Longarm - Longarm On The Fever Coast Part 8

CHAPTER 12.

So a good time was had by all, and Norma said it was a good thing she was riding sidesaddle as they rode out at the crack of dawn after hardly any sleep. She'd changed into a more practical riding habit of tan whipcord from her Saratoga trunk, although she said she hoped to have a fresh white uniform from the laundry in town on tap as soon as they got her back to her fever ward.

Longarm was right about the country rising drier on the far side of that inland trail he'd followed down from Corpus Christi. He was right about them being forced to have coffee and cake, at least, at the half-dozen spreads they managed to visit along the way. But all the stock they pa.s.sed seemed fit enough in the bright morning light.

Then, just as Longarm was about convinced the lying Baldwin must have trailed sick stock up out of Old Mexico, they met two rancheros in a row who said they'd had their own branded stock returned to them by Constable Purvis after that surprisingly honest Mister Doyle had thrown down on that cow thief.

Longarm let it go the first time, but asked the second stockman with the same story why he'd been so surprised to hear Pryce & Doyle were honest meat packers.

He was told, "Oh, n.o.body never said they was outright crooks. But few of us like to do business with such hard bargainers. We ain't no ignorant greasers raising cows for hides and tallow. We read the market quotations in the newspapers the same as everyone else, and it's no secret the price of beef is up, way up, this year."

Longarm nodded and said, "Pryce & Doyle don't want to pay the going rates?"

To which the Texican replied with a scowl, "They ain't willing to pay last year's rates. They seem to feel they got a monopoly here as the only meat packers within miles. But I've been driving my own beef up to Corpus Christi on the hoof. It may be a bother, and I may have had to hire some extra hands, but fair is fair and I'd as soon break even selling beef in Corpus Christi than get slickered by d.a.m.n Yankees rich enough to make their own d.a.m.ned ice!"

They thanked the irate stockman for the information and rode on. They crossed that same tidal creek, and Longarm showed her where Consuela's dad had been attacked by that gator. Norma said she doubted reptiles caught Malta fever, and that even if they did, it hadn't ought to make them go mad like dogs with hydrophobia.

As they got into town they parted friendly, or at least as friendly as Victorian folks felt proper in public. She made him promise to drop by her fever ward before he left town again, whether he found out anything more about the plague or not.

Longarm was more worried about lying cow thieves who might or might not have back-shooting pals still out there. So while he still hoped to tie the gang into any infected stock from Old Mexico, he headed back to that chandlery on the waterfront to mostly ask old Gordo if anyone ever called him Chino.

This time the reception was friendlier. The fat chandler hauled Longarm into the back, and sat him at a kitchen table to pour him some pulque and yell at his womenfolk for some grub for their guest.

When Longarm said he'd been eating all morning, Gordo insisted he have something anyway, explaining, "A messenger from Corpus Christi got through to us a few minutes after you had left, El Brazo Largo. I hope you won't tell La Bruja we were rude to you on purpose!"

Longarm smiled and replied, "If you don't make me eat no more. Should anyone ever ask, my only honest answer would have to be that it takes a smart man to play convincingly dumb."

He sipped some pulque--another acquired taste some compared to alcoholic snot, although it was mostly fermented agave--and just said right out he was looking for a Mex cow thief called Chino who'd been riding with the Anglo outlaw caught next door a short spell back.

Gordo answered simply, "We heard about it. They had the stolen stock in the vacant lot down on the other side of us. I did not wish for to get any of us into it. So we stayed inside during most of the excitement. But I don't think anybody riding with the one they caught was of La Raza. Chino can mean Chinaman as well as a Mexican with a moon face and muy indio eyes, no?"

Longarm finished off as much of his pulque as he meant to, and got back to his feet. "A regular Chinaman riding the owlhoot trail sounds even wilder than a Mex, no offense. Maybe I can get some answers next door, at that meat-packing plant Baldwin got his fool self arrested in. Is it all right with you if I leave my mount out front for now?"

