Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (11 page)

“What do you want, Marshal?” Her voice was rough enough to cut wood.

“I'm closing you down,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me. By the authority vested in me, I am hereby declaring this saloon closed.”

“Why . . . you can't do any such of a thing.”

“The hell you say,” he replied. “I've just done it.”

“How long do you want me to close?” she asked.

“Until I tell you otherwise,” he told her. “Until we can figure out a way t' keep these Meskins an' Basques from killing each other.”

“I don't have anything to do with that,” the woman rasped.

“Maybe not direct you don't,” Longarm agreed, “but the whiskey an' beer you're servin' in here sure helps t' fire'em up. So I'm shutting your doors for the duration. I'll come back and let you know when you can open up again.”

“The town council will have something to say about this,” she snarled. “Then we shall see about this supposed authority of yours.”

“Until then you'd damn sure better close down and stay shut,” Longarm told her.

Without any further argument, he spun on his heels and marched out again—on his way to Rosie's to deliver the same message to keep the Basques from getting liquored up with false bravery.

When he was done there, with much the same unhappy compliance, he returned to the rear of the courthouse to finally retrieve John Tyler's lunch.

The basket was where he had left it. The food was not. But some very contented town dogs were lolling in the shade not very far away.

No, sir, it just plain was not his day, Longarm figured, as he turned and headed back to the café to get the lunch basket refilled.

“Where's my dish towel, damn you?”

“I lost it.”

“Then you'll damn well pay for a new one.”

Longarm sighed. “Put it on my bill.”

“Damn right I will.”

“Now, make me another lunch an' load it in this basket, will you. The first one got the same kinda lost as your dish towel.”

The café owner grunted. “Give me a minute. And this time don't lose the damn towel.”

“I promise,” Longarm assured the man. Five minutes later he walked past a group of sullen Mexican goatherds, descended the stairs to the courthouse basement, and rapped twice on the door before he opened it.

Sheriff Tyler was behind his desk with a shotgun aimed squarely at the doorway. It would take a concerted effort for anyone to get inside, and people would have to die for the task to be accomplished. Longarm doubted that the Mexicans were so attached to their compadre Altameira that they were willing to risk death in an attempt to free him.

“I brought you some lunch,” Longarm said, hefting the basket. “Actually I brought you two lunches. Some town dogs got the first one.” He filled Tyler in on what had taken place on the street earlier.

“Figured it ain't a good idea for either crowd to be get-tin' liquored up today, so I shut down both Doris's and Rosie's places. Told 'em I'd let them know when they can open up again.”

“You know, don't you, that you have no authority to do such a thing,” Tyler said.

Longarm grinned. “D'you know, that's the same thing they told me at both them places.”

“Yes, but you really don't.”

Longarm shrugged. “They're gonna take it up with the town council, whenever that will be. If the town council says they can reopen, I'll appeal to whatever judge rides this circuit. That should hold things off plenty long enough for us to get this bullshit resolved, one way or the other.”

“Dogs are important to those people,” Tyler said. “I'm surprised they didn't start the ball there in the street this morning.”

“They come awful close, John. Awful close.” Longarm set the food basket on the desk in front of Tyler.

“Thanks, but Nell brought my lunch down to me.”

“Shit, I shoulda thought of that.” Longarm peeled back the towel laid over the top of the basket, reached in, and brought out a slice of ham and a biscuit. He carefully separated the biscuit into top and bottom halves, put the slice of ham in between and leaned back while he enjoyed a second lunch himself. He damned sure was not going to try to return the lunch to the café. Not after those dogs carried the first one off.

“What I can't figure out, John,” he said, crumbs of flaky biscuit trickling down onto his vest, “is why these two bunches are so set on fightin' one another. It ain't like there isn't grass an' water enough for both of 'em in this valley. You would think they could get along, no more than there are of them and as much grass as there is up there.” He sighed. “Maybe Anthony and me can get a handle on it all when we ride up there tomorrow morning.”

Longarm finished the basket lunch then stood. “I'm gonna go see if that barber is done fooling around with the mortal remains of . . . what was his name? Corrales? . . . so's I can get me a shave before I scratch my damn chin bloody. Then, if you don't mind, I'll come back here an' bunk down in that vacant cell back there, so I'll be able to take over the guard duty from you this evening. If anything happens, give a shout. I'll come running.”

“I don't really expect any trouble,” Tyler said, “but it's good to know you will be back there anyway.”

Longarm picked up the now empty basket and headed for yet another trip to the café.

Longarm returned to the jail feeling considerably less itchy and smelling of Pinaud Clubman. The goatherds and one dog were still gathered at the front of the courthouse, but they were quiet. Sullen but quiet. He considered running them off with the threat of loitering charges—if there was such a thing in Dwyer, and if there was not, there should be—but that might only make things worse. At least if they were that close by, he knew where they were and what they were up to. If he sent them somewhere else, there was no telling what trouble they might get into.

He settled for letting them get a good look at him and at the McConnell County deputy's badge he had pinned to his coat. The badge more than made up for his lack of Spanish; it spoke volumes in any language.

He stood at the top of the steps down into the sheriff's office for a few moments then went down, rapped lightly on the door, and went inside.

“Everything all right?” Tyler said.

Longarm nodded. “So far so good.”

“Are those Mexicans still up there?”

Longarm nodded again.

“Do you want to get Anthony to talk to them?”

“No,” Longarm said, “I don't think so. They aren't causing any trouble, really, and I figure they're just there to stay close to their pal Julio. They ain't all worked up in a fury or nothin'. I don't think they got thoughts o' breaking him out or anything. Though I expect they might think of that if they was to get all liquored up. Which is why I shut Doris down. The less they drink, the better off we are.”

