Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers Page 2

  He liked the woman’s way of speaking. Calm, clear, and matter of fact.

  While Longarm listened, he sat looking at Charlie Carver. He liked what he saw. She was a handsome female although she tried not to show it. He guessed she wanted to be judged for what she did rather than what she looked like. That was a reasonable enough attitude. But she was a damned good-looking woman nonetheless.

  “There have been three robberies,” she said.

  “Three? I thought there were only the two.”

  “Then you didn’t hear about the one yesterday evening.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “It was the same as the other two,” Charlie said. “This is a small operation. We have only the one coach, and I don’t employ a shotgun guard to ride along. There hasn’t been any reason to worry about robbers expecting to take a gold shipment. Hasn’t been ever since the railroad reached Fairplay, and the trains began carrying ores down to Denver for smelting.”

  “What did they do before that?” Longarm asked.

  “They processed the ore up here as best they could, but everyone concedes that they were only able to extract a small percentage of the metal that way. Down below in the big smelters they achieve almost a ninety percent extraction.

  “The point is, of course, that we simply don’t carry anything of great value on our little route,” she said.

  “Tell me about the route,” Longarm said.

  Charlie shrugged. “There isn’t that much to it. We run six days a week. Not on Sundays. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays we make a circle in one direction. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays we turn around and make the same circle but in the opposite direction.

  “We service Bailey, Lake George, Guffey, and Hartsel. It’s just a big circle. We carry passengers, a little freight, and of course, the mail pouches. The Hedley brothers have a line that runs from Colorado Springs up through South Park and down through Trout Creek Pass to the Arkansas River Valley and on to Leadville. Our lines intersect at Hartsel. I don’t know if you are familiar with the hotel and the baths there.

  “Anyway, we exchange mail pouches at the hotel in Hartsel. Anything coming on to Fairplay we take. Anything to be carried down to Manitou or Colorado City or the like we send down by way of the Hedleys.

  “To tell you the truth, Marshal, our little line depends on the income we receive for carrying those mail pouches. There is precious little regular income beyond that. There are very few passengers nowadays and even less freight, so it comes down to the mail. What I fear is that our mail contract will be revoked if we can’t deliver.”

  The woman stood and began to pace and clench her hands together.

  “Ours is a tiny line. Even smaller since the railroad got here and our service area was reduced. Now it is just my driver and me. He takes care of the horses and the driving. I take care of the office.”

  Longarm reached for a cheroot by habit, remembered the lady’s allergy, and took his hand away. “How’d you come to own the line?” he asked.

  “I am a widow, Marshal. Bertram and I were married for more than twenty years. He was a mining engineer. He was killed in an accident underground. The company paid me a small death benefit plus Bert had taken out a life insurance policy. Between them, I would have had enough to live on for a few years, but then my funds would have been exhausted. I needed to find a source of income. I knew Hank Blaisdell was thinking of selling out and retiring to California, so I made him an offer. This is the result.”

  Longarm nodded. “An’ if the line folds?” he asked.

  “I really don’t know. I have no skills.” She laughed, a sound with no mirth in it whatsoever. “I’m even too old to become a prostitute. I don’t know what I could possibly do to survive without this little express line.”

  Longarm smiled. “Then let’s us see what we can do t’ keep any o’ that from happening, shall we? An’ the first thing we need t’ do is to find whoever it is that’s been robbing your coach an’ put ’em behind bars. I’ll need to talk with your driver. When will he get back?”

  “He won’t be back until evening, but of course I will introduce you to him,” she said.

  “All right, thanks.”

  “Is there anything else I can tell you? Anything I can do?”

  “Not right now,” he said, “but if I think of anything, I’ll let y’ know.”

  “Anything,” she said. “Anything at all.”

  Longarm stood and thanked her again then stepped outside. He was wanting a smoke in the worst way.

  But then he probably would not have been thinking so much about smoking except for the fact that he was not able to. That made him want a cheroot all the more. And as soon as he was out the door to the street, he was reaching into his pocket for that cigar he had not been able to finish inside.

  Chapter 6

  The beer at Ikey Tyler’s Bearpaw Saloon was flat and the whores ugly, but the beer cost only a nickel a mug—Longarm had no idea what the whores cost and was not interested in finding out—and the place had a good flow of customers even at the morning hour.

  That would be because several of the mines in the district operated around the clock, and because the shifts worked on varying hours, it was evening for someone nearly all the time.

  Longarm parked himself in the center of Tyler’s bar and nursed his beer. Not many people in Fairplay knew him as a Federal marshal. Not yet. He wanted to take advantage of that time to eavesdrop on the conversations around him for as long as he could.

  He was hoping to hear some talk about the robberies. What he got was mostly bellyaching about the work underground—the poor quality of the tools, the scarcity of the rest breaks, and stupidity of the bosses—but also a fair amount of bragging. The braggadocio mostly involved the whores. To hear the men tell it about themselves, they were so big the whores would take one look and turn them down or they were such good lovers that the girls would refuse payment for the privilege of being fucked.