Gordo grinned and said, "No. When you wish for to ride again you will find El Brazo Largo's caballo out back, watered and fed fresh corn I save for such honored guests!"

So they shook on it and Longarm went back outside. The sun was almost directly overhead now, and some drunk was already holding up the corner of the meat-packing plant with his back, wrapped in a red serape with his big straw sombrero down over his face to keep the sun out of his eyes.

Longarm had to explore some before he found a sheet-metal-covered door that wasn't locked on the inside. The one he found had a sign that said, "Office." So he knocked, and when n.o.body answered, went on inside. He found himself at the foot of a long wooden stairway. As he mounted it he saw a few c.h.i.n.ks in the vertical planking to his left, the wall to his right being solid brick. When he paused to peer through a knothole, he saw a cavernous s.p.a.ce that reminded him of that cold-storage hold aboard the northbound steamer. The same brine pipes, frosted with ice, ran along the far brick wall. At least a hundred sides of beef hung down there on hooks you could roll along the overhead network of single rails. Longarm was more interested in such industrial details than some, but he wasn't there to study meat packing, so he went on up to the second floor and knocked on a frosted gla.s.s door. A male voice invited him in, calling out, "It's open."

The older but still spry-looking gent in his late forties regarding him from behind a desk like Billy Vail's was sitting in his shirt and vest with his expensive frock coat and pearl-gray hat hung up near the window on the far side of him. When Longarm introduced himself, the man identified himself as Mister Doyle of Pryce & Doyle, poured them both some real bourbon, and asked how he might be of service to the federal government.

Doyle's bourbon was good and his manners were polite, but Longarm got the feeling he was wasting time. Doyle told the same tale to Longarm as he had to everyone else. He'd only seen Clay Baldwin when the rough-hewn cuss had surprised the h.e.l.l out of him with an offer of stolen beef-cows, as close as Doyle could recall the tally. He said the local law had read the brands and cut up the herd the outlaws had left behind in a salt marsh on their way to parts unknown. He suggested Longarm check the exact tally with Constable Purvis. But he was sure none of the cows recovered had worn those fancier brands Mexican stockmen went in for, and allowed he'd never heard of anyone, Anglo or Mexican, called Chino.

Longarm agreed Clay Baldwin had been known to fib about a lot, and then said, "Let's talk about sick cows, whether stolen or bought fair and square. You'd have noticed if any of the cows you slaughtered and butchered here were sweating like h.e.l.l, shivering even harder, and so forth, right?"

Doyle pursed his lips. "It should have been reported to me, of course. Naturally I don't do any butchering myself these days."

But when Longarm asked if he might talk to the hands who did, the meat packer told him, "You'll have to come back tomorrow, when my senior partner and head butcher get back. They're on a buying trip further west, hoping to make up our next shipment at the right price."

Longarm smiled thinly and said, "I was told you gents drove a hard bargain, no offense. Stockmen around here seem to feel they'd as soon drive their beef on up the coast. Where do you reckon Clay Baldwin or his mysterious pard Chino got the notion you'd be in the market for even cheaper beef?"

Doyle looked less friendly as he primly replied, "I'm not sure I like your tone, Deputy Long! Isn't it mighty obvious that we'd have simply bought that beef from Baldwin if that was our game? I'll have you know I threw down on him and turned him over to the law after he offered that stock at five dollars a head C.O.D. after dark!"

Longarm nodded soberly. "That's a bargain in beef on the hoof or off, and once you'd run 'em inside downstairs, you'd have skinned 'em out of their branded hides before anyone was any the wiser. I ain't the only one who's allowed you acted honest as well as brave when those crooks approached you, Mister Doyle. It's going to take us some time to carry Baldwin back to Colorado, give him as fair a trial as he deserves, and stretch his neck as far as it can go. So he'll likely fill in some details for us between now and then. I've seen condemned crooks turn in kin for an extra slice of pie with their last meal."

