Longarm on the Overland Trail (2 page)

Longarm said, "Me. I met a sass who couldn't be anyone but the killer no more than an hour or ago in the Parthenon saloon. He worn a brace of army-issue '74s, and to think I took him for a drunk kid on the prod!"

He went on to bring the others up to date on the one and original Black Jack Slade. They agreed that was crazy, too.

"The punk's last name is Slade," Nolan said. "After that he was full of pure bull. We've been canvassing the neighborhood. The killer turned twenty-two this June and looked younger. He went to Evans Grammar School less than a mile from here, but left in the fifth grade after losing some school time to the scarlet fever. He's described by those who know him, including some as went to school with him, as a sickly, feeble-minded runt who's never been able to hold a job. He was sponging off his kin here until about a year or more ago, when his sister's husband told him it was time he supported himself and threw him out."

"That sounds sensible. Where's the brother-in-law right now?"

"Dead. Died last winter whilst the boy was in the army, trying to hold down the only job he could get, with the depression over. We figure he heard his big sister had become a widow and decided to move back in with her. The army must have figured the same way and, as you see, they'd have been better off calling it good riddance to bad rubbish."

Longarm nodded and said, "Some officers can be sort of possessive about their favorite mounts. But you say the neighbors say he left the premises on his own two feet?"

Nolan looked uncomfortable. "One did. An old lady down near the corner who spends a lot of time leaning out her back window, watching out for apple-stealing kids or whatever. She spotted young Joe Slade in the alley out back earlier this evening. She knew who it was because not even the neighborhood kids who steal her apples dress so silly."

"A neighbor would likely know him on sight, even in an alley," Longarm said. "The question now is whether he left for that saloon before or after the shooting. What time did that old lady say she spotted him all dressed up for a Wild West show?"

Nolan looked pained. "Longarm, you know how hard it is for a witness to recall the exact time they witnessed something when they didn't know it was important. All she knows is that she saw him leaving the neighborhood for parts unknown, any time you want her to swear to, as long as it was after sundown. What damn difference can it make?"

Longarm said, "If he gunned two men and then went to drink and pester folk in a nearby saloon, on foot, dressed wild as well, I fail to see how he could still be running loose."

Nolan started to ask what Longarm meant. Then he said, "Yeah, we do have all our men looking for him and he's said to have few if any friends in town. But what if that wild act he put on for you was a slicker? What if he wanted everyone to remember him all decked out like Buffalo Bill so's that would be what we all went looking for?"

"That works, if we assume young Slade has just now grown more brains than he's ever shown evidence of having before," Longarm said. "We'd better have a look at his quarters. I, for one, will feel dumb as hell if we find a pair of goat-hair chaps hanging on a bed post. Do we need permission from the lady of the house?"

Nolan said, "No. She's been cooperative as hell for a hysterical young widow woman. Come on, I'll show you the way."

They passed down a dark hallway. Through an open doorway Longarm caught a glimpse of an ashen young brunette being rocked in the arms of an older, meaner-looking gal who glared at him as if she thought he was Attila the Hun. He supposed, from their point of view, he was. Lawmen were never too welcome in the house of a wanted murderer.

They went out the back door and crossed a well-tended garden to the carriage house opening on the back alley. The lower level was a cavernous expanse of brick-paved emptiness. Nolan said, "I already asked. Flora Banes, Slade, and her man didn't keep live or rolling stock, even when he was alive. This close to the center of town, he walked to work. It didn't pay, next to hiring a rig, on the occasions they went somewhere more important."

"What about that army mount?"

"None of the neighbors recall seeing it. The kid showed up on foot in army blues a month or so back. They thought it sort of funny, later, when he commenced to wander about all dressed up like a cowboy, with no horse to chase cows with."

Nolan lit a match and led the way up to the former hayloft. As he lit a wall lamp, Longarm saw that it had been fitted up as a sort of bedroom. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was a mess. The unmade cot was wedged against the sloping rafters, facing a wall that stood straighter, about ten feet away.

