Longarm kept walking out the door. It was to his advantage to keep his true ident.i.ty a secreta"or at least not to advertise himself a federal lawman, because he might just get lucky, step off the stage in Prescott, and accidently b.u.mp into Hank Ba.s.s. In that case, he'd get the drop on the murderer and arrest him on the spot.

Ash Fork's Majestic Hotel wasn't at all majestic. Instead, the run-down hotel was old and dilapidated with several of the windows boarded over and in desperate need of fresh paint. Longarm took one good look at the place and kept walking. That guy at the stage office was probably getting some kind of payoff for referrals or else one of his relatives owned the Majestic. Either way, Longarm wasn't interested. A half block down the street, he came to a little hotel more to his liking. It was called the Aztec and a sign on the front door advertised: CLEAN ROOMS-FRESH LINEN-NO BODY CRYTTERS-ONE DOLLAR A DAY.

"Howdy!" he called, stepping into the hotel and gazing around. It was modest but indeed clean and tidy. The floors were polished and the lobby furniture dusted. Longarm was an expert at sizing up people, weapons, horses, and western hotel rooms. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that this was a well-run establishment.

"h.e.l.lo there," a respectable-looking woman in her early sixties said, coming out from a back room behind the registration desk. "My name is Ruby and I own this place. Do you need a clean, quiet room for the night?"

"Sure do."

"Be a dollar. Fifty cents more will get you a hot bath, soap, and a clean towel."

"I'll take it."

"You a cattle rancher in town on business?"

"No."

"Railroad executive?"

"Nope." Longarm frowned. "Why is it that everyone keeps trying to guess my line of work?"

Ruby shrugged. "It's mostly because we are bored and there isn't a lot else to do in Ash Fork. We used to have a newspaper, but the editor went broke and left town. So now the only way we can keep track of things hereabouts is to gossip and be nosy. Sorry if it offends you."

"Oh," Longarm said, realizing he was being kind of p.r.i.c.kly, "I'm not offended, And I'm not anywhere near as successful as a rancher or railroad executive."

"But you're still not going to tell me what brings you to Ash Fork, are you?"

"Nope. And anyway, I'm leaving for Prescott on tomorrow's stage."

"You packing a shooting iron?"

"I am."

"Good! You look like the kind of fella that could handle himself Might need to, because Hank Ba.s.s held up a stagecoach only last week. He gunned down a pa.s.senger who was a little slow reaching for his money belt."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is. So, if you're carrying a bunch of money, you had better be well armed. We've no law in these parts anymore. Never has been any law much to brag about."

"Why not?"

"Hank Ba.s.s gunned *em all down and we can't afford to hire anyone tough enough to stand up to him. Unless someone bushwhacks him or he dies of natural causes, I think we're in for a long, tough time of it."

"Where does Ba.s.s mostly hang out?"

The woman chuckled. "Just about anywhere he d.a.m.n well pleases!

Sometimes here, sometimes in Prescott or even Wickenburg. And a lot of the time, he's just gone. That's when everyone in this part of the country is happiest. I think he and his boys steal a bunch of money and ride down to Old Mexico where they whoop it up for a couple of months in the cantinas with the pretty young senoritas."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because they always return to Arizona wearing sombreros, serapes, and all kinds of Mexican clothes. They'll gallop in here singing Mexican songs and drinking bottles of tequila."

"That sounds like Old Mexico, all right," Longarm agreed as he paid for his room and bath, then accepted his key. "Number four, huh?"

"Yeah, anything wrong with that?" Ruby asked.

"Nope. In fact, four is one of my lucky numbers."

"Well," the woman said with a smile, "let's just hope that tomorrow is your lucky day and you don't get robbed on your way down to Prescott."

"I could use a rifle, maybe a shotgun."

"Two doors down on your right is a gun shop. It's owned by an old reprobate named Sherman. He's hard to deal with, but he's fair and he doesn't handle anything but straight shooters. He'll fix you up right."

"Thanks," Longarm said, not telling the woman that he meant to be more than ready for Hank Ba.s.s, if the man was unfortunate enough to try to rob him and tomorrow's southbound stage.

The room was as clean as promised and the bath-water was hot. Longarm luxuriated, soaking his travel-weary bones in the tub for nearly an hour before he dried off and climbed into a fresh set of clothes.

He was hungry and so he rang the little bell on the desk. When Ruby appeared, he said, "Where do you suggest I eat?"

"Majestic Hotel has a good dining room. They serve pretty good steaks."

Place looks dirty to me."

"Oh, it is," Ruby admitted, "but the food is okay. Then again, Antonio's is good for Mexican food and Charley's Platter isn't all bad, if you have a cast-iron stomach."

"I guess I'll try the Majestic's dining room," Longarm said. "Right after I visit the gunsmith and see if I can't buy a good rifle or shotgun."

"He's got what you need," Ruby promised. She reached down under the counter and pulled out an old but serviceable two-shot .38 caliber derringer. "I bought this little honey from Sherman for just ten dollars."

"Good deal."

"Well, I haven't ever had to use it," Ruby said. "Had to wave it in one fella's face and that was enough to make him decide he ought to pay his rooming bill and get the d.i.c.kens out of my sight."

"I'm sure it was. Can you hit anything?"

Ruby grinned. "Mister, where you stand right now, I could blow your gizzard out."

"I suspect that you could."

"I've got a double-barrel shotgun too. Keep it right behind that back door. It's got a barrel as big around as a sweet potato, and there's no doubt it would blow Hank Ba.s.s's d.a.m.ned head off."