He put down his shot gla.s.s and turned toward the door, saying he'd be back, maybe the next day, to talk with Doyle's senior partner and head butcher.

Doyle rose to follow him out on the landing, demanding, "Why? I just told you all that any of us know about the matter."

Longarm nodded. "I'm sure you have, no offense. But this ain't the first meat-packing plant I've ever visited, and I'm sort of puzzled about just a few points somebody who gets his hands dirtier might be able to clear up."

He went down the long stairway as Doyle went back in his office. Then he headed back to the chandlery, noting that same sleepy cuss was still propped against the bricks. But what bothered him about the stranger taking an early siesta didn't sink in all the way before he heard a distant window open and somebody he couldn't see tossed a bottle, or gla.s.s, out to bust and tinkle on the cobbles.

Then Longarm had his gun out, covering the serape-wrapped figure at his feet as he snapped, "Tenga cuidado, hombre! Soy tengo el filo, aqui." And when that didn't work he tried, "I said I have the drop on you, a.s.shole! I didn't think a real Mex drunk would be sporting those expensive Justin boots under a dirty blanket and straw sombrero!"

The fake Mexican tried shooting up at Longarm through the grimy red wool. He got off two rounds and one came close, but not as close as Longarm's p.i.s.sed-off burst of fire aimed at point-blank range. So the treacherous rascal wearing a dapper Anglo riding outfit and.45-28 Starr wound up stretched out on the dust with that dumb hat blown away but half the red serape covering his face.

Longarm kicked it away as he reloaded, staring down bemused at the softly smiling face of a total stranger as he reloaded. The dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d looked to be around fifty. Longarm had just hunkered down to go through some pockets when Gordo, from next door, came timidly over to make the sign of the cross and shyly ask, "For why did you shoot Senor Pryce just now, El Brazo Largo?"

Longarm was back on his feet and moving off as he called back, "I had to. He was fixing to back-shoot me again. Tell Purvis who did it when he gets here. I'll tell him why as soon as I get back with his sneaky partner, Doyle!" He tore around the back of Gordo's chandlery, hauled that Coast Guard pony out of his brushwood stable, and forked himself up into his army saddle to ride after that son of a b.i.t.c.h.

The best way to chase another cuss was to figure which way he'd likely head, not give him a greater lead while you asked others for directions. So Longarm loped across the main street and headed west along that same lane leading to the inland wagon trace. For a man on the run with the law hot on his heels would likely choose some solitude as he lathered his own brute, and the coast road ran through much more of town as well as past that Coast Guard station to the north. All bets were off if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was riding south, but from what La Bruja had told Longarm the shady meat packers had at least one mighty shady confederate up in Corpus Christi, if one of the partners themselves hadn't been trying to recruit Mexicans to dry-gulch a dangerous Anglo.

He had a better handle now on why they'd considered him dangerous. Thanks to old Reporter Crawford of the Denver Post, a lot of folks knew the notorious Longarm had spent some time punching cows before going to work under Marshal Billy Vail. Yet he'd missed what they were up to, and might have never studied on a d.i.n.ky meat packing operation in a d.i.n.ky seaport if they'd been smart enough to leave him the h.e.l.l alone. There were heaps of stockmen coming and going all around the establishment of Pryce & Doyle, yet how many had ever seen fit to wonder how you ran a slaughterhouse without any stockyards out back, or why the tallow-rendering plants, fertilizer mills, and tanneries you usually saw next to a slaughterhouse hadn't been anywhere in the whole blamed town.

He was sure he had more answers than he really did as he tore out to the west with his saddle gun c.o.c.ked across his knees, eyes peeled for ambush from the cactus hedges around the small milpas he tore by.

Then he spotted a small familiar figure afoot ahead, and reined in as that young Mexican gal Consuela turned around in the dusty road with a puzzled look on her pretty little face.

Longarm called out, "I'm chasing that sneaky meat packer, Doyle. Might you have seen him out this way, on most any sort of transportation? I suspect he signaled his partner the jig was up and lit out when I got that partner instead."