"It looks like they built in more than one room up here," Longarm said.

Nolan said, "I asked the widow woman. Her husband used the room next to this as a workshop. He likely used all this space before his wife's kid brother moved in to sponge off them. As it is, this is more space than I'd give my brother-in-law if he was a lazy idjet who wouldn't even try to get a job."

Longarm found a shabby army uniform and a tweed topcoat hanging in a wardrobe. There were some socks and underwear in the top drawer of the washstand. There was no other furniture. But at least a ton of old magazines, not too neatly stacked, took up six or eight feet of floor space, waist high. Longarm said, "He must have liked to read in bed." He casually picked up a well-thumbed pulp magazine and added, "Oh, look at this."

It was a copy of Deadwood Dick, published in London, England. Nolan peered over his shoulder. "I didn't know Deadwood Dick had his own magazine. I knew Buffalo Bill did, but I didn't think Deadwood Dick was that important."

Longarm said, "Deadwood Dick don't exist, even though I keep running into him in saloons. One time, up in Deadwood, I met two Deadwood Dicks at once."

"I ain't sure I follows your drift, Longarm. How in thunder could anyone meet a man who ain't real?"

Longarm explained, "Deadwood Dick is the creation of an English writer named Charles Perry. In one of the first books he was an outlaw who got killed off, but then Perry brought him back to life as a lawman."

"In London, England?"

"That's where Perry lives. He lets Deadwood Dick go all over the place. He got to fight cannibals in the Weird Islands one time, but he mostly pesters folk here in the American West, or the American West as it looks to folk in London Town."

"But you said you really met him, two of him, in Deadwood, U.S. of A."

Longarm shook his head. "I met a couple of old drunks named Richard who lived in Deadwood and somehow decided Perry was writing about them. I see there's one about Calamity Jane, here, and she'd sure like this cover, for I've never seen her this skinny and I've known her since she was working for Madame Moustache."

Nolan took the garishly illustrated penny dreadful, held it to the light, and said, "Naw, that ain't her. Can they make up stories about real folk as well, Longarm?"

"I once told Ned Buntline I'd sue his ass if he put me in one of his magazines, but some old boys get a kick out of it, I reckon. When and if anyone ever gets around to putting down the true history of the things out here, they're going to have one hell of a time figuring out who did what, with what, to whom. I see they got Buffalo Bill avenging Custer in this one. Oh, hell, look at this!"

It was two cent's worth of sheet music with a garish orange and purple cover. The title read, "The Ballad Of Black Jack Slade." When Longarm opened it the first line, sure enough, read: "Gather close around and I'll tell you a tale."

Nolan sighed. "You can't be serious."

Longarm shrugged. "I never said he was Black Jack Slade. He did. And damned if I don't think he might have meant it. I hope I'm wrong. The real Jack Slade was mean as hell."

CHAPTER 2

When Longarm finally reported for work the next morning, Henry, the clerk who played the typewriter in the front office, shot him a now-you're-gonna-get-it smirk and told him the boss wanted to see him the moment he ever saw fit to show up.

Longarm sighed fatalistically and ambled back to the inner sanctum of U.S. Marshal William Vail to take his chewing like a man.

Old Billy Vail was shorter, fatter, balder, and usually looked meaner than Longarm. But this morning he looked up calmly from behind his cluttered desk, shot a weary glance at the banjo clock on his oak-paneled wall, and said, "Save your excuses. You staked out the nine-thirty northbound Burlington in the vain hope Slade might be headed for his old haunts along the Overland Trail."

Longarm sat down with a sheepish grin. "It was worth a try. You heard about the shootout?"