"Does he stay here?"

"Not anymore, he don't. Used to. But then, that was when he still had some sense and manners. No, sir, the last time he entered this hotel, I grabbed that shotgun, pointed it at his ugly face, and c.o.c.ked back both hammers."

Longarm raised his eyebrows. "And what happened then?"

"Ba.s.s decided to take his business to the Majestic or to the wh.o.r.ehouse, I guess. But he and his boys never came back here, and I don't miss their blood money."

The woman clucked her tongue. "Want to see my shotgun?"

"Maybe another time," Longarm said, heading for the street.

"I'll bet you're a railroad boss! That's what you are! Admit it!"

Ruby called.

Longarm had to grin as he strode two doors down and entered the gun shop. Its proprietor, Sherman Hoskins, was a large man with droopy red eyes and a battered face. He was probably in his fifties but looked ten years older. His nose was a red, venous bulb, but his eyes were clear. Longarm pegged Sherman as someone who'd drunk himself into the gutter but then saw the light and pulled himself back from the brink of destruction.

"Howdy," Longarm said to the gunsmith. "I need a rifle or maybe a shotgun."

"Why don't you buy both?" the big man suggested.

"I might do that, if I see what I like and hear a good price," Longarm said, gazing around at the a.r.s.enal that Sherman had a.s.sembled and placed in gun racks and on pistol pegs.

Longarm took his time checking out the weapons. There was a fine old twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun made in Germany that he fell in love with but could not really afford. At least, not until he received his expense money from Denver. So he chose a Model center fire 1873 Winchester rifle caliber .44-40 with a skillfully repaired stock.

"Need ammunition?" Sherman asked.

"A couple boxes of sh.e.l.ls."

"You got *em. Where you come from, mister?"

"Denver."

"Where you headed?"

"Prescott."

"Then you really ought to buy this shotgun."

"Can't afford it or I would," Longarm replied. "Maybe on the way back through town."

"Sure," the gunsmith said without enthusiasm. "But I tell you what, if you need a shotgun, I have one in the back room that I can let you have for a measly eight dollars."

"Eight dollars! What kind of a weapon can you sell me that cheap?"

"It's an old double-barrel, ten-gauge. It'll knock you on your a.s.s and you'll think that you've been kicked by a mule, but after it goes off, there won't be nothing standing in the general direction that you pointed."

"Let me see it."

Sherman disappeared for a moment, then returned with the ugly old shotgun. It was scarred and it was heavy, but Longarm could tell the minute that he broke it open that the weapon was in good firing condition.

"Ain't she a cannon, though?" Sherman said, obviously delighted with the weapon.

"That she is," Longarm said. "But I think I'll pa.s.s. Too big and heavy."

"You can sell her in a minute down in Prescott for at least fifteen dollars," Sherman argued. "I'll guarantee that you can. And, in the meantime, this shotgun will give you a lot of peace of mind in case you have a chance to blow Hank Ba.s.s and his friends all over the sagebrush."

"Yeah," Longarm said. "I see what you mean. All right. How about ammunition?"

"It is hard to come by," Sherman admitted. "But I do have a half dozen sh.e.l.ls. Tell you what, I'll throw *em in for an extra two dollars."

Longarm nodded. Between his stage fare, the Winchester, this shotgun, fresh ammunition, meals and hotel bills, he was getting close to being broke. Billy Vail had d.a.m.n sure better have his hundred dollars of expense money wired to Prescott, or there was going to be hard times ahead. If worse came to worse, he could point the shotgun at a forest and probably knock down a dozen or so deer along with trees, brush, and anything else that was in his line of fire.

"Thanks," Longarm said, cramming ammunition in his pockets and grabbing the shotgun and the Winchester.

"Come back alive," Sherman said. "And if you want to sell me back them weapons, I'll make you a deal that won't hurt you much."

"I may do that."

"Fact is, I am kind of fond of that old shotgun."

"Then why'd you sell it so cheap?"

"Might blow up in your face," Sherman drawled. "Better you find that out than me."

Longarm hoped that the irascible gunsmith was making a little jokea"but he wasn't sure.

Chapter 6.

When Longarm boarded the stagecoach for the roughly fifty-mile run south to Prescott, he quickly noted that there were two guards sitting on top of the stage with rifles.

"Expecting trouble?" Longarm asked the driver.

The man spat a long, brown stream of tobacco juice into the street. "Could happen," he said. "We've got a strongbox full of gold and cash. Hank Ba.s.s has spies in Ash Fork so we're taking no chances."

"Good," Longarm said. "As you can see, I'm pretty well armed myself."

"For gawd sakes don't shoot that d.a.m.ned shotgun off or it might blow us all to smithereens!" the driver exclaimed.

"I won't unless I have to," Longarm vowed, tossing his bags into the coach and then clambering inside. There were only two other pa.s.sengers, a worried-looking couple in their late sixties who introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. George Buelton.

"I'm retired," George said even before Longarm took his seat opposite them. "I was a bartender for over thirty-five years. Hated every gawd d.a.m.ned minute of it. People have a drink, they start to acting like animals. Me and the wife won't touch a drop of the devil's brew."

"We raised four children," Agnes Buelton added. "All of them boys turned out worthless. Just a bunch of drunks, horse thieves, and convicts."

"Real sorry to hear that."

"Not as sorry as we are," Agnes answered. "We're on our way to Prescott so I can be with our daughter-in-law who is having her first baby."