Longarm #396 : Longarm and the Castle of the Damned (9781101545249) (5 page)

“That's right. It was busted clean open. One hinge was broken. The other hinge was a strip of leather tacked in place. That one held.”

Longarm grunted, then asked, “Did you see anyone around when you first saw the smoke?”

John shook his head. “Not that I noticed.”

By then the firemen had the fire under control. They pumped the rest of their water onto the charred remains of Moses Arthur's home, rolled up their hose, wheeled the fire cart around, then dragged it off toward whatever they used for a firehouse.

Longarm considered waiting for the ruined structure to cool enough that he could poke around inside, but there really was not much point. Whatever Mose might have had in there was gone now. Whatever secrets the old man wanted to impart were beyond salvaging. He was dead, and anything he might have hidden in his shack was burned up.

Longarm was scowling as he walked back to his hotel.

Medicine Bow, that man last night had said. Moses's daughter lived in or near Medicine Bow. Perhaps she knew what got her father killed.

It was worth a ride out there on the next westbound to find out. Longarm figured he owed the old man that much anyway. And whoever killed Moses Arthur had committed a federal crime when he interfered with a witness.

Not that Longarm knew just what Moses was a witness to, but still and all. It was a federal offense, and he had not only the right but a sworn duty to pursue the matter.

He lengthened his stride.

“Say, you're the U.S. marshal, aren't you?”

Longarm stopped. He was on his way out of the hotel, carpetbag in hand. “I am. Do you need me for something?”

“I most surely do,” the tall, neatly dressed fellow said. “I need to know who will pay for Moses Arthur's burial. I'm an undertaker, you see, and I have the old man laid out nice and peaceful with not a bullet hole in sight. But I need to know where to plant him and who will pay for it.”

“What do you usually do when somebody dies a pauper?”

“We have a county-owned plot of ground. That's for folks with no family and no money left behind. But Moses had a daughter.”

“You knew him well?” Longarm asked.

“Oh, no. I mean, everybody knew him, sort of. I saw him from time to time, but I never spoke to him that I recall.”

“But you know he had a daughter?”

“Just from her letter. Girl named Netty.”

Longarm set his carpetbag down on the hotel porch and tipped his Stetson back a mite. “Letter?”

“Sure. In his pocket,” the undertaker said. “Naturally I removed his clothes before I, um, worked on the corpse. Replacing fluids and so on. So I had to take his things off. The letter was in his pants pocket. Right front if you really want to know.”

“Where is this letter now?”

“In my front room,” the undertaker said.

“Wait here a minute while I put my bag inside. Then I want you to take me over to your office and show me that letter.”

“Marshal, I don't mean to be pushy, but what I need to know is who will pay for the burying. I have expenses, you know. Professional fluids. A box. The hire of a laborer to open a grave. I have expenses.”

“What does the county pay?”

“Only four dollars. That's barely enough to cover my direct cost. I was thinking . . . the federal government and everything . . . I was thinking you should pay six dollars for me to take care of Moses.”

“I'm not authorized to commit the government of the United States to such an amount. But you can submit your request for payment to the attorney general's office in Washington City.” Longarm struggled to suppress a grin when he said that. If this fellow waited for payment out of Washington for a request like this . . . The expression “until Hell freezes over” came to mind.

“You'll give me that address?”

“Be glad to,” Longarm said, pulling a cheroot out of his inside coat pocket. “And you will give me the letter Moses was carrying, right?” He nipped the twist off the end of his cheroot, struck a match, and got his smoke alight.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Follow me, please.”

The undertaker led the way with Longarm striding behind.

“Medicine Bow. Next stop Medicine Bow. Ten minutes while we take on water. Medicine Bow. Next stop Medicine Bow. Ten minutes . . .” The conductor passed on through the car and beyond, delivering his message as he went.

The train began to slow, the cars clanking and clattering as their momentum caused each to crash into the coupling of the car ahead. Longarm waited until the train had slowed to a crawl before he stood and got his bag down from the overhead rack.

The mixed freight and passenger train stopped, backed up a few feet, stopped again, and inched forward as the engineer aligned the water sluice with the open receiver on the engine. Once he was sure the train was stopped for good, Longarm made his way down to the covered platform beside the tiny shack that served as the depot at Medicine Bow, Wyoming Territory. He was the only passenger who left the train at the little community.

Medicine Bow consisted of half a dozen or so businesses—two of those being saloons—and perhaps two dozen houses, plus what looked to be five or six acres of cattle pens and loading chutes.

Longarm displayed his badge to the fellow who served as both telegrapher and ticket seller inside the depot building. “Mind if I leave my bag here for a spell?”

“Be glad to oblige, Marshal, but you should know that I lock up at six. No one will be here until six tomorrow morning.”

“Not even a telegraph operator?” Longarm asked.

The clerk, a young man who was struggling, with rather limited success, to raise a mustache crop under his nose, shook his head. “I'm all there is. Six days a week. I'm here from six to six.” He grinned. “More or less.”

“What happens if you get sick?”

“Then they send a relief operator down from Evanston. But that's only happened once. Was there something else I could do for you, Marshal?”

“No, that's fine. Thanks.” Longarm started to turn away, then paused and asked, “Do you happen to know a woman named Netty?”

“Any idea what that would be short for?”

“No, sir,” Longarm said. “All I know is Netty. Where do you get your mail here? Do you have a post office?”

“What we got is a postal contractor,” the helpful clerk said. “That would be Seth Greaves, over to the grocery.”

“The post office is in a grocer's store?” Longarm asked.

The clerk grinned and said, “Politics. Who knows who and all that sort of thing.”