Consuela stared up owl-eyed to reply, "Pero no, senor. I am on my way home for to search for wicked cabras my little brother just told me about. I told La Senorita Norma I had to go find them for Papacito before la aligador gets them. I do not know for why they run off into the spartina reeds like that when they are feeling bad, but they do, and I know where to search for them."

He said he felt sure she did, and started to wheel his mount around to try another direction when what she'd said sank all the way in and he said, "Hold on. You say your goats have been coming down sick, Consuela?"

She said, "Si, more than half of them. Pero not all at once. One gets to shaking and dragging its poor hooves and then, just as it seems to feel better, another we thought was well again starts to cry and b.u.t.t its head against things."

"Like those folks in town!" Longarm gasped. "Sick goats wandering into the swamps to get eaten by gators could account for a hungry gator boldly backtracking to your milpa in hopes of more goat meat and settling for... Do you folks sell a lot of goat meat in town, Consuela?"

She burst that bubble by shaking her head and declaring, "Pero no! Where would we get the milk for to make cheese or put in coffee if we slaughtered our milk goats for meat, senor?"

Longarm didn't answer. He was already headed back to town, as fast as he'd just ridden out. As he hit the main street again he saw a considerable crowd to his right, near the meat-packing plant. He swung the other way, slid his mount to a stop in front of the old icehouse, and tore inside, calling out to Norma, "Hey, Doc, I think I got it!"

The Junoesque Norma came across the cot-cluttered floor to meet him, looking innocent, in her fresh white outfit. But she smiled awfully sweet as she asked him in a puzzled tone what on earth he was talking about.

Longarm said, "You were right about it being a fever carried by livestock. But it was the nondescript Mex goats that n.o.body pays much attention to. No cows have caught it yet. Goats don't graze on open range with Texas beef cows, in peril of their lives."

She nodded but said, "That only makes sense till you consider all the Anglos coming down with your mysterious goat fever, Custis. How many of these Anglo townsfolk, cowhands, and even Coast Guardsmen do you suspect of eating or even petting sick Mexican goats?"

Longarm insisted, "It's the milk. None of those spreads we pa.s.sed this morning kept one dairy cow on hand. Like everyone else down this way they buy the little fresh milk and cream they fancy off the local smallholders, who keep goats, not cows, for milking!"

Norma Richards was smart as well as pa.s.sionate. So she thought, snapped her fingers, and said, "Of course! You don't take cream in your coffee. I've been using canned condensed milk, here as well as out at that Coast Guard station, thanks to a generous mess officer who asked me not to mention it to Lieutenant Flynn."

Longarm said, "Flynn seems to strike lots of folk as a martinet. Either way, condensed milk explains why so few Coast Guardsmen came down with this fever, and how come the ones in your care seem to be getting over it naturally."

But Norma was already waving all her volunteer gals in, along with some recovering patients she'd been putting to work there. Longarm didn't hang about to hear her explain why they all had to dash through town, shouting like Paul Revere about getting rid of all the fresh milk and goat cheese on hand. He was already on his way to get back to his own ch.o.r.es.

As he strode for the mount he'd tethered out front, old Constable Purvis cut him off, side arm drawn, demanding, "Stand and deliver on how come you just shot a pillar of our community, Deputy Long!"

Longarm said tersely, "Had to. It was him or me. I suspect that once we pa.s.s around some photographs, we'll agree those others I took for saddle b.u.ms were business a.s.sociates of the late Mister Pryce as well. They must have had a time getting their regular help to go up against me and my rep, if they got desperate enough for the senior partner to try for me personally! I got to catch the junior partner now, and see if I can get him to fill me in on some of the missing pieces of the puzzle. I'm sure I got most of it about right now."

