Longarm and the Whiskey Woman (11 page)

Carson shrugged. "Near as I recollect, you trusted me with your life. You going to tell me that twenty-five hundred dollars is worth more than your life?"

Longarm pulled a face. He said, "Now that you put it like that, it does kind of make sense. You've got to come back out here to pick up your whiskey, anyway." He looked across the room. "Doesn't seem to me that I've got much choice."

Carson said, "If you're a mind to do it, you better get your telegram message written out tonight, because I'm going to start first thing in the morning. I don't want to spend any more time around Little Rock than I have to. I have a feeling that Morton Colton and his pet deputy sheriffs might not be feeling so kindly toward me."

Longarm said, "I don't see why. You kept me from killing all three of the sons of bitches."

Carson laughed softly. He said, "They might not see it that way."

Longarm sat thinking for a moment, though it really didn't require much thought. There didn't seem to be any other way. He wondered, however, if he could word the telegram in such a way that Billy Vail would pick up on the urgency and the necessity of sending the money, but more importantly understand that he would be sending it to a stranger who did not know that Longarm was a deputy marshal. If Billy slipped up in the return wire that would most likely accompany the money, it could be the finish of him. Hopefully, Billy wouldn't send an inquiry with the bank draft. Hopefully, he would be willing to send $2500 to a man whose name he did not know. Longarm knew in the message he would send in with Frank Carson that he would have to include some sort of clue to warn Billy that the circumstances were unusual. Perhaps, he thought, the simplest way would be to come right out and say that he was in a tight spot and that it was necessary to use an intermediary. People other than deputy marshals got into tight places. Maybe the old fool would understand that and then, maybe, the old fool wouldn't. Sometimes, it seemed to Longarm, Billy's greatest delight in life was seeing just what kind of a fix he could get Longarm into and then watch him squirm to get out.

After another moment, Longarm said to Frank Carson, "Well, it doesn't seem like I do have much choice in the matter. Tell you what, I'll hunt up a piece of paper and a pencil and write out the wire. Do you know a bank in Little Rock we could have it sent to?"

Carson shrugged. He said, "Well, there's the First Arkansas National Bank. It's about the biggest one in town. Will that do?"

"Yeah, I reckon. At least, if we're going to trust somebody, we might as well trust the biggest bank."

Frank Carson got up. "I'm going to go and have a visit with the old man and see if my whiskey is ready to go or just what the situation is. I want to make certain that I have time to get to Little Rock and get back here. I've got to clear my gear out of my room at the hotel since I don't reckon I'll be going back in there anymore."

Longarm looked at him sideways. "Oh, so you'll finally be passing through?"

"Yeah, Mr. Long, I'll be passing through."

"Well, just make sure you don't get into any poker games there. Especially with my twenty-five hundred dollars."

Frank Carson let a small smile play over his face. He said, "Mr. Long, you might be surprised to know twenty-five hundred dollars ain't that much money to me."

"If I give you the money, would you check me out of the hotel and pick up my valise?"

"Yeah, I'd be willing to do that for you."

Longarm said, "Things might be scattered around. If there's any socks that look too dirty to pick up, just leave them there."

Carson said, "I ain't picking up none of your damned underwear."

Longarm shook his head. He said, "Not to worry. I don't wear underwear."

Carson gave him a look. "I thought there was something a little strange about you. How come you don't wear underwear?"

Longarm took another small sip of the strong whiskey. He said, "Mainly because I have so damned many women after me and they are so impatient. I don't get much time to take them off. At their request, I just quit wearing them."

Carson shook his head slowly. He said, "I hate to hear a man talk like that. It just plumb worries me about who I'm dealing with."

Longarm said, "Also, I've got two bottles of good Maryland aged whiskey in my valise. Might even be a bottle sitting around opened. Bring that, too. Now, since you don't appear to be a man who knows good whiskey when he tastes it, I'm certain that you'll leave it alone and get it here safely to me."

Carson said, "Hah!" Then he got up and started for the door. "I'm going to tend to business. I reckon it'll be all right to walk around where you will, but I wouldn't make a nuisance of myself, if you take my meaning."