“Politics I understand,” Longarm said. “You don't have to say more.” He thanked the clerk and left the depot for the short, wide business street of Medicine Bow. Short because there just were not all that many businesses to accommodate, and wide because this was essentially a cow town with its commercial affairs coming from either the railroad or from cattlemen loading their beeves onto railroad cars. The animals needed plenty of room when they were hazed through town to the pens.

Greaves Greengrocers, Fine Meats and Seafoods was easy enough to find. The building was a large, two-story clapboard affair with a sign over the porch overhang declaring all the wonderful things Seth offered to his customers. Including in smaller print at the bottom of the sign, UNITED STATES POST OFFICE.

Longarm crossed the wide street and walked the half block west to Greaves's store.

A middle-aged man with a paunch and a splendid mustache that must surely have been the envy of the young railroad clerk greeted the newcomer. “Afternoon, sir. How can we help you today?”

We? There was no one else visible in the store. But perhaps, Longarm thought, the man had a mouse in his pocket.

He approached the counter and again displayed his badge. Seth Greaves stood a little straighter and took on a more serious expression when he saw that. “Yes, Marshal?”

“I'm lookin' for a woman . . . I don't know how old . . . who goes by the name of Netty. I figure if she lives anywhere around here she'll be getting her mail through you, so mayhap you would know who she is and where I can find her.”

Greaves frowned in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't have any patrons with that name. Sounds like somebody's pet name though. Any idea what it'd be short for?”

“No, sir, I don't,” Longarm admitted.

“Important that you find her?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Got a last name?” Greaves asked.

“No, sir. Far as I know, that could be it.”

“Well I can tell you certain sure that we got no postal patrons with Netty for a last name. If you could give me the right first name, I might be able to put a last name with it, but I'd have to have more than just the nickname.”

“All right,” Longarm said. “How about the last name Arthur?”

Greaves shook his head. “Sorry. I don't know of anyone with that name, but if you think of anything else, I'd be proud to help you,” he said.

Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson by way of a thank-you and went back outside.

With only that name to go on, finding Moses Arthur's Netty might not be as simple as Longarm had hoped.

Longarm checked his Ingersoll. There might yet be enough time for him to find Mose Arthur's Netty—He just did not know where to look.

What he did know was that someone had had a reason to murder the old man. Good, bad, or just plain stupid—there was a reason behind it. Longarm wanted to know that reason, first because Arthur had been a potential witness before a federal peace officer, and second, perhaps even more compelling, because the murder had taken place practically under his nose, which just plain offended the shit out of Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long. That was the long and the short of it.

Mindful that the railroad depot would close in a few hours, he headed down the street, and turned in at the first of Medicine Bow's two saloons.

It was nearly dark inside the place and cool after the heat of the sun. The scents were pleasantly familiar. Sawdust and suds. The yeasty smell of beer and the sharper smell of cheap whiskey. Traces of perfume hung in the air too, suggesting that a man could buy more than a drink in the place.

Longarm suspected the saloon would be a beehive of activity once the beef shipping season got under way. Now, however, there was only a portly man wearing a no-longerwhite apron and one customer propped up on the brass rail that ran in front of the bar.

“What can I get you, mister?”

“Got rye whiskey?”

“Course I do. Glass or a bottle for you, friend?”

“Just a glass will do me, thanks.” Longarm dug out a quarter and got back a small glass of golden rye and ten cents change.

The bartender slid a bowl of peanuts down the bar so Longarm could reach them, and said, “Funny thing. Two strangers in one day. Cowhands and cattle buyers we get, but not generally two strangers passing through.”

“How do you know I'm not a buyer?” Longarm asked.

The bartender shrugged. “You don't got the look. Besides, it isn't the time of year for the buyers to come in.”

“Ship a lot of beef out of here, do they?” Longarm asked, taking up his rye. He held the glass under his nose to take in the scent, then allowed a small quantity of the whiskey to trickle past his lips, held it on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. Damn, but it was good.

“I have a question if you don't mind,” Longarm said.

“Sure. Anything.”

The other patron tapped his mug on the bar, and the bartender held a finger up to Longarm. “Just a moment.”

Longarm nodded and took another small sip. After his overindulgence in Cheyenne, he wanted to go slow with the liquor this time.

The barman plucked the empty mug off the bar, tugged on a tap, and filled it. Longarm noticed that he let the suds overflow so that the mug was filled to the rim with dark, foaming beer. Full measure. The deputy U.S. marshal liked that. The bartender came back to stand in front of him. “Now, what is that question?”

“I'm lookin' for someone named Netty. That's all I know. Just Netty. Would you know anyone like that?”

“Now, that is the strangest damn thing,” the bartender said. “Remember I said you're the second stranger in town today? Well that other fella asked the same question. He's looking for somebody called Netty too.”

“What did you tell him?”

The man shrugged. “Same thing I got to tell you. I don't know anybody by that name.”

“Shit,” Longarm grumbled.

“Have you asked Sam Greaves over at the post office?”

Longarm nodded. “That was my first stop. Mr. Greaves said the name was new to him. Now, I'm thinking it must be a nickname. Something like that.”

“Excuse me,” the man standing nearby said. He was tall, with full whiskers but neatly trimmed, and he was not dressed like a saddle bum. Did not look much like a town merchant either. His voice was friendly enough though. Very polite.

“Do you want a refill already, Chuck?” the barman asked.

“No, I'm still good here. I was talking to that other fellow.”

“Me?” Longarm asked.

“That's right. You asked about somebody called Netty, right?”

“I sure did.”

The man moved closer, dragging his mug with him. He took a peanut out of the bowl and carefully took the meat out of the shell, his fingers busy with that task while he spoke. “I heard such a name,” he said.