Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (33 page)

After leaving his horse with the liveryman, Longarm strolled up the street to the Ace High and stopped there for a drink before crossing to the restaurant for the steak and potatoes he'd missed in spite of Marya Danilov's tasty meals. Playing no favorites, after he'd eaten, he recrossed the street for a second shot of rye, this time at the Cattleman's.

“Well, howdy,” Bob greeted him from behind the bar. “Missed you while you was gone. First drink's on the house.”

Longarm sipped the rye with a sigh of satisfaction. He never had been able to decide which drink tasted best, the one before a meal, or the one after. Since he'd long ago given up trying to make the judgment, he simply enjoyed the whiskey and poured himself a refill.

Returning from serving, another customer at the far end of the bar, Bob stopped in front of Longarm and snapped his fingers. “Just about forgot,” he said as he opened the till, took out an envelope, and handed it to Longarm, “Ruthie asked me to give you this.”

Tearing open the envelope, Longarm took out the folded half-sheet of paper it contained and read:

Dear Longarm,

One of the Santa Fe brakemen fixed it up for me to ride the caboose to Dodge tomorrow. There might not be another chance for me to leave here until the cattle shipments start, so I guess I'd better grab this one. I went up to your room to tell you goodbye, but you weren't there. When I got back to the Cattleman's, I heard them talking about how you got hurt. I hope it wasn't too bad and you'll get over it quick. I guess maybe it's a good thing you aren't here, because if you was, I'd feel like staying. Thanks for being so good to me. I don't expect I'll ever see you again, but you're the man I'll always remember.

Ruthie

Longarm's expression didn't change while he was reading the note. He shredded the paper and dropped it into the spittoon by his feet at the bar rail. His glass was empty, and he refilled it. His side was beginning to ache again and he knew it was time for him to rest awhile; there wasn't much he could do for the next hour or so, and he could spend the time figuring out where to start over, and how he'd make up for the time he'd lost. He drained his glass, put a quarter on the bar for his drinks, and started for the hotel.

Passing the store, he remembered that his supply of cigars was running low. He'd finished the box that Fedor Petrovsky had brought with a change of clothes from the hotel while he was recovering at the Danilovs', and had only two or three left in his pocket. Entering the store, he almost bumped into Madame Ilioana Karsovana. He nodded and touched his hatbrim, and was going to pass on by when she spoke.

“Marshal Long! How fortunate! I was thinking of going back to Danilov's house to chat with you again. In the position you hold, you must know something more that would help me to find my brother.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, ma'am, I told you just about all I could the other day.” Then he frowned and said, “I sort of got the idea you'd decided your brother couldn't be around here and you were ready to go on to someplace else.”

“I have been traveling many miles, Marshal. I am exhausted. I need to stop and rest in a quiet place such as this.”

“I see.” The excuse was a thin one, he thought. He recalled Mordka Danilov's suspicions of the woman, and wondered if Mordka might not be right, regardless of how farfetched the idea was of a Russian secret agent operating in such a remote spot in Kansas.

Madame Karsovana extended a gloved hand. “Will you help me, Marshal Long?”

Longarm had no choice but to accept her hand. She rested it on his wrist, and, lifting the hem of her skirt with her free hand, turned him back toward the door. She kept her hand on Longarm's wrist while they walked the short distance back to the hotel.

“Shall we talk in my rooms?” she asked as they entered the building. “You will find them comfortable, and I can offer you some refreshment.”

“Well, even if I don't figure I can tell you much that'll help you find your brother, I sure won't turn down a lady's invitation.”

Longarm's surprise at seeing the woman still in Junction was nothing compared to that which stunned him when Madame Karsovana opened the door to her room. At the windows, yards of ivory silk had been hung to temper the harsh sunlight and transform its glare to a soft translucent glow. A large Persian rug covered what Longarm was certain was the same kind of threadbare carpet as the one that was on the floor of his own room. In the softened light, the rug glowed in subtle reds, blues, and purples. The bed was a billowing sea of tumbled furs and satin pillows, the soft, fluffy texture of the rich, creamy furs contrasting with the sheen of the multicolored pillows.