He untethered his mount and started to mount up as the older law man pleaded, "Tell me what's been going on here, d.a.m.n it! I can't make heads or tails of a thing that's happened. How could Pryce & Doyle have been running a crooked operation if they turned in the only crook who ever stole one cow in these parts? n.o.body for miles is missing any stock, old son!"

Longarm saw there was no way an elder on foot could ride along with him as they jawed, so he patiently explained. "n.o.body for miles was doing business with Pryce & Doyle. They were afraid I'd notice other missing details as well. They had nothing resembling a full-fledged meat-packing operation. No stockyards, no side rendering plants, and s.h.i.t, not even a slaughtering floor inside that glorified icebox. Just as they feared, albeit I had other things on my mind at the time, all I saw on their premises was a cold-storage cargo hold of neatly butchered beef. The same as I saw aboard a coastal steamer the other night. Don't you get it yet?"

Constable Purvis ran a thumbnail through the stubble on his jaw and declared, "Makes no sense. Pryce & Doyle have been shipping their cold-storage beef out of here regular. So where's it been bred, reared, and butchered if it ain't been around here?"

Longarm swung up in the saddle, saying, "Old Mexico, most likely. That's the only place near enough to matter where they could have got prime sides of neatly trimmed beef so cheap. When I catch Doyle I mean to ask him whether he refused Baldwin's offer because he thought it might be a trap or whether you can still buy beef on the hoof at five bucks a head down Mexico way."

"But how in thunder would you get all them Mex cows this far north past the hoof-and-mouth quarantine this spring?" the older lawman wailed as Longarm headed on, having wasted enough time guessing when all he had to do was catch the son of a b.i.t.c.h who knew!

CHAPTER 13.

An old Mexican leading a burro loaded with firewood told Longarm he was on the right trail now, although the gringo on the lathered roan had one h.e.l.l of a lead on him. There was no way anyone out at that Coast Guard station could have heard about recent events in town. And there was n.o.body to wire this side of Corpus Christi. No pony could run that far in one burst, though. So it all hinged on how hard either rider could push what he was riding. The cold-blood bay saddle breed Longarm had borrowed wasn't considered all that fast but might have a tad more endurance, or a few less brains, than the cow pony Doyle seemed to be riding. So Longarm could only keep heeling his bay at a steady lope and hope for the best.

The treacherous Doyle had a more jaded pony or more treacherous nature than Longarm should have expected by now. Virtue might have been its own reward, but had he never pulled off into that tangle of gumbo-limbo with old Ruby, he might not have been glancing over that way now as he tore past their recent love nest.

And he might not have seen the big white cotton ball of gunsmoke and rolled off the far side, Winchester in hand, by the time the rifle report that went with a whizzing.45-70 made it as far as he'd just been.

He hit the gra.s.sy seaward berm of the wagon trace any old way, and rolled a couple of times as that unseen but hardly unknown bushwhacker whacked at him some more with that repeating rifle. Longarm lost his hat, and his saddle and possibles lit out down the trace aboard that gun-shy government mount. It served a rider right for not borrowing one off the cavalry. But Longarm knew the bay would bolt for its own stall at the nearby Coast Guard station, and right now he had more important things to worry about than spare socks!

Since they'd laid out that wagon trace along a contour line, Lord love 'em, the soft soggy soil on his seaward side lay almost a yard lower than the roadway, and better yet, the salt gra.s.s he'd been rolling through rose well above his p.r.o.ne form. The son of a b.i.t.c.h firing from the gumbolimbo across the way was aiming at the swaying gra.s.s tops, not at a target he couldn't really draw a tight bead on at that range.

