"You waited till now to tell us? I took him for a Canuck."

"No doubt, but then, you don't speak Quebecois."

"You mean when you and him were talking French and he said yours was sissy?"

"Yes, he said I spoke with a Parisian accent. My mother was named DeVerrier. My Quebecois is perfectly good.

"Why in thunder didn't you say so?"

"Like you others, I've been playing my own hand for Her Majesty. I knew he was an imposter, but I didn't know why. I still don't know why, but, under the circomstances..."

The railroad d.i.c.k came over to join them, saying, "He ain't anywhere near the general store or hotel, gents. What do you reckon his play might be?"

Longarm said, "He's either lit out for good, or he wants us to think he's lit out for good."

"Meaning another play for our prisoner, come dark?"

Longarm moved over to the cage and asked the prisoner, "You have a friend with a long gray beard and a pa.s.sable Canuck accent?"

"I never saw the varmint! Pop, there, told me about him trying to bust in, but..."

"Or bust you out," Longarm cut in, turning away. He didn't expect the prisoner to confirm his suspicion, but it was worth thinking about.

Sheriff Weed said, "We'll have to take turns tonight, keeping an eye peeled for the hombre."

Longarm stared morosely at him for a moment before he shook his head and said, "That's doing it the hard way. Why sweat him out when I can ask him what he's up to?"

"Ask him? How do you figure to ask that old boy word one, Longarm? None of us knows where he is!"

"Not right now, we don't. But there's a good hour's daylight left and I know where he turned off the trail."

"Hot d.a.m.n! You reckon you can track him down before sunset?"

"I aim to give it one good try."

CHAPTER 9.

Longarm rode his bay slowly through the crack-willow on the wrong side of the creek, snorting in annoyance as he spotted another big hoofprint in a patch of moist earth. The man calling himself du Val was wasting their time and getting himself brush-cut for nothing. There was little use taking to the tall timber to hide yourself when you traveled with two big geldings wearing oversized draft shoes. The sun was low and he was well clear of the settlement, now. The evening light made the occasional hoofprint easy to read in the orange, slanting rays. In fact, aside from the way du Val had vanished and the odd tale the Mountie told, the signs read as if the oldtimer was simply heading for Bitter Creek without taking too many precautions about his trail. Longarm considered that as he rode on. Was du Val setting him up for a bushwhacking, or had he simply given up?

Longarm ducked his head under a low branch and, as he rode out into a clearing, spied one of du Val's pets, grazing quietly in the gauzy light. The other was outlined against pale aspen across the clearing. Neither mount had a rider. Longarm reined back into the shadows of the line, sweeping the far side cautiously with his eyes. He slid the Winchester from its boot as he dismounted.

He circled the clearing instead of crossing it, clucking to the gelding near the treeline as he approached it. Neither plowhorse paid much attention to him. They were tired and settled in for the evening. They were either stupid, even for farm animals, or nothing very exciting was about to happen.

Longarm saw a human knee sticking up out of the long gra.s.s near the grazing animal he was approaching. He froze in place to study it, then moved closer, his Winchester at port-arms. The man lying in the gra.s.s on his back groaned. Longarm dropped to one knee, raising the barrel of his rifle and feeling with one hand under the long beard as he said, "Evening, du Val. Where'd they hit you?"

"Lights and liver, I reckon," the old man sighed, his French Canuck accent missing. Longarm's hand came out wet and sticky as the dying man complained, "He didn't have to do it. I'd never have told."

Longarm wiped his fingertips on the matted beard, then lifted it away from the old man's chest which was tatooed with a panoramic scene of a once-important sea battle. Someone had put a rifle bullet right between the Monitor and the Merrimac. Why he was still breathing was a mystery. He was one tough old man.

Longarm asked, "Who bushwhacked you, Sailor?"

"You figured out who I am, huh? You're pretty sharp, Longarm."

Longarm cursed himself for offering a digression and insisted, "Who did it? It ain't like you owe him loyalty."

"He must have thought I was on your side. We rode in..."

And then the old man was gone. Longarm cursed and got back to his feet, gazing about for sign. It was getting too dark to track, and the two tame geldings told him no strangers were about. They knew him as well as they had known their dead master. He'd noticed they were shy of others.

Longarm circled back to where he'd left his own mount. The body would keep for now in the chill night air and it might be sort of interesting to keep the others in the dark for now. n.o.body but the one who'd killed the man who'd called himself du Val knew who he was, or where, right now.

Despite the roundabout path the old man had taken, it was only a short ride back to Crooked Lance. The sun was down by now but the sky was still lavender with one or two bright stars as Longarm rode in. The settlement was crowded with shadowy figures, mounted or afoot, and as Longarm pa.s.sed a knot of hors.e.m.e.n he heard a voice mutter, "That's the one who licked old Jimbo."