Chairs had been draped with lengths of brocaded velvet, and a large oval table, its legs ornately carved, filled most of the scanty space left in the corner between the bed and the wall. Lace covered the stained top of the battered oak bureau, and a large rectangular pier glass in a chased gold frame had been propped in front of the bureau's own tarnished mirror. It looked, Longarm thought, as if the Karsovana woman was settling in for a lengthy stay.

“I've got to say, you travel in real style,” he told her. “Sure beats the way my room looks.”

“I cannot be comfortable in unpleasant surroundings,” she replied with a small shudder. “I have traveled a great deal, you understand, both here, and abroad, and I find most hotel rooms dreadfully squalid. So I carry my little comforts with me, and Boris has learned how to arrange my
milieu
to suit me, when we stop for more than an overnight stay.”

A crystal decanter, flanked by tiny, conical-stemmed glasses, stood on a mirrored tray on the bureau, amid a scattering of small boxes of gold, silver, and enamel. Madame Karsovana took one of the boxes and opened it, offering it to Longarm.

“You will smoke?”

He looked at the cigarettes in the box—overlong, white, thin tubes—and shook his head “No, thanks. Not one of them, anyhow. I'll have one of my own cigars, if you don't object.” He took out a cheroot.

“No indeed. I enjoy the fragrance of cigar smoke.”

She took a cigarette from the box, and Longarm flicked his thumbnail across the match he'd gotten out to light his cigar and held it for her, then puffed his cheroot into glowing life.

“Sit down please, Marshal Long.”

Longarm settled into one of the chairs. There were pillows under the brocade that draped it. Madame Karsovana had stayed beside the bureau, now she came carrying the decanter and two of the little stemmed glasses. She put the glasses on the table and filled them, then, sitting in a chair facing him, she handed him one of the drinks.

Longarm looked suspiciously at the water-clear liquor. “That ain't gin, is it? Sure don't get any smell from it.”

“It is vodka. I must apologize. Boris could find no ice in the town, and vodka is best when it is as cold as the winds that blow off the Neva in December.”

“This'll suit me just fine, ma'am. I don't cotton much to cold liquor.” He took the glass she handed him, and held it to his nose. The liquor was as odorless as it was colorless. He missed the rich aroma of the rye he favored, and thought—but didn't say—that a stingy little glass like this one sure couldn't hold the kind of man-sized drink he was used to taking.

Madame Karsovana raised her glass.
“Pei do dna!”
she smiled, and added, “It is the Russian for what you say here, ‘Bottoms up!'”

“That's good enough for me,” Longarm said as he tilted the glass to his lips, prepared to be disappointed in such a pale drink. The fiery vodka hit his tongue with a smash and left a trail of liquid fire all the way down his gullet. It took a real effort for him to keep from gulping. When he was sure his throat would work properly, he said, “Now, that's a real-potent liquor!”

“I am glad you enjoy it.” She reached for the decanter and refilled their glasses, “
Pei do dna
, Marshal.”

Longarm discovered that one swallow of vodka didn't condition a man's throat to a second one right away. He understood now why the glasses were so small. After a puff or two on his cheroot, he recovered the use of his voice and said, “Well, Mrs. Karsovana, you wanted to ask me some more about looking for your brother. Go ahead, ask away.”

“Yes, of course. It is good of you to spend your time helping me. Tell me, Marshal Long, is there a way in your country for my brother to have changed his identity?”

“You mean take a new name? One that ain't on his passport?”

“Yes. In Russia we have identity cards which all must carry with us. Even the serfs have them. Is there nothing of that sort in America?”

Longarm shook his head. “We don't feel like a free country ought to have anything like that. If a man wants to take a new name, to help him get a fresh start, that's up to him. Of course, if he's doing it to hide from the law, that's another thing.”

“My brother isn't a lawbreaker, I'm sure. He'd have no reason to try to hide. But I'm told that these emigrants who have settled here, these Brethren, as they call themselves, are having a great deal of trouble. Is that true?”

“If you mean are they in trouble with the law, no, they ain't. There's some bad feeling between them and the cattlemen, but far as I know, the Brethren are pretty much on the right side of the law in that mix-up.”

“But I heard they fought what was almost a battle, a short time ago, with the older settlers. Surely that's not lawful?”

“They were just standing up for what's theirs, in that fracas. Matter of fact, ma'am, I was on their side, helping them. If you heard the whole story, you should've known that.”

“It's hard to tell the difference between truth and rumors, Marshal, as I'm sure you've found out. The stories I've heard don't agree.”