  Longarm had to hide a smile behind the rim of his mug when he heard those boasts. A man who had to brag on how good he was probably wasn’t.

  There was a fair amount of talk about a prizefight that was scheduled for the weekend. A promoter from Buena Vista down in the Arkansas River valley was in town hawking his fighter against any comers. Five dollars to get in the ring with the man and a hundred back to anyone who could last five minutes without leaving his feet.

  That was the sort of contest that would draw crowds from the whole South Park area, Longarm knew. Hell, if he hadn’t been here on duty, it was something he might take a chance on himself.

  As it was, it was a contest he intended to observe. He was willing to bet that the stagecoach robbers would attend. Not that he would know who they were. Not at the time. Hopefully he would get some clue as to who and where.

  If nothing else, he always enjoyed a good prizefight.

  “Another beer, mister?”

  Longarm looked up, his concentration broken. “Uh, no, I’m good here.”

  “Mister, this here is a place for folks who want to have a drink. You understand? Now either drink or get the fuck out of here. I don’t need any help to prop up the bar. Get it?”

  “I’ll have another,” Longarm said, digging a nickel out of his pocket and laying it on the bar.

  Chapter 7

  Longarm had lunch at a pleasant café he remembered from past visits. It lay on the east side of town, close to the creek that was the headwaters of the South Platte River . . . although it did not look anything like an important waterway at its beginning. What it did look like was a nice little brook where a man might find a trout or two. Longarm regretted leaving his rod and selection of flies at home. But perhaps if he found time . . .

  He took his time over lunch and gave thought to whether he could get away with pretending to be someone up here for the prizefight. Or to
go fishing.

  Reluctantly he gave up that idea. Too many people in Fairplay knew him to be a deputy U.S. marshal.

  That seemed a pity, though. He would have especially enjoyed acting the part of a fisherman on holiday.

  As it was, he finished his slab of elk steak and fried spuds, paid for the meal and left a modest tip, then walked across town to the tall, imposing Park County Courthouse, which overlooked the west outskirts of Fairplay.

  He climbed to the third floor, where the sheriff had his office and jail.

  “Afternoon, Marshal. What can we do for you?” the on-duty deputy asked when Longarm walked in.

  “Is Bud in?”

  “Sorry, Marshal. The sheriff is down in El Paso County attending a conference. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Longarm approached the desk to shake hands. “Please forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Chance Hardesty,” the deputy said.

  “Can you tell me anything about these stagecoach robberies, Chance?”

  “Is that what brings you up here?” Hardesty leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “I wish I had something to tell you, but if I knew anything, I’d have someone in the jail back there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “I have to admit,” he said, “that with the sheriff gone, I’ve been too busy to do anything but take down a report about them. There’s a prizefight scheduled for this weekend.”

  “I heard something ’bout that,” Longarm said.

  “Right. Well, it’s drawing a lot of low types up here. Pickpockets and confidence artists, that sort of trash. Me and Tom . . . do you remember him? Him and me are all the law there is in the county right now, and the sheriff wants one of us behind this desk here at all times to take any complaints and see to the jail, like that. Tom is out somewhere right now trying to keep an eye on things, and today I’m the one stuck in here. Tomorrow it will be his turn to sit and be bored.”

  Longarm remembered Park County Deputy Tom Bitterman as a happy-go-lucky kid who was more interested in getting free rolls in the hay from the local whores than he was in performing his duties. But then Tommy was Sheriff Bud Jahn’s nephew or some such kin and was secure in his position no matter how poorly he performed.

  Maybe, Longarm thought, he was being too harsh in his assessment. Maybe Tommy had grown up some since the last time Longarm was up here.

  “Can I take a look at those reports you wrote out?” Longarm asked.

  “Sure thing, Marshal.” Hardesty jumped up and crossed the room to a tall file cabinet. He pulled out a drawer, riffled through the file folders there, found the one he wanted, and pulled it out.

  “All three of them are in here,” he said, handing the folder to Longarm. “Would you like to use the desk here to sit and go over them?” He smiled and added, “I’d like to go down and take a shit anyway, and that way there’d still be someone behind the desk. Would you mind?”

  “Go ahead,” Longarm said. “I won’t let anybody swipe the jail while you’re away.”

  “Thanks. I was afraid I was going to have to use the thunder mug, and then I’d just have to clean it out later.” Hardesty grabbed his hat and was headed down the stairs before Longarm had a chance to change his mind.

  Chapter 8

  Longarm was disappointed. It was not that he had really expected to learn anything new or illuminating from the Park County sheriff’s incidence reports. But he had certainly hoped.

  As it was, reading through the reports told him nothing more than Charlise Carver already had. In each instance the coach was stopped by two men—well, at least two; there could have been someone else hiding nearby—who held shotguns. One threatened the horses; the other targeted the driver. Neither man spoke.

  Longarm sat back in the sheriff’s swivel chair and scratched under his chin. He was making an assumption to think that the robbers were men. They wore dusters that hung from head to toe plus slouch hats and bandannas. One or both could as easily have been women. It was something to keep in mind.