"I did. This may come as a surprise to you, but the Denver chief of police and the local federal marshal are supposed to remain on speaking terms. A copy of the police report they were kind enough to give you a copy of was waiting for me when I arrived to open this very office at the time the taxpayers of these United States expect us to start working for them. You've had your fun. Now I want you to go get a shave and a haircut, you untidy rascal. For, Saturday or not, the federal district court down the hall is holding a special hearing, and they asked me to supply a deputy to ride herd on an Indian agent who ought to be ashamed of himself."

Longarm shook his head and said, "Damn it, Billy, this other case is personal. I had the little maniac and I let him walk away and gun two fellow federal agents. You got to let me make up for my awful mistake last night."

Vail sighed and replied, not unkindly, "I know how dumb you have to be feeling this morning. But, having gone over the whole affair in my head as well as on paper, I can't say I'd have acted a bit different. You had no way of knowing a taproom troublemaker was anybody serious. Walking away from a pointless argument was the mark of a mature individual. So you not only done right, but now that I've read the coroner's report on them army men, it could've been even wiser than you might have thought at the time."

Longarm grimaced. "Aw, crap. I had the wild-eyed pissant, Billy. Both ways. The blonde behind the bar could have took him in a wrestling match, and he was toting single-action '74s. I hate to brag, but you've seen me and my double-action.44-40 in action against worse odds."

"I have. You're good. So were them two army agents. That's doubtless how they wound up dead. I calls it the Billy the Kid phenomenon. A phenomenon is like a mirage, only more dangerous."

Longarm said, "I know what a phenomenon is. What could Billy the Kid have to do with the case? The last I heard, that other little pest was on the dodge down New Mexico way."

Vail leaned back in his own chair to haul out a nickel cigar as he explained, "That other Kid's managed to kill more than one growed man with a rep because, like you and them two dead army men, they hesitated the fraction of a second it takes to wind up dead. I've just gone over little Joseph Slade's known history, up to where he suddenly turned horse thief and killer. It's pathetic as hell. He was too awkward as well as too sickly to engage in schoolyard sports over at Evans. The teachers had to protect him from the usual classroom bullies. One that had him crying to the teacher regular was a ten-year-old girl. Nobody cared when he just stopped coming to school one day because, On top of being a Cry-baby, he was dumb as hell. He was behind all the other kids in reading, spelled awful, and never learned long division at all. Lord knows why the army ever let him join up. I know it's hard to get men at thirteen dollars a month, but you'd think they'd draw the line some damn place."

"He was acting a lot tougher last night," Longarm said.

"I ain't finished: I said I just went over the report. It's about a sickly, not-too-bright, lonely boy who read lots of penny dreadfuls until something snapped in his feeble mind. He ain't never been anywheres near Julesburg, and his family ain't in any way related to the real Black Jack Slade. That was easy for the Denver police to check out with a couple of night-rate wires to the county clerks involved. But somehow the broodsome loner must have adopted his namesake as a hero As the gent he wished he could be. For if there was one thing the original Jack Slade was not, it was a sickly sissy. The kid no doubt read of the time his hero was hit twice with Pistol rounds and blasted thrice with a sawed-off shotgun in the same fight. It's a matter of public record that Slade was left for dead, got back up and tracked down the man who'd gunned him to return the favor, slow. Slade winged his man, tied him to a post, and tortured him to death with buckshot rounds from the kneecaps up. Then he cut off his ears and ended the discussion by shoving a gun muzzle down the poor bastard's throat and pulling the trigger. Can you imagine the effect this tale must have had on an impressionable youth who'd never won a fight in his life?"

Longarm said, "I can. I saw the bodies he left on his sister's rug. The army must have taught him to handle a gun pretty good in the short time they was graced with his full attention to such matters, and there's some truth to the old saw about Sam Colt having made all men equal. That's why you got to let me go after the young lunatic, boss. For I do know, now, just how dangerous he really is and, more important, I know him on sight. One had to be there to get the joke, Billy. He looks harmless as a kid dressed up for Halloween and we're likely to wind up with a mess of dead lawmen before he runs into one as morose as me."