"Oh, I take your meaning, all right."

That afternoon, Longarm wandered about the place, showing special interest in the big stills and their need for constant attention. He asked a few questions of the workmen, who were either adding mash to the barrels or replenishing the fires or doing any one of several other things Longarm didn't understand. It appeared sometimes they transferred the whiskey at certain stages to other barrels, moving it progressively up the line in big tin buckets. He didn't know why they did it, nor did he get any answers. He got the same results to every one of his questions: a blank stare and nothing else.

Finally, he wandered into a barn and was surprised to see it stocked with a half dozen big, stout, long wagons with broad, iron-rimmed wheels. Walking in farther, he saw pens of oxen and big draft horses. He assumed they were used to pull the wagons. He reckoned that a load of whiskey could be pretty heavy.

As he walked around that day, both in the house and out, he caught Sally Colton staring at him. It made his mouth water and it made his hands get itchy and damp. However, all he did was nod pleasantly at her. She never bothered to nod back or to speak, just looked at him, surveying him from head to toe.

Her bald interest was nothing unusual. It seemed everyone about the place, with the exception of Asa and some of the colored women working in the house, gave him a thorough inspection with no by-your-leave or greeting or even any indication that he was more alive than a rock or a tree they were staring at.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, he was able to get a sheet of paper and a pencil from John Colton, and he went back to the cabin to write out his message. He sat down at the table, wet the tip of the pencil, and thought for a moment before proceeding.

Finally, he began. He headed it simply: "To Billy Vail, Denver, Colorado." That was going to be another ticklish part. He couldn't send it to Billy Vail in care of the Federal Marshall's Office, so he had to hope and pray that the telegraph office in Denver would know Billy well enough to deliver it to him, anyway.

He began to write, being careful in his choice of words. The telegram read:

URGENT YOU WIRE ME, IMMEDIATELY, IN CARE OF FIRST ARKANSAS NATIONAL BANK, LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS, $2500. STOP. SEND MONEY IN CARE OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. REPEAT. SEND MONEY IN CARE OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. CANNOT EXPLAIN AT THIS TIME WHY MONEY MUST COME IN NAME OF FRANK CARSON, BUT IT IS NECESSARY THAT NO MENTION OF MY NAME OR OUR BUSINESS BE IN ACCOMPANIMENT OF THIS MONEY. STOP. UNDERSTAND THIS MIGHT BE CONFUSING, BUT IS NECESSARY YOU SIMPLY DO NOTHING MORE THAN SEND $2500 TO THE BANK IN THE NAME OF FRANK CARSON. STOP. WILL EXPLAIN LATER. STOP. MY LIFE COULD WELL DEPEND ON YOUR FOLLOWING THESE INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY. STOP. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT THE TREASURER OF OUR COMPANY IS CROOKED. STOP. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT THE TREASURER AND HIS ASSISTANT ARE IN THIS AREA DOING BUSINESS ON THEIR OWN. STOP. AM HOPEFUL OF RETURNING WITH THE WHISKEY AND LOOKING FORWARD DOING FURTHER BUSINESS WITH THE PEOPLE AT THIS END. STOP.

He sat back for a moment and lit a cigarillo. Once he had it drawing good, he read the telegram message several times. The reference to the Treasury officials he had reason to believe were in the area was a hint that Billy might not get, but he had to include it. The idea that he was trusting his life to Billy Vail was not a happy one, but he had no choice. It was either that or give the job up, and he was unwilling to do that. He read the message again and put the pencil down. It was as good as he could do.

It was getting late in the day, and he sat for a few more minutes, going carefully over in his mind what Frank Carson might find in his hotel room. The only thing that ever really identified him as a deputy marshal was his badge, and he kept it safely buttoned inside the pocket of whatever shirt he was wearing. He had almost been careless the night before. The buckle on his gun belt was a big concave silver affair, as big as a man's hand. Inside, he carried, hidden, a.38-caliber derringer that was held in place by steel springs. As he'd undressed, he'd almost forgotten to slip the derringer out, hiding it with his hand, and get it in his boot. He was pretty sure that Carson hadn't noticed. There was no value in a hideout gun if everyone knew you had it. It had saved his life more than a few times.

