Late that morning the two men with the picks and shovels came to him. “Marshal, unless you want us to dig until we come out the other side, I think your shit pit is done. You want to come take a look?”
He did. The sump was a good eight or nine feet down and plenty wide. The soil underground looked like it would provide more than adequate drainage for the liquids. Longarm nodded his satisfaction.
“Thanks for your help, fellas. You can go back to your regular jobs now.”
“You don’t need us swinging a hammer?” the Nebraska man offered.
“No, I think things are pretty much under control now. We have two working on the outhouse an’ two making furniture. Things are lookin’ good here, so go on an’ thank you.”
The pick and shovel brigade went back to their respective sides of the twin towns. Longarm turned to the other four and told them to take their lunch break. When they did, he noticed, they took their lunch pails and sat well apart from each other. He had been hoping that the work, of necessity in close quarters, would have led to something approaching friendship. It had not. He regretted the lack of camaraderie among them but knew there was no way to force it.
“If you need me, I’m gonna go have me something to eat, too. I’ll be at McPhail’s Café over yonder.”
“You go ahead, Marshal,” one of the Wyoming boys said.
Longarm walked across the wide street to Harrison McPhail’s café on the Nebraska side for a quick lunch, then went back across to the Wyoming side for a drink in Jacob Potts’s saloon. He was trying to show impartiality in his movements.
“My Lord, Jake, is this horse piss the best you have?” He had forgotten how very bad Potts’s whiskey was.
Potts wiped an imaginary spot off the bar and grunted. “It’s what there is, Long. Sorry if you don’t like it, but you take it or leave it. It don’t make no nevermind to me. The cowboys around here will drink what I give them or go thirsty. So will you.”
“Except I can walk across the street there and get something decent in your brother’s place. They could, too, if they wanted to.”
“That man is no brother to me. He’s just like all the rest of those sons o’ bitches over there, and all the hands around here know it. We don’t like those people any more than they like us, and one of these days we’ll have us a showdown. Then there won’t be but one town here, and it’ll be a Wyoming town.”
Longarm set his whiskey glass down, the contents barely tasted. The stuff really was terrible and he remembered now that the beer was just as bad. Either one left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth. He lighted a cheroot, thinking perhaps the flavor of the smoke would take away the taste of the whiskey. It did not, not completely, but it helped.
“I guess you heard, that MCX rider got himself murdered last night.”
“I heard. Do you figure one of the XL Bar boys slipped in and got some payback for him killing their pard Charley?”
“It’s a possibility,” Longarm admitted.
“Likely,” Potts said, rubbing at his bartop some more. Longarm got the impression the man would rather talk about almost anything other than the quality of his drinks. Or talk about nothing at all, which appeared to be an even more attractive possibility to the man.
He thought about walking back to the whorehouse where Hettie said she had a decent bottle of whiskey but decided he really should get back to work instead. There were still the desk and shelving to be built and he wanted to make sure they were constructed to his satisfaction.
“Thanks for the drink,” he told Potts.
“Anytime, Marshal. We all want to help any way we can.”
Longarm gave the man a halfhearted wave and went back out into the glare of the midday sun.