“If you'd like the real facts about it, I'll be glad to tell you,” Longarm offered.

“I would, very much. I feel a great interest in these poor people, Marshal. I would like to find some way to help them. But before you start your story . . .” Madame Karsovana leaned forward and picked up the decanter to refill their glasses.

For a moment there was complete silence in the room. Longarm was watching his hostess pour vodka into his glass when his ears, always subconsciously attuned to foreign noises, caught the sound of squeaking boards in the corridor outside the door. Then there was a scrape of metal on metal. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the doorknob move a fraction of an inch.

Putting a finger to his lips, Longarm stood up. He moved toward the door, his footsteps silent on the double-carpeted floor. His Colt was in his hand when he reached the door and flung it open.

Gregor Basilovich stood in the hallway holding a revolver.

Chapter 12

Before the Russian could raise his weapon, Longarm jammed his own gun into the man's belly.

“Just don't start to raise your arm, and you'll be all right,” he warned.

Madame Karsovana spoke over Longarm's shoulder. “Gregor Basilovich! What is the meaning of this? Put your weapon away at once!”

Basilovich said something in Russian, and the woman answered him in the same language. Longarm neither moved nor spoke, but kept the pressure on his Colt's muzzle that was buried in the coachman's midsection.

Madame Karsovana placed a hand on the deputy's arm. “Please, Marshal, remove your gun from Gregor's body, He meant no harm. There was an unfortunate event in a hotel where we stopped several weeks ago. A burglar broke in and almost escaped before the police arrived. I suggested that Gregor buy a pistol then, to be on guard against another attempt at robbery.”

“Ma'am, I learned a long time ago not to take my weapon off a man who's staring me eye-to-eye with his gun in his hand,” Longarm said. “Now, you tell this Gregor to hand me his pistol. I'll give it back to him as soon as I unload it.”

Again Madame Karsovana spoke to the coachman in their native tongue. Gregor replied in a tone that told Longarm he was objecting to the instructions his employer had given him, but she replied with a second command, and the man handed Longarm the pistol, butt-first. Holstering his own Colt, Longarm looked at the weapon. It was a latch-cylinder Tranter of English make, not a common gun in the land where Colt was king and Remington was crown prince.

Longarm pressed the release latch under the barrel, swung out the cylinder, and emptied the cartridges into one hand. He locked the cylinder back into position, handed the pistol to Gregor, then returned the cartridges separately. He knew that the gun would accept only the cartridges manufactured by its maker.

“You ain't asked me for any advice, Mr. Basilovich,” Longarm said, “but I'm going to give you some. If I'd been a nervous man, you'd be a dead one by now. Keep your gun holstered unless you intend to use it. Oh—if I was you, I'd get rid of that English pistol, too. There's not many places west of St. Louis where you can buy cartridges for it.”

“I did not intend to point at you the pistol,” Basilovich said apologetically. “It was as Madame told you; I heard voices in the room, and I did not know Madame had returned. My first thought was that thieves were again at work.”

“Sure, I understand that,” Longarm replied. “I'm just advising you how to act the next time.”

Madame Karsovana said, her voice cold, “You may go, Gregor. The marshal and I are having a discussion. I do not need your services.”

In a voice almost as cold as hers, he answered, “Of course, Madame. I will wait in my room until you require me.”

When the coachman had gone into a room two doors down the hall, Madame Karsovana said, “I am sorry, Marshal Long, but this excitement is bringing on an attack of nerves. Shall we continue our talk later?”

“Sure. Anytime.”

“You are staying here in the hotel, I suppose?”

Longarm pointed to his room, on the opposite side of the corridor. “Right over there.”

“I am relieved. With you close by, I will no longer be afraid of thieves. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Of course, Mrs. Karsovana. Like you said, we'll talk later.”

*   *   *

In his own room, Longarm went first to the bureau and lifted the rye bottle to his lips. He needed something to wash away the flavorless, scorched feeling left in his throat by the vodka. The rye trickled down with a bite that was satisfying, and left an aroma that told a man he'd had something other than pure, raw alcohol. The flavor was so satisfying that Longarm took another small sip before taking off his coat, vest, and gunbelt and stretching out on the bed.

There's something about that Karsovana woman that don't ring true
, he told himself.
Matter of fact, she looks more phony than real to me
. . . .