Longarm slithered around on his belly, ignoring the repeated potshots above as well as across his a.s.s, till he was facing the way he'd been coming instead of the way he'd been going when he hit the ground. But what made it work was rolling close to the wagon trace till he lay between the slight rise and the long gra.s.s stems about half a yard out, on untouched and hence damper ground. He still moved slow, like a rat snake sneaking into a root cellar, dragging his '73 by its long barrel for what felt like a hundred miles but was likely a hundred yards. Then he made some nearby salt gra.s.s move with the muzzle of his Winchester, and when nothing happened he figured Doyle had to be back in that blind alley Longarm had backed into with Ruby, or another like it. So he took a deep breath, gathered his long legs under his center of balance, and sprang up to dash across the wagon trace, between two cottonwoods and through the open s.p.a.ce on the far side, till he'd made the gumbo-limbo himself and got his breath back. Then he called out laconically, "That reminded me of Cold Harbor, Doyle. I sure hope we don't have to repeat that infernal campaign, for we could both wind up getting hurt in a blindman's bluff with shooting irons. Why don't you quit whilst you're ahead? You'll likely get away with blaming your dead pals for all the hanging offenses. That's if the prosecution agrees to let you turn state's evidence and tie up some loose ends for us."

Doyle fired blind through the springy saplings between them. As his ricochet wailed harmlessly off in the distance, Longarm chuckled and called back falsely, "Close. But no cigar. I don't want to have to kill you, a.s.shole. I've about figured out what you and your pals were up to. But my boss frowns on what he calls my suppositions. You call it a supposition when you can't prove it. But you know I know a h.e.l.l of a lot already. You wouldn't have tried to stop me from ever getting anywhere near your flimflam packing plant if you hadn't been worried about me taking one look and asking what in blue blazes you thought you were running there."

Doyle fired again. Longarm swore. "I got you boxed, you poor simp. I was back in those saplings just the other day and I know how tight they grow. I'm willing to ignore your repeated attempts to murder a federal agent recently, if you'd like to settle for just a few years in Leavenworth on smuggling and criminal conspiracy in exchange for a few more names, dates, and places."

Doyle didn't answer. Longarm spotted movement further up that wagon trace in a place exposed to fire from the thicket, and called out, "Get off that trail, boys! I got me an armed and stupid outlaw trapped up this way with a repeating rifle!"

As the Coast Guardsmen crabbed westward to form a more cautious file, hugging the gumbo-limbo to the north of where Doyle seemed to be, Longarm recognized Lieutenant Devereaux, leading the patrol with a Spencer of his own held at port arms. As the junior grade got within easy shouting range he called out, "That mount we loaned you just tore through the gate lathered under your empty saddle. So we doubted the distant shots we kept hearing could be a duck hunter. Who have we got pinned down here, Deputy?"

Longarm called back, "Old Doyle of Pryce & Doyle in town. Pryce tried to back-shoot me earlier. So we don't have to worry about him right now. As near as I can put it together, they were running Mexican beef to the U.S. market through that hoof-and-mouth quarantine along the border this season. They were offering local stockmen insulting prices for Texas beef, partly reflecting what they were paying Mex meat packers for already butchered and trimmed sides, but mostly because they had no facilities of their own for dealing with beef on the hoof." He turned his head to shout through the gumbo-limbo saplings. "I hope you're paying attention to this, Doyle. I got you pinned with the help of the U.S. Coast Guard, organized by Secretary Alexander Hamilton of the U.S. Treasury in the first d.a.m.ned place to keep smugglers like you in line!"

Doyle fired his rifle back at Longarm like a mean little kid. As some of the Coast Guardsmen raised their own weapons Longarm barked, "Hold your fire! He ain't so dangerous as desperate, and I aim to take at least one of them alive!"

Devereaux repeated Longarm's command, since it sounded more official coming from him, and called out to the trapped smuggler to surrender in the name of the U.S. Revenue Service.

Doyle didn't answer. Then they all heard hoofbeats, and down the road came Lieutenant Flynn himself, waving his dress saber aboard a bay thoroughbred. As Devereaux warned him off by pumping his own rifle over his own head, the sandy-haired C.O. slid his handsome mount to a stop and dismounted gracefully, if somewhat dramatically, waving that nickel-plated blade like a seagoing version of J.E.B. Stuart, or George Armstrong Custer. You had to give even a pain in the a.s.s credit for being a good rider.

