ll fix you up.” Birdwell checked his watch and added, “You should go find him now before he rides out.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you again for your help.” Longarm bowed to the lady of the house and added his thanks to her too.

  Ophelia Birdwell sniffed—he suspected that expressed the woman’s attitude toward many things in her life—and nodded acceptance of his gratitude. Lordy, he could not imagine . . . He shook his head to clear away that sort of thinking. Shit, the mere thought of fucking Ophelia could put a man off sex for weeks. Months, maybe.

  “Please to excuse me, folks.” Longarm turned and left, by the front door this time.

  Feeling considerably better than when he’d walked into the yard, he ambled over to a corral where half a dozen hands were saddling their mounts in anticipation of the day’s work. These boys had it easy. It was already full daylight and they were just now getting started. A good many outfits had their hands riding out in darkness. Getting back after dark too, some of them.

  “Hello, mister,” one of the men said as he pulled on the cinch of a short coupled horse the color of mustard. “Where’d you come from?”

  Longarm ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Which one of you is Moore? The boss sent me to find him.”

  The cowhand shot his jaw in the direction of a gangly, balding man with a scraggly mustache and legs that were bowed so wide a calf could likely run through them without touching on either side. “That’s Jess.”

  “Thanks.” Longarm went over to the ranch foreman and introduced himself.

  Moore appeared to be skeptical about turning one of his horses over to a stranger, so Longarm explained his mission, but only mentioned losing the livery horse. He did not explain how.

  “All right. If the boss says so.” He turned his head and shouted, “Lafferty. Rope out that gray that Petey rode yesterday. This gentleman is gonna take it to get back to town. Put a bridle on it but no saddle.”

  The man named Petey nodded, tied his horse to a fence post, and went back into the corral.

  Moore looked back to Longarm and said, “Did you find out what you need to know about Netty?”

  “No, not really. Mrs. Birdwell just said she was fired for cause. She didn’t say what cause.”

  Moore chuckled. “I’ll just damn well bet you she didn’t.”

  “Sounds like there’s a tale that I should be knowin’ about this,” Longarm said.

  “Yeah, but it ain’t one that you’ll hear spoken about inside that house,” Moore said with a nod toward his employer’s handsome home.

  “And that tale would be . . . ?”

  “Netty is no spring chicken, but she’s a handsome woman, no doubt about it.” He laughed. “The boss, he thought so too. He got to tapping some of that. Getting it right regular, I guess, until the battle-axe walked in on the two of them one evening when she was supposed to be asleep in bed. The way I hear it, she woke up and was thirsty, so she went downstairs to tell Netty to fix her tea and a snack. She went into Netty’s room off the kitchen there, and what does she see but Jim Birdwell’s hairy ass humping up and down and Netty underneath him squeaking and squealing like she always done.” Moore’s grin got wider. “That was the last of Netty on this place. Damn near the end of Jim too. I’ll bet he hasn’t had a piece of ass since Netty got thrown off the place.”

  Longarm chuckled and said, “It sounds like you know something about how Netty acts when someone is in the saddle with her.”

  Moore shrugged. “She’s a good woman. Don’t mistake that, Marshal. It’s just that she likes men. Likes to please. And she isn’t selling it. It’s more like with her it’s, um, a friendly thing, I suppose you could say.”

  “Any idea where I could find her now?” Longarm asked.

  “Oh, hell yes.” He laughed. “Soon as Coon Morgan heard she was available, he hired Netty to cook for him and his two hands.”

  “Coon?”

  Moore nodded. “You’ll understand the name soon as you see Coon. He has these dark, dark circles around both his eyes. Makes him look like a raccoon. I think he’s been called that since he was a pup. I got no idea what his right name would be. All I ever heard him called was Coon.”

  “Can you tell me how to get to his place?” Longarm asked.

  “Easy as can be,” Moore said as the hand named Petey led a barrel-chested gray horse out of the corral and gave its reins to Longarm. “What you do is to go over this way . . .”

  Chapter 18

  Longarm needed to go to Coon Morgan’s ranch so he could speak with Netty, but he needed that saddle first, so he detoured back along the road to Medicine Bow until in the distance he could see the carcass of the livery stable’s brown mare.

  The dead horse was barely visible under a moving blanket of magpies and buzzards. But then in nature nothing goes to waste. Less than a day after the mare was killed she was about half-eaten. A few more days and there would be nothing left but bones. And the coyotes would soon scatter those all to hell and gone.

  Longarm sat balanced atop the borrowed gray for some time while he studied the country in a broad circle, with the brown’s carcass at the center.

  Whoever it was that shot at him yesterday could well have returned to plan another ambush, with the saddle and bridle as bait that Longarm could be expected to return to. If there was a trap, Longarm had no desire to walk into it.

  He sat and watched for the length of time it took him to smoke a cheroot, then he rode the rim of that imaginary circle, staying a quarter mile or so out from the mare and examining every rock, shrub, and cactus that might conceal a man with a rifle. He found nothing, but only when a very careful search was concluded did he rein the gray gelding toward the dead horse.