“Dead” run indeed.
When he got to the Wyoming-side saloon, Longarm found short, stocky Charley from the XL Bar laid out on the floor, his revolver beside him, and the tall redhead named Dave standing at the bar nearby.
Dave had his revolver in his holster, but it was obvious enough who had done the shooting here. No one wanted to stand close to Dave. The other patrons who had crowded into the place were managing to keep their distance despite the crowd.
Longarm stood for a moment, playing the sounds back in his head. He had heard two gunshots. Exactly two. Which meant it was entirely possible that this had been a fair fight, just like the fistfight between the two had been.
Before doing anything else he picked Charley’s Smith & Wesson .44 Russian up off the floor. The S&Ws were break-top models. Longarm released the catch and flipped the cylinder up.
The pistol was loaded with six fat, stubby .44 cartridges. Fully loaded. None of the cartridges had been fired as he could easily see by glancing at the unblemished primers, but just to satisfy himself that he was not making a mistake he dropped all six into his palm, looked them over and returned them to the chambers.
He snapped the S&W closed and dropped the gun onto Charley’s belly. Charley did not mind. The cowboy was beyond feeling anything. Ever. The man was dead as a shoat on a spit.
Longarm walked over and faced Dave.
“What’s your name, mister?”
“Dave Ashford, Marshal, and this here was a fair fight.”
“Was it?” Longarm’s eyes were cold, hard, and unblinking. They bore twin holes into Ashford’s suddenly sweating face.
“I, uh . . . ’course it was,” Ashford said. He took his bandanna and wiped his forehead and cheeks with it.
“Give me your gun,” Longarm ordered.
“Where I come from, Marshal, a man don’t hand his gun over to somebody else,” Ashford blustered.
“All right,” Longarm said mildly. “If you’d rather I shoot you an’ then look at it, you’re entitled t’ the difference.”
Dave Ashford forked over his Colt, very careful to do it quietly, slowly, and with only two fingers lest this cold-eyed lawman mistake his movement for resistance. “Here y’go, Marshal, but I’m telling you, this here was a fair fight.”
“Uh-huh.” Longarm flipped open the loading gate on the Colt, drew the hammer back to half cock, and spun the cylinder. Two of the five cartridges had been fired.
“Ask anybody,” Dave urged.
“I should maybe ask some of the MCX riders?” Longarm asked.
Dave motioned in a half circle around him. “These fellows is all witnesses to what happened. They’ll tell you.”
“I’m sure they will,” Longarm said. He smiled although the expression did not reach his eyes. “I never yet met a man who wouldn’t stand up for a bunkmate whether the son of a bitch . . . no implication ’bout you when I say that . . . whether the fellow was right or wrong.”
Dave reached for his .45, but Longarm stuffed it into his waistband rather than hand it over just yet.
He looked around the room, then called out, “Anybody here who isn’t from either the MCX or the XL Bar?”
“Me, sir,” a sawed-off little runt of a man said, stepping out of the crowd to present himself in front of Longarm. “I’m drifting through. I don’t work for nobody right now.”
“Ever worked for either o’ those brands?” Longarm asked.
“No, sir.”
“Ever worked with any o’ these men?”
The little fellow took a moment to look around, then shook his head.
“All right, tell me what happened here.”
“This fella”—he pointed to Dave—“got to argiffying with that’un.” This time he pointed down at the dead man. “That’un said something that I didn’t hear, then that’un”—again he pointed at Dave—“drew down on t’other one and shot him dead. Shot him twice in the chest and belly. That’un managed to get his gun out but he never come close to getting off a shot.”
“So this one”—Longarm pointed to Ashford—“drew first?”
The witness nodded. “Had his gun out and smoke in the air before that’un ever reached for his gun.”
“Thanks.” He motioned to George Griner, who was behind the bar. “This man drinks on me this evening.”
“Whatever you say, Marshal.”
Longarm did not ask Griner anything about the fight. Whatever the supposedly neutral bartender might say, he would risk alienating one group of cowboys or the other. Longarm would come back when the place was empty and ask Griner what he saw. But not now. He did not want to ruin the man’s business.
Instead, Longarm turned to Dave Ashford and, expression now grim, said, “Turn around.”
“But I tell you . . .”
“Turn the fuck around while you still can.”
Ashford turned around. Quickly.
“Hands behind the back.”
“But I can’t . . .”
Longarm’s Colt flashed, but instead of firing it, he used the butt to buffalo Dave Ashford, dropping the man to the floor where Longarm trussed him with his hands behind his back.
Longarm reached up to the bar and grabbed Ashford’s beer then poured it onto his head. That brought Ashford around although he still looked more than a little woozy from the blow Longarm had given him.
“Now,” Longarm said, looking around the suddenly not crowded room, “where’s the jail around here?”