Ignoring them, Longarm rode to the log jail, meaning to have a discussion about the bearded mystery man with the prisoner. But he didn't. A quartet of cowhands stood or squatted by the doorway, and as Longarm dismounted, one of them waved his rifle barrel wildly and said, "No you don't, stranger. Our orders are to hold Cotton Younger tight as a tick and that's what we aim to do."

"h.e.l.l, I wasn't fixing to eat him. Just wanted to ask him some more questions."

"You ask your questions of the Vigilance Committee, hear? Go along now, friend. Windy, here, was tellin' us a funny story and you're spoiling the ending."

Longarm led his bay by the reins to the livery, peeled off the McClellan and bridle, and rubbed the horses brown hide dry with a handful of straw before bedding it for the night in a stall. He went around to the hotel where he found the others in the so-called dining room, pinned to the back of the general store. The table was crowded but Sheriff Weed made room for him on one of the bench seats, asking softly, "Find anything?"

"Read some sign. The old man's gone," Longarm replied. He counted noses, saw that the other lawmen and the Hankses were at the table, and asked, "Where's Timberline and the gal?"

"Likely spooning. Saw Kim Stover talking to some hands around the jailhouse just before they rang the dinner bell. I hope you ain't hungry. Considering we're paying two bits a day for room and board, this grub is..."

Someone dropped a tin plate in front of Longarm. He glanced up and saw it was one of the storekeeper's womenfolk. It was either his wife or his daughter. It hardly mattered. Both were silent little sparrows. The storekeeper himself wasn't at the table. Longarm put a cautious spoonful of beans between his lips and saw why. He helped himself to some coffee from the community pot, to wash the beans down. With plenty of sugar and a generous lacing of Creamed milk it was just possible to drink the coffee.

The others were hungrier, or maybe didn't have spare food in their bed rolls, so they ate silently, as people who live outdoors a lot tend to do. The only conversation at the table was Mabel Hanks, down at the far end. She was b.u.t.tering up Captain Walthers. She'd likely sized him up, as Longarm had, as a man with an eye for the ladies. Her midget husband ignored her play, spooning his beans more directly to his mouth, since his head rode lower above the table. A picture of the two of them in bed rose unbidden to Longarm's mind and he looked away, shocked a bit at his own dirty imagination.

One of the sparrowlike Stover women brought an apple pie in from the kitchen next door and when Longarm smiled at her she blushed and scooted out. He decided she was the daughter. They were both ugly, had heads shaped like onions, buck teeth, and mousy brown hair rolled up in tight buns. The best way to tell them apart was by their print dresses. The mother wore white polkadot on blue and her daughter's print was white on green. The older mountain woman had likely given birth at sixteen or so, because there wasn't a great gap in their ages. They both looked forty and driven into the ground.

Longarm gagged down half the beans and helped himself to a slice of pie, which turned out to be another mistake. He was glad he had packed some pemmican and baker's chocolate. Glad he wasn't a big eater, too.

He saw that the railroad d.i.c.k was getting up from the table, either in disgust or to relieve himself outside. Longarm pushed himself away from the table to follow, catching up with the detective near the outhouse.

"Call of nature?" grinned the railroad d.i.c.k, holding the door of the four-holer politely. Longarm said, "social call. Go ahead and do whatsoever. I want to talk to you."

The detective stepped back outside, saying, "It'll keep. What's on your mind, Longarm?"

"Got a deal for you. You got any papers on a Missouri owlhoot called Sailor Brown?"

"h.e.l.l yes, I do! He rode with James and Younger when they robbed the Glendale train!"

"Good reward on him?"

"A thousand or more. You know where he is, Longarm?"

"Yep. The reward is dead or alive, ain't it?"

"Of course. What's the play?"

"I'm sending you into Bitter Creek with his body, which I'm giving you as a gift in exchange."

"Exchange for what? You say his... body?"

"Yeah. That old man calling himself du Val was really Sailor Brown. He likely heard they had a friend of his here and rode in with that fool tale to see if he could bust the boy out. I got him on ice for you in a place we'll discuss if you're willing."

"Willing to what?"

"Drop out of this game. You must know your chance of taking Cotton Younger away from the vigilantes and us other real lawmen ain't so good. On the other hand, you've come a long way, so you've been waiting, hoping for a break. All right, I'm giving you one. You carry Sailor Brown to the U.P. line and telegraph at Bitter Creek and collect the bounty on him. How does that strike you?"

"Strikes me as d.a.m.n neighborly. Naturally, you're expecting a cut."

"Nope. Can't take any part of the reward. It's all yours. I'm going to tell you where the body is and then I'll expect you to be long gone."

"Leaving you with one less rival to deal with, eh? All right I'm a man who knows enough to quit whilst he's ahead. You got a deal. Who killed the Sailor, you?"

