Longarm 242: Red-light (6 page)

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.

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.

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.”