Devereaux filled his C.O. in, out of easy earshot, on the north side of the trapped Doyle. Longarm knew what they'd been jawing about when Flynn called out, "All right, Mister Doyle, you have ten seconds and counting to throw out your weapon and come out with your hands up! I now make it seven and still counting!"

Longarm bawled, "Hold on! We got him boxed, Lieutenant!" Meanwhile, deeper in the gumbo-limbo, Doyle wailed something that sounded like, "A mo abra! Fan ort! Is cruinti? mi!"

Then Flynn shouted, "Volley, fire!" and n.o.body paid Longarm a lick of attention as he shouted himself hoa.r.s.e above the rattle of rifle fire, with each infernal Spencer firing seven times before anyone had to stop!

In the ringing silence that followed, Longarm croaked, "a.s.shole! How am I supposed to take 'em alive with help like that?"

Flynn said coldly, "You heard me warn him. That sounded like some ancient Irish war cry he threw back at us. Does anyone here have the Gaelic?"

Longarm snorted in disgust and said, "I wanted him to testify in English before a federal grand jury. I'm going in now. If any of you fill me full of lead, I'll never speak to you again!"

Devereaux warned, "Be careful, we were firing blind!"

Longarm eased up to that wilted sea grape he'd piled across the very same gap the day before. Now he muttered, "I noticed. There might be enough of him left to make a dying statement."

But there wasn't. Longarm had only moved in about as far as where he'd backed Ruby's shay before he spotted Doyle, further back among the supple saplings than he'd have thought possible. But Doyle had been sort of wiry as well as desperate. So there he stood, still on his feet, staring blankly as the blood still oozed from a good two dozen gunshot wounds.

Longarm propped his Winchester against two closely grown trunks and reached into the tangle, with some effort, till he had a grip on one of the dead man's sleeves. It was still a ch.o.r.e to wriggle Doyle out, even dead as the snows of yesteryear and limp as an old man's d.i.c.k after a whole night in a wh.o.r.ehouse.

Devereaux joined him in the sun-dappled grotto, holding Longarm's Stetson in his free hand as he said, "One of my men just found your hat across the way. Is he dead?"

Longarm picked up his Winchester and took back his Stetson as he replied, "Yep. Didn't get much out of him as he breathed his last in a mishmash of English and that odd lingo... Gaelic, you say?"

Devereaux said, "Don't look at me. We were part of the Protestant gentry in the old country, to hear my grandmother go on. It could have been Gaelic. Or it could have been Greek, for all I know."

Longarm said, "I've known some Irish gals who burst into Gaelic when they were feeling sore at me, or vice versa. It may as well have been Greek to me, but I think Doyle's a Scotch or Irish name."

Devereaux asked, "What about Pryce, his late partner's handle?"

Longarm said, "Welsh, I think. His other pals, G.o.dwynn and Reynolds, sound like they had plain English names to me. In the meanwhile, we ain't going to get much more than bug-bit hanging about in this baby jungle!"

Devereaux agreed, and said he'd deal with the cadaver. So Longarm stepped back out in the sunlight, where Flynn asked much the same questions and got about the same answers. While everyone but the big cheese on the bay got to walk the short distance to the nearby Coast Guard station, Longarm asked how Deputy Gilbert and their prisoner, Baldwin, might be making out.

Flynn said, "They both seem on the road to recovery. I'm not sure I see how the outlaw they sent you and Gilbert after might fit into this wild whatever that Pryce & Doyle were up to."

Longarm said, "Baldwin don't fit at all, Lieutenant. He was wanted on other charges entirely, and got his fool self arrested when he tried to sell stock he'd stolen close by to other crooks who'd picked this nice quiet stretch of coast to ship cold-storage meat from. Escondrijo's close enough to Old Mexico for a crooked outfit to pick up quarantined beef, at a considerable bargain, but far enough from the border to avoid suspicion as to where in this world they ever came by it."