"Nope. Don't know who bushwhacked him. That's why, if I was you, I'd pick him up tonight and scoot. I'll ride up the mountain with you to help you pack him on a horse, and to make sure you get away safe. The one who shot him might have other ideas on the subject."

"Jesus. You reckon they'll have the body staked out?"

"Doubt it. Looks like somebody shot him down like a dog and left him for the crows. You'd best take that p.i.s.s now. I'd like to get the two of you off my hands before bedtime."

The detective laughed and said, "I admire a man who thinks on his feet, and you do think sharp and sudden. How'd you know I wasn't the killer?"

"You, Weed, and the Mountie are the only ones who couldn't be."

"And I'm the one without a real badge. All right, you've gotten rid of me. How do you figure to get rid of the others?"

"It ain't your worry, now. I eat the apple one bite at a time. So take your p.i.s.s and let's get cracking."

CHAPTER 10.

By eight-thirty the railroad d.i.c.k was packing the dead outlaw over the mountains to the transcontinental railroad and Longarm was getting off his bay in front of Kim Stover's cabin. Light shone through the drawn curtains and somewhere inside a dog was yapping, so Longarm wasn't surprised when the door opened before he'd had a chance to knock.

Kim Stover peered out at him, the lamplight making a red halo of her hair, as Longarm said, "Evening, ma'am. You folks rode off before I could get around to asking one or two more questions."

"Mister Long, if you've come to make your bid for Cotton Younger..."

"Uncle Sam don't work that way, ma'am, but let's leave your odd notions aside for now. You see, there seems to be more'n one outlaw working this neck of the woods. He took a shot at me in Bitter Creek the other night, and tonight I learned he wasn't funning. I thought we might talk about it."

"Are you suggesting one of my friends took a shot at you?"

"No, ma'am. I think you and yours are just being surly. You see, somebody came up here to bust Cotton Younger out of your so-called jail. Somebody else gunned him. But that's all been looked after. What I wanted to ask you about was new faces in the valley."

"You mean since we captured Cotton Younger? You've met them all by now."

"How about before your friends caught the boy skulking round? You have any new hands on the spreads, hereabouts?"

She shook her head and said, "No. Everyone I know in Crooked Lance has been here for some time."

"How much time is some, ma'am?"

"Oh, at least five years. Wait a minute. Timberline did hire some new hands when they made him ramrod of the Rocking H. The cattle company that owns it has expanded in the last few years. There's Windy Dawson, came to work two, maybe three years ago."

"He's that short, fat feller who throws good?"

"Yes, Windy's one of the best ropers in the valley."

"I took him for a top hand. I'd say he was a cowboy, not a train robber. Anyone else you can think of?"

"Not really. Windy's the newest man in the valley. there's Slim Wilson, but he was hired earlier and, like Windy, is considered a hand who knows his way around a cow. I'd be very surprised to learn that Slim wasn't a man who started learning his skills early, and he's no more than twenty, right now."

"What about Timberline?"

"Are you trying to be funny? He's cowboy to the core, and was one of the first men hired by the Rocking H."

"Just asking. A man his size stands out in a crowd, too, and I don't have anything like him on any recent flyers. You mustn't think I'm just prying for fun, ma'am. It's my job to put all the cards out on the table for a looksee. I'd say what we have here is a lone gunman who hides good on the ridge lines, or somebody playing two-faced."

"Your killer has to be one of the men on your side, then. What was that you said about an attempted jailbreak?"

Longarm hesitated. Then he said, "I reckon it's all right to level with you, ma'am. That old French Canuck I rode in with wasn't. He made that fool play at the jailhouse door to get a look at the prisoner and maybe slip him a word or two. But he wasn't out to kill Cotton Younger. He was sent, or came here on his own, to set a kinsman free."

"And you saw through his scheme? You do know your job, don't you?"

"Well, it was the Mountie that made him for a fake Canuck. Who gunned him, or why, is still pure mystery. From the few words I got out of him before he died, he seems to have had a misunderstanding with someone, and I know it wasn't the man you have locked up; they never got to see each other."

"Oh, that must mean there's another member of his gang here in Crooked Lance. But why are you telling me all this? I thought you were cross with me and mine."

"I am, a mite. You see, ma'am, this notion you have on holding our prisoner for some sort of fool auction is getting serious. You folks in Crooked Lance are playing cards for high stakes with professionals, and--no offense intended--some of your cowhands could get hurt."

"You know our stand about the money, d.a.m.n it."

"Yep, and it's getting tedious. You ain't a stupid woman, Miss Kim. You must know time is running out on you. Any day now, the army will send in a troop of cavalry to back Captain Walthers, or a team of federal officers will be coming to see what's keeping me. If I was you, I'd go with the Justice Department. One feller just made himself a modest bounty tonight, by cooperating with me."

"Could you give me something in writing, saying we were due the reward on Younger and his gang, whenever they're caught?"