He yawned and stretched. “If you don't mind, John, I'll go back there to your cells an' lay down. Get a little shuteye. I'll try an' wake up in time for you to go home and have one of your lady's fine meals. Then you can come back and relieve me in the morning so's Anthony and me can try and make some sense of this feuding an' fussing.”

“Go ahead,” Tyler said.

“One thing, John. Was I you, I think I'd bolt that door. If they do get worked up and try to bust Altameira out of here, they'll come in a rush.”

“All right, Longarm. You have more experience with this sort of thing than I ever want to.” Tyler stood and took his shotgun with him while he went to the door and locked it, then slid the bolt closed for that much extra security.

Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson in Tyler's direction then went back to the cells, where Julio Altameira was moping in a corner. If the man was this depressed from being in a county cell, Longarm suspected he would not do well once he got into the brutal confinement of a prison.

Of course the stupid son of a bitch might get lucky and be hanged instead.

With that cheery thought in mind, Longarm removed his hat and coat—but kept the county's shotgun close to hand—and lay down on the hard and too short bunk to get a little sleep while he had the chance.

Later, John Tyler brought him one of Nell's homemade dinners—a huge step up from what Longarm was accustomed to—and he locked up for the night. He then spent a boring evening sitting at Tyler's desk, and about one o'clock he returned to the empty cell to catch some more sleep while he had the chance.

Longarm woke up with Helen Birch on his mind and a raging hard-on in his britches. He had a thirst that was almost as demanding. The Mexican prisoner in the adjacent cell was sitting on the bunk staring at him, but Longarm did not know if that was because Altameira was afraid of what the lawman might do . . . or if the sorry son of a bitch was in awe of Longarm's tent pole–sized erection.

When Longarm said, “Good morning,” the fellow turned his head and pretended he had not been staring.

Longarm left Altameira to his own dark thoughts and went back to his vigil behind John Tyler's desk. Shortly after sunup, the McConnell County sheriff returned to his office. He brought Longarm a plate of breakfast and a pitcher of hot coffee.

“Nell's coffee is a whole lot better than what I make here,” Tyler said with a smile, “so I thought I would spare you the experience of drinking mine.”

“Thoughtful of you, John,” Longarm told him. He walked over to the water bucket, chose a tin mug from the selection hanging there, and poured himself a cup of the wonderfully aromatic beverage, then dug into the spread Nell had sent.

“Y'know, John,” he said around a mouthful of sausage and golden brown toast, “that woman of yours would be worth marryin' even if she wasn't pretty as a sunrise. You're a lucky man.”

Tyler beamed as if the compliment had been for him and not his wife.

“Are you gonna be all right here today, d' you think?” Longarm asked.

“I'm fine.”

“Are those Mexicans still hanging around outside?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Not yet, but it's early. They might show up. That would be bad, but it'd be worse if the Basques come.”

“I'm thinkin' if the Basques want to kill Altameira, they won't come in a bunch, John. They'll send Eli Cruikshank to do their blood work. That boy strikes me as bein' real seriously salty. If he comes, don't let him taunt you out of this hole. He can't get you through a closed door, and they can't burn a stone building down over you, so just stay shut inside here till I come back.”

“Do you think it could come to that, Longarm?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” he answered with a grimace and a nod. Longarm used the last bite of toast to mop up the egg yolk left on his plate, then sat back and rubbed his belly. “Mighty fine, John, thank you. Is there any more of that good coffee left?”

“Plenty,” Tyler said, tipping the pitcher over Longarm's cup.

“I'll treat myself to this, then go fetch Anthony and start the day.” He shook his head. “I just can't figure why those Mexicans are so set on running the Basques out of here when there's grass and water enough for both. Shit, cattlemen have it in mind that sheep ruin the graze for cows, but there's no such feelings about goats, dammit. Nor the other way around. Sheep and goats can graze side by side and no harm to either. So why pick this fight?”

“Maybe you and Anthony can get some answers today,” Tyler said.

“If we're damn lucky,” Longarm said, standing and squatting down a few times to get the circulation moving in his legs.

He touched the butt of his Colt to assure himself that the revolver was in the exact spot where he liked it, put his coat on, and reached for his Stetson.

“If you will excuse me, John, I got work t' do.”

“I'll guard the fort till you get back. Whoa, wait a minute. Aren't you forgetting something?”

Longarm stopped by the door and looked back at the county sheriff.

“Don't you want to take the shotgun with you?”

Longarm shook his head. “We'll be out in the open today. If anything happens, it'll be at long range.”

“A rifle then?”

“Got my own saddle Winchester, thanks. We'll be fine.”

“All right then. Good luck.”

“Don't forget now. Lock this door and bolt it behind me. Don't let nobody in except for me or Nell.”

“Yes, Mother,” Tyler said with a grin. “Nobody in but you or Nell. Now quit worrying and go see if you can learn anything from those goatherds.”

Longarm left, closing the door behind him. He did not mount the steps, though, until he heard the scrape of the bolt being thrown behind him. Only then did he return to the little barn behind Tyler's house to fetch the dun horse and his gear.

Anthony DeCaro was saddled and ready when Longarm got to the livery. “Where are we going?” he asked, then swung into his saddle. He was riding a wild-eyed Appaloosa that looked like it had more spirit than sense.

“North,” Longarm said. “The Basques are pretty much unified and Eli speaks English, but there's no such luck with the Mexicans. Aside from none of 'em seeming to speak English, them and their goats are scattered all to hell and gone.”

“There are two or three of them that have some influence though,” DeCaro said.

“You know them?”

DeCaro nodded. “Not well, but . . . yeah. I'd have to say that I know them. They put their horses up with me when they intend to stay overnight with one of Doris's whores.”