  He leaned forward and concentrated on the reports, and again all three were similar. The robbers did not speak. They merely motioned with the barrels of their shotguns.

  The driver threw the mail pouches down, along with any other express messages, then the robbers stepped back and motioned for the coach to proceed. Which it did, just as fast as it could go.

  Longarm did not at all fault the driver. He was not armed and had the lives of his passengers to consider.

  Which brought something else to mind.

  Longarm shuffled through the incidence reports again. On one trip the coach was empty. On another there was one passenger, and on the third there were three passengers. On no occasion did the robbers attempt to hold up the passengers. They were completely ignored even though it would have been simple enough for the robbers to strip them of cash or valuables while the coach was stopped.

  That was not at all an ordinary way for a stagecoach robber to act.

  They took only the mail pouches. Those pouches, empty, were found lying beside the road on the next trip around.

  That, too, seemed odd.

  Longarm took out a cheroot and lit it—at least here he could smoke while he pondered—then laced his hands behind his head and thought about the reports he had in front of him.

  They told him little. All three robberies occurred on the Bailey to Lake George leg of the run. All southbound, that is, from Bailey down to Lake George and not from Lake George back north to Bailey on the other side of that run.

  Perhaps someone in Bailey was expected to mail something that the robbers wanted to intercept? The conjecture was thin but certainly possible.

  Longarm sat smoking—and thinking—until Deputy Hardesty returned from taking his overdue shit.

  “Feel better?” Longarm asked with a smile.

  “Lots. Thanks.”

  “Glad t’ do it for a fellow badge carrier.” Longarm stood, stretched, and turned the chair back over to Chance Hardesty. “If I think of anything else, I might be back,” he said.

  “Any time at all, Marshal. The sheriff is always glad to help.”

  Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson and headed back down the steep stairs.

  Chapter 9

  He idled the afternoon away, wandering from one to another of Fairplay’s many saloons, nursing a beer in each and keeping his ears open. The effort was wasted. Well, except for discovering which of the slop joints had the best beer or the prettiest whores. He learned a bit about that; unfortunately, that was not what he was interested in.

  When he heard the Carver stagecoach rattle in, the jehu cracking his whip and making a show of the arrival, Longarm shoved his beer mug away and went out to greet the coach.

  The driver surprised him. The fellow looked like he was barely old enough to shave. Hell, maybe he didn’t. He knew how to handle the whip and the driving lines, though. He brought the lathered four-up in with a swirl of dust and a high-pitched yip.

  Charlise Carver came out of the office to greet him.

  Charlise, Longarm thought. Now why had he taken to thinking of her as Charlise instead of as Charlie?

  He took another look at the woman, standing in the afternoon sun, and realized what the difference was. Of a sudden he was thinking about her as a damned attractive woman and not just a victim of crime.

  Not that she had given him any reason to think that way. But he did.

  The driver set the brake and Charlise opened the coach door. There were two passengers. They climbed down, brushing at their clothing and chatting back and forth.

  The passengers retrieved their bags from the boot at the back of the coach, Charlise standing with them, thanking them for their business and expressing the usual platitudes about hoping they had a good trip.

  Meanwhile the driver climbed down of
f the rig. He, too, brushed the dust from his linen duster—well named—and removed his heavy gloves.

  “Will,” Charlise said, beckoning him over to where Longarm stood. “I want you to meet U.S. Marshal Long.” She looked at Longarm and raised an eyebrow. “Curtis, is it?”

  “Custis,” he corrected.

  “Custis, meet my son and business partner, Will C. Carver.”

  The young man grinned and stuck a hand out to shake. “My pleasure, Marshal.”

  “Only a deputy,” Longarm said. “The marshal is down in Denver settin’ behind a desk while I’m up here tryin’ to find out what’s up with these robberies. Did you have any trouble today?”

  “No, sir. It was all smooth. Took one fella from Bailey down to Lake George, picked up those two in Hartsel, and brought them over here.”

  “You were carrying mail today?” Longarm asked.

  “Yes, sir. Every day. Two pouches from Bailey, one coming here and the other going down to Buena Vista and beyond. One pouch from Colorado City and Manitou coming here.”

  As if to affirm that, the postmaster showed up to collect the pair of canvas pouches.

  “Do you two know each other?” Charlise asked.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Deputy Marshal Long, this is our postmaster, Jon Willoughby. Jon, this gentleman is Custis Long. He came up from Denver to look into these mail robberies.”

  They shook and Willoughby said, “I hope you can clear this up, Deputy. We can’t have such a thing. No, sir, not at all.”

  Willboughby was a small man with thinning gray hair. He seemed fussy and nervous, perhaps prissy. Almost certainly a political appointee. Which meant that as a Federal employee whose bosses for the most part were politicians of one stripe or another, Custis Long should watch his step around Postmaster Willoughby.

  “Excuse me, please,” Longarm said, nodding and touching the brim of his Stetson. He walked over to the front of the coach, where Will Carver had retired. “Help you with these horses?” he offered.