Mordka might be right, but what in hell would a Russian spy be doing here? Those Brethren ain't big enough or important, enough to get that kind of attention.

Then he recalled what Danilov had said about the underground newspapers circulating in Russia, in which letters from such involuntary exiles as the Brethren were often printed.

That just might be it
, he mused.
The way those countries on the other side of the ocean are always having wars and revolutions, they'd be scared of their people learning there's places where they can live better and freer. It ain't just the Brethren busting away from them Cossacks Mordka keeps talking about; it's that what they've done can give the folks still living there the idea of doing the same thing
. . . .

Yep, it'd make sense. If the Brethren went busted here and had to scatter out, or maybe even crawl back to where they came from, why, that'd suit the old Tsar right down to the heels of his boots. And Mordka might just be right, after all. It'd sure explain why that Gregor Basilovich fellow was skulking outside with a gun in his hand. And she was lying to me about that pistol; he never bought that anywhere in this country, he had to've brought it with him from Russia.

Longarm blinked and shook his head to clear it of swarming thoughts, got up, and went to the bureau for another sip of rye. He reached in the pocket of his vest, hanging on the head of the bed, for a cigar. His exploring fingers found only one, and he reminded himself absently that he'd have to remember to get back to the store for a new supply. His mind was still on Gregor Basilovich.

Lucky I drew before I opened the door, or he could've
—

Abruptly Longarm's train of thought was interrupted. He didn't remember drawing. His reaction to the hint of danger outside the door had been instinctive. When he'd tried to see if he could whip out his Colt naturally while he was still at the Danilovs', his wounded side had kept bothering him, slowed him down, but when the real cards were being played, he'd had the Colt out with his old easy speed.

“I'll be damned,” he muttered. “Looks like I was worrying without any reason to.”

Lifting his gunbelt off the bedpost, Longarm strapped it on. He slid the Colt out and shook the shells out of its cylinder. Then he replaced it in the holster and faced the mirror. He drew once, reholstered the gun, and drew again. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. He reloaded the pistol, checking each cartridge as he slid it into the cylinder. Letting the hammer down carefully on the single empty chamber, he returned the gun to its holster and hung the belt back on the bedpost, his mind at ease.

One less thing to worry about
, he thought as he lay down again.
I got a pretty full plate of puzzles, sure don't need another one. Hawkins. Stone. The Lazy Y horse that got shot. Now, the Russian woman and her servant.

Be a damn big mess if those two got together with Hawkins and the ranchers and Stone to put the Indian sign on Mordka's bunch. The way I read it, if them Brethren don't get a good crop, and if they don't get paid a fair price for it, they're just about finished. Wouldn't make much difference then whether they got Fedor elected sheriff or not. Which they just might do, if the voting's fair and square. And which puts me right in the middle of what could be one damn big mess.

Not my mess, either, except that Billy Vail handed it over to me, so I got to keep it in hand. But there's not any reason why I can't pass part of it over to the sheriff. He's the one that it belongs to, by rights.

All his thinking had made Longarm restless, and he'd thought his way to the point where action was the next step. After his long confinement at the Danilovs', the cramped hotel room seemed to be closing in on him. He was still standing beside the bed, and he looked at it distastefully; the time for lolling around like an invalid had ended. Besides, he was out of cigars.

Strapping on his gunbelt again, he slipped his vest and coat on and started for the door. A stop at the store for cigars, then to the sheriff's office to talk to Grover seemed his next move. He wasn't too preoccupied, when he left the room, to take his usual precaution of wedging the stub of a matchstick between the door and the jamb. If nothing more, the presence of the two Russians in the hotel was enough to remind him that he had to keep his guard up.

There was one other customer in the store when Longarm went in: Clem Hawkins. The rancher was standing at the end of the long wooden counter, a sheaf of charge tickets in his hand, leafing through them. The storekeeper stood close to him behind the counter. When Longarm entered, the merchant said, “Be right back, Clem, soon as I wait on this customer.”

Without raising his eyes from the papers, Hawkins grunted, “Take your time, Steb. I'll settle with you as soon as I finish looking these over.”

Moving to where Longarm stood, the storekeeper asked, “What can I get for you today, Marshal Long?”

