Longarm - Longarm. Part 13

"I was scared! I'm still scared! You reckon I'm fixing to die?"

"Not for a few hours."

"You said you was going to bandage me. Ain't you aiming to?"

"No. Best to let the gas escape as it forms. You just lie there quiet. That fool Mountie over yonder's waving his hanky at me and I'd like to see what he wants." Longarm called out, "That's close enough, Foster!" and the Mountie halted, holding a white kerchief in his hand as he called back, "That wasn't my idea, Longarm. Did they kill him?"

"Nope. But you're starting to p.i.s.s me off. Why don't you all settle down and make some coffee or something? You know you daren't rush me before dark and somebody figures to get hurt with all this wild shooting."

"Longarm, it's not my job to have a bloodbath here. Why can't you listen to reason?"

"h.e.l.l, I'm about as reasonable as anyone for a hundred country miles. You'd best ride home to Canada before they turn on you, Foster, You ain't taking my prisoner, now that I have him. Not without killing a U.S. Deputy Marshal for your d.a.m.ned old queen!"

"d.a.m.n it! That's what I'm trying to prevent! This gunplay's not my idea, Longarm, but your only chance is to hand the prisoner over."

"You're not only p.i.s.sing me off, you're starting to bore the s.h.i.t out of me! It's tedious talking in circles and we've all had our say. So ride on out, or join in and be d.a.m.ned to you!"

The Canadian lawman walked back to the boulder that Timberline and the girl were behind. The wounded prisoner gasped, "What's going on?"

"Beats me. They'll likely jaw about it for a while. How are you feeling?"

"Terrible. It don't look like I'm gonna make it to Denver, does it?"

Longarm didn't answer.

"It's funny, but I ain't as scared now as I was. You reckon it's on account of I'm dying?"

"Maybe. Most men are more scared of it when it's coming than when it actually arrives. You might make it, though. I've seen men hit worse and they've pulled through."

"They say a man knows when he's sinking, but I can't tell. It's funny, but I'd rest easier if I knew for sure, one way or the other."

"Yep, I know what you mean. You got anything you'd like to get off your chest while there's still time, old son?"

"You mean, like a deathbed confession?"

"Must be some comfort to such since we get so many of 'em."

The wounded man thought a while, breathing oddly. Then he licked his lips and said, "You might as Well know, then. My name ain't Jones and I ain't from Cripple Creek."

"I figured as much. You're Cotton Younger, right?"

"No, my name is Raymond Tinker and I hail from Omaha, Nebraska."

"You ain't dying, boy. You're still s.h.i.tting me!"

"It's the truth. I told everybody my name was Jones 'cause I done some bad things in Nebraska."

"That where you started stealing cows?"

"Nope. Learnt to change brands about a year ago. What I done in Omaha was to cut a man."

"Cut him good?"

"Killed the old son of a b.i.t.c.h! He had it coming, too."

"Maybe. What was his name?"

"Leroy Tinker. The mean old b.a.s.t.a.r.d whopped me once too often."

"You say his name was 'Tinker?' Was he any kin to yourself?"

"Yep, my father. I told him I was too big to take a licking, but he never listened. Just kept comin' at me with that switch and that silly grin of his. He was still grinning when I put a barlow knife in his guts."

Longarm took another look through the loophole. The sun was low. If anyone had considered moving up or down the valley to scale the cliffs around them, the light would fail them before they got halfway to the top. He glanced at his smudge fire of oil shale. It was still sending up thick clouds of inky smoke. No need to put more shale on it. It'd burn past sundown.

The youth calling himself Raymond Tinker groaned and said, "You must be thinking I'm one ornery cuss, huh?"

"That's between you and the State of Nebraska. Patricide ain't a federal offense."

"You don't believe me. You think I made it up to get out of being Cotton Younger!"

"The thought crossed my mind. We'll settle it in Denver."

"You know I won't live long enough to get there, don't you?"

"Don't hardly matter. Either way, I aim to take you there."

"How-how you transport a dead man, Longarm? I know it's a dumb thing to worry about, considering, but I'd sort of like to know."

"Well, if you want to die on me, I can't stop you. It's cool up here in the high country, so you'll likely keep a few days before you get rank."

"Ain't there no way to keep me from stinking after I go? I smelled a dead man, once. I'd hate to think of myself smelling like that."

"It don't figure to bother you. I was at Shiloh, and the dead were rotting under summer rains. None of 'em sat up to apologize for the way they smelled, so they likely didn't care."

"That ain't very funny, Longarm."

"Never said it was. Shiloh was no laughing matter. If I can't pack you in ice, some way, I'll just remember you said it wasn't your own idea. You got any other old murder charges you'd like to unload, Raymond?"

"Nope. Never killed n.o.body but my father. Is changing brands a federal matter?"

"Not unless it's a cavalry horses brand. You're turning out to be a big disappointment to me, old son."

"I know, but it just come to me that I'm getting you lulled for no good reason. I mean, after I die, you can hand me over to them others and just ride out, right?"

"Wrong. For one thing, you ain't dead yet. For another, you're my prisoner, not theirs. You and them don't seem to get my point, no matter how many times I say it. I was sent to Crooked Lance to bring you in. That's my intention. Dead, alive, Younger, Jones, Tinker, or whomsoever, you can give your soul to Jesus but your a.s.s belongs to me!"

CHAPTER 19.

Sundown came without an attack from across the way. To make sure n.o.body had foolish nighttime notions, as soon as it was completely dark, Longarm sneaked out and built another firestack of oil shale well to the front of his breastwork, working silently in the dark. He pulled the slug from a cartridge with his teeth and laid a trail of gun powder toward the breastwork. It took him four cartridges to make it back to cover.