There was, so far as he knew, nothing that would identify him as a lawman that Carson would find among his effects or in his room. Of course, there was no real reason to have Carson check him out of the hotel and fetch his clothes except that he didn't fancy wearing the same set of jeans and shirt for a week. Besides, he had left a leather jacket there, and the nights up here in these foothills of the Ozark Mountains tended to turn a little nippy. He took a drink of whiskey and then left the cabin, satisfied that he had done all he could to make progress on the job of work he was faced with.

CHAPTER 6

Supper that night was pretty much as lunch had been, except they had fried chicken and mashed potatoes and canned green beans and canned tomatoes. It was, Longarm decided, about as good a fried chicken as he had ever had, and he said as much to the stringy-haired woman who worked in the kitchen and was married to one of the sons. Which one of them, he never could figure out, since she was as sour to each of them as she was to everyone else.

When he complimented her on the chicken, she gave him a look like he was an idiot and said, "How in tarnation can you mess up fresh chicken? All you do is chop the head off of it, pick it, scald it, cut it up, roll it in flour, and then fry it. Hell, a damned fool can fry chicken."

After that, she closed her mouth and didn't say another word.

Longarm said to her profile, "Well, I'm glad to have it explained that way. I always wondered how they fried chicken."

Not a soul laughed or even looked up. The only one not intent on her food was Sally. She had gone back to her habit of staring at Longarm, which was starting to make him uncomfortable. He had noticed that Asa Colton and the two brothers seemed to be aware of it and they didn't seem to be altogether pleased. Frank Carson had advised Asa that he would be leaving early the next morning to go in and clear up some business in Little Rock and that he would be back in a couple of days.

Mark Colton had looked at him and then at Longarm. He said, jerking his head toward Longarm, "You ain't leavin' this one here, be you?"

Carson said, "I thought you understood, Mark, that he can't go back into Little Rock. Morton and the law are looking for him. Yeah, I'm leaving him here. Asa said it was all right. Is it all right with you?"

Mark narrowed his small eyes and gave Longarm a look. He said, "He better stick to his own row of corn. That's all I'll say for him."

Longarm gave the man a look back. He said, "Neighbor, nobody ever caught me hoeing somebody else's row of corn. In fact, if you want to know the truth of the matter, I ain't never hoed a row of corn in my life and don't plan on starting now."

The man's eyes went flat. He said, "You've got kind of a smart mouth on you, don't you, mister?"

Longarm said casually, "It probably seems that way to you, but then I guess most nearly everyone would appear to have a smart mouth on them to you."

Frank Carson gave him a swift look. He said, "Mr. Long, you're a guest here."

Longarm tried to look amiable but did not do a very good job at it. He said, "Why, I'm being just as friendly as I can be."

John Colton said to his brother, "Mark, get off the prod. This gent ain't done you no harm."

Mark was still staring at Longarm. He said, "I don't like the way he keeps eyeing Sally."

John Colton said, "Hell, Mark. That's just the brother in you. He ain't looked at her no more than anybody else."

Longarm was dumbfounded. He hadn't looked at Sally a fraction of the amount of time she had spent staring at him. He started to say so but then thought better of it. He said, "Gents, I'm just here to do some whiskey business. That's all. Nothing else. I am surely not being ungentlemanly toward your sister."

John said, "She's just our half sister. She's the young one from Daddy's last wife. She got taken off with the fever, not six or seven months ago."

Longarm said, "I'm right sorry to hear that." But to him, the whole situation was strange and strained. On the surface, he was supposed to be a customer doing what to them was legitimate business. They were treating him like a spy and an interloper and a lawman, which he really was, but they weren't supposed to know that.

That evening, after they had gone back to their cabin, Longarm said to Frank Carson, "What is it with these people? That Mark has taken a dislike to me, and I ain't done a damned thing. If anybody is staring at anybody, it's Sally staring at me. And what the hell does he care? She's his sister."