“Box of Havana extras. Tell you what, Mr. Stebbins. I'll just tuck a handful of 'em in my pocket now, and you lay the box under the counter for me to pick up on my way back to the hotel.”

When he heard Longarm's name, Hawkins looked up. “Heard you stopped a bullet a couple of weeks back, Long. You don't seem to be any the worse for it, though.”

“I heal up quick, Mr. Hawkins. And I'll be out to talk to you about what happened that night, as soon as I get caught up with my other business.”

Hawkins bristled. “What're you getting at? You hinting that me or my boys had something to do with it?”

“I'm not hinting at a thing. I just want to talk to you again, about that night, and maybe about Mr. Oren Stone.”

“Wait a minute, Long. There was a horse shot in that fracas, and it sure didn't have my brand on it. I'm told it was a Lazy Y bronc.”

“You were told right. But there were other horses in the bunch and I didn't see any of their brands, in the dark.”

“Well, you won't find out that any of my men or animals were mixed up in that set-to. And as for Oren Stone, I know him, sure. But I don't see what that's got to do with anything.”

“Maybe it doesn't. But I'm real curious about a lot of things sometimes, things that don't always connect up. Anyhow, I'll get out your way pretty soon.”

“Now listen to me, Long. I've got a ranch to run. We'll be starting to ship steers inside of a few days, and I don't have any time to spare in idle chatter with you or anybody else.”

“I won't hold back your business, Mr. Hawkins. The way I look at it, you've got a right to tend your ranch without anybody getting in your way or interfering with your work.” Longarm began filling his vest pocket with cigars from the box Stebbins had put on the counter. He went on, “Just like those wheat farmers have got a right to raise their crops without anybody cutting their fences or tromping down their fields. You think about that, Mr. Hawkins. And I'll be out to have that talk with you, just like I said.”

Longarm closed the lid of the box and shoved it to Stebbins. Then he turned away and walked out of the store.

*   *   *

Sheriff Grover was in his office, for a change, sitting behind his desk. He studied Longarm for a moment without speaking, then waved to the room's other chair and leaned back in his own.

“Hmph. Looks like that slug you caught the other night didn't slow you down too much,” he said dourly.

“I didn't enjoy it,” Longarm said, firing up one of his fresh cheroots. “And I didn't see you busting a gut to come out and track down the son of a bitch that shot me.”

“Maybe you didn't see me, but I did the best I could. Those Brethren friends of yours was closer-mouthed than a clam going into a steam kettle. They sure as hell didn't give me much help. All of them I talked to acted like it was one of them that winged you. Which it might easy have been,” Grover added. “At night that way, everybody milling around, shooting blind.”

“Maybe they figured you'd think that,” Longarm suggested. “If you'd stop to think things out, Grover, the Brethren haven't got much reason to feel you'd give 'em a fair shake at anything.”

“Now, you know I don't play sides, Long.”

“No. I'll say that much for you. You stick pretty close to one side. Hawkins and his friends.”

“I try to stand right in the middle. You can't blame me if I like men I've known a long time better than I do a lot of Johnny-come-lately foreign nesters.”

“When does a man stop being a foreigner?” Longarm asked the sheriff. “The way I understand it, most of the Brethren are U.S. citizens now, and the rest of 'em are about to be. But that's neither here nor there. You say you went out and looked into the fracas. Which was right, it's your jurisdiction, and I wasn't in much shape to do it, even if I'd had a mind to. What else did you find out?”

The sheriff sighed loudly and leaned forward, crossing his forearms on his desk. “One thing that might interest you. All the horses those men who cut the fence rode came from the Lazy Y horse pasture. They'd all been stolen. Easy enough to do; the pasture's about a mile from the main house, where the corrals for the working stock are.”

“What you're getting at is that those horses could've been rustled out of the horse pasture almost anytime by just about anybody?”

“That's pretty much the size of it. Charlie Bell, the Lazy Y owner, he swears none of his hands was off the place that night.”

“You believe him?” Longarm asked.

“Well, Bell's not what I'd rate as a liar, Long. Hell, you know as well as I do that every ranch in this part of the country's in the middle of their gathers. Bell says his men was all in the bunkhouse, tuckered out, that night. They're going to be driving in their market herds to ship out sometime in the next week or two, so if you want to talk to Charlie or his boys, you'll be able to catch 'em here and save yourself a ride to his place.”