He struck a match and set the powder trail alight, rolling aside with a chuckle. Someone fired at the match flare as he'd expected.

The powder carried his flame to the shale pile and in a little while the s.p.a.ce out in front of him was illuminated in smudgy, orange light. It left the slope across the creek black as a b.i.t.c.h, but he hadn't been able to see anything that far, anyway, and anybody creeping in was asking for a bullet between the glow of his or her eyes. Longarm was of the opinion that anyone that foolish didn't deserve to go on breathing.

The prisoner coughed and asked, "What's going on?"

"Nothing. They'll likely wait us out till sunup before they make the next move."

"Be a good chance for you to make a break, wouldn't it?"

"Not hardly. Only way out of here is forward, into at least a dozen and a half guns."

"You couldn't climb the cliffs back there?"

"Not with you. And if I did, where would I go?"

"Longarm, I thought my Pa was stubborn, but you got him beat by a mile. Don't you know they'll be shooting down on you an hour or less after sunup?"

"Take 'em longer than that. Be nine or ten before they can work up the cliffs behind me."

"Then we'll both be dead, huh? I feel all empty-like below the belt line, now. I doubt I'll last 'til sunup."

"Why don't you try? I'll never speak to you again if you up and die on me, boy."

The dying man laughed bitterly and said, "You've been joking, but joining softer since I got hit. What's the matter, do you feel sorry for me now?"

"Never was mad at you. Just doing my job."

"You never cussed me out for killing my own father. I've been ashamed to tell anybody, even the friends I rode with."

"You rode into Crooked Lance with friends, Raymond?"

"No. I never lied about that part. I've been alone since my partner got caught up near the Great Northern line. I was working my way south to meet some other rustlers... all right, cow thieves, in Bitter Creek. You was right about that running iron being foolish, but I never expected to get caught with it."

"Most folks don't. Tell me about your friends in Bitter Creek. Does one of 'em pack a.30-30 rifle?"

"Don't suspicion so. I can't tell you their names. It's against our code."

"The rifle's all I care about. You reckon them other cow thieves waiting for you in Bitter Creek would be serious enough to gun some folks? Say a Missouri sheriff's deputy or a U.S. Deputy Marshal?"

"h.e.l.l, they likely took off like big-a.s.s birds when I got caught. Don't you reckon?"

"Maybe. That's part of the cow thief's code, too. I want you to think before you lie to me about this, boy. I won't press you about who these friends of yours was if you'll tell me one true. Was any one of 'em from Missouri?"

"No. I ain't giving anything away by telling you one was from Nebraska like me. The other was a Mormon boy from Salt Lake City."

"Hmm, if I buy that, neither would have reason to pick off folks who knew their way around Clay County. You'd best rest a mite. I don't like the way you're breathing."

Longarm sat silently in the dark, digesting what the dying youth had told him. He a.s.sumed that most of what his prisoner had told him might be true. But someone had gunned two lawmen from Missouri and at least one man who knew the James boys on sight.

It couldn't be Frank or Jesse James. He'd managed to get at least a glimpse of everyone in or about Crooked Lance and the James boys were not only better at holdups than acting, but were known to Longarm at a glance. He'd studied the photographs of both men more than once.

The prisoner gasped, "Longarm, do you reckon there's really a place like h.e.l.l?"

"Don't know. Never planned on going there if I could help it."

"If there's a h.e.l.l, it's likely where I'm headed, for I was birthed mean and grew up ugly. The good book says it's wrong for a boy to love his mama, don't it?"

"h.e.l.l, you're supposed to love your mama."

"all the way? I mean, like sort of fooling with her?"

"Are you telling me that's what you and your pa had words about?"

"h.e.l.l, no, he never caught us. Ma and me was careful. We only done it when he was off hunting or something."

"But you did commit incest, hombre?"

"I don't know what we committed, but I purely screwed her every chance I got. She showed me how when I was about thirteen. Said I was hung better'n Pa. You reckon I'll have to answer for that, where I'm headed?"

"Don't know. What you want is a preaching man, old son. I don't write the laws. I just see that they're obeyed."

"Well, couldn't you pretend to be a preaching man, d.a.m.n it? I mean, I'd take it kindly if you'd say a prayer over me or something. It don't seem fitting for a man to just lie here dying like this without somebody says something from the good book."

Longarm searched his memory, harking back to a West Virginia farmhouse where gentle, care-worn hands had tucked him in at night. He shrugged and began, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."

By the time he'd finished, the invisible form at his knees had stopped breathing. Longarm felt the side of his prisoner's throat for a pulse and there didn't seem to be one. He sniffed and muttered, "Never thought I'd miss a poor little p.i.s.sant like you, but you left me with a long, lonesome night ahead of me."

But the night did pa.s.s, and in the cold gray light of dawn nothing moved across the way, though once, when the breeze shifted, Longarm thought he smelled coffee brewing. It reminded him he had to keep up his own strength, so he gnawed jerked venison, washed down with flat canteen water, as he watched for movement across the creek.

If they tried to talk some more it meant more precious time. If they didn't, it meant more than one of them was working around behind him. How long would it take to work to the top of a strange cliff a quarter of a mile high? It was anybody's guess.

The sun was painting the opposing clifftops pink when Foster showed himself once more. He called out, "Longarm?"

"We're still here, as you likely figured. What do you want?"

"Timberline and some of the others are working up to the rim rocks above you. You haven't a chance of holding out till noon!"

"I can try. What's your play pilgrim?"

"I've been talking to Kim Stover and some of the cooler heads. If you give up now, we can probably work out a compromise. Frankly, this thing's getting uglier than we intended."