Longarm 382, page 7
“Shelby doesn’t like me and I don’t like Shelby,” Ira replied. “Better I stay out here and wait.”
“Suit yourself.”
Longarm went into the gun shop and stood back while an ordinary man in his forties sold a customer a box of bullets and tried to sell him an eight-gauge shotgun for ten dollars. When the transaction was completed and the customer had departed, Longarm stepped up to the counter and said, “I’m Marshal Custis Long from Denver.”
“I know who you are,” Shelby said, ignoring Longarm’s outstretched hand and trying to look mean. “And I’ve got nothing to say to you about anyone or anything.”
“Not a very cooperative attitude,” Longarm said, dropping his hand to his side. “I was hoping that you could tell me where to find Fergus Horn and even what he’s up to these days.”
“I don’t know a thing about Fergus Horn,” Shelby said, “other than that he lives way up near Monument Valley and runs a little trading post. That’s all that I can tell you.”
“Oh,” Longarm drawled, “I very much doubt that’s true. I was listening to you tell that customer about the eight-gauge double-barreled shotgun. I might be willing to buy it for ten dollars. Can I have a look at the gun?”
“You know what?” Shelby said after a long pause, “I just decided that the shotgun really isn’t for sale.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I’m kinda picky about who I sell weapons to, and I just don’t think that I want to sell the shotgun to you.”
Longarm felt his cheeks burn, and since the shotgun was lying on a nearby table he just went over and picked it up. “It’s old but it sure would blow the hell out of whatever you aimed it at,” he said, breaking the gun and turning the barrels to the window so that he could see if they were clean and not pitted. “Tell you what, Shelby, I’ll buy it and a few shells.”
“Not for sale.”
“Oh yes, it is,” Longarm told the man, jamming the empty gun into Shelby’s chest hard enough to knock him back against the wall. “Now give me a half dozen shells for this beast and I’ll give you an extra dollar for the ammunition.”
It was Dan Shelby’s turn to flush with anger, and he even started to say something, but when Longarm shoved the barrels in under his chin and smiled, Shelby nodded. even though they both knew the shotgun wasn’t loaded.
“Marshal, I hope that old shotgun blows up in your face,” Shelby hissed as Longarm made his purchase. “And it just might.”
“I don’t think so,” Longarm said, dropping the shotgun shells into his coat pocket. “But it just might save my life if I get into a bad fix. Have a good day, Mr. Shelby.”
“Go to hell!”
“Maybe I will,” Longarm said. passing out the door and untying his horse.
Ira took in the big-barreled shotgun with a glance. “I’m surprised that Shelby would sell that thing to you.”
“He needed a little encouragement,” Longarm said. “But I can be pretty persuasive when I want something badly enough.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet you can at that,” Ira said, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s ride, Marshal. We got a long way to go.”
“How far?”
“Hundred miles or more of tough country. Take us three days to get up to the top of the reservation.”
“Do you know where we can find Fergus Horn?”
“I know where he used to be,” Ira said. “Don’t know if he’ll be there anymore or not.”
“Only one way to find out,” Longarm said as they rode up the middle of the main street then turned their horses to the north and set them to an easy canter. Longarm liked the way that the gray gelding moved, but he didn’t like dark clouds that were gathering just up ahead.
Two hours later the wind began to howl and it started to rain. “Looks like we’re riding into a bad thunderstorm!”
“Yeah! You can tell it rained hard up here yesterday and it’s probably gonna be even worse today.” Ira leaned out of his saddle and pointed to the wet, red earth. “I lost Brady Slocum’s tracks about five miles back.”
“Maybe we can pick them up again tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” the half-breed said, but he didn’t sound too optimistic. “But I doubt it. This is slick-rock country up ahead, and a horse doesn’t leave much of a track even when the ground is dry. But when the rain hits the red rock, it washes everything away.”
“You think that Slocum might be heading for Monument Valley?”
“Only if he wants to ambush and kill you,” Ira replied. “And from what I’ve heard about the man, that’s likely.”
“Or he might have circled back to Holbrook, hoping to shoot me from a rooftop.”
“Could be,” Ira agreed. “I guess you won’t know until a bullet comes your way, huh, Marshal?”
“I’d sure as hell rather have some warning,” Longarm shouted into the wind.
“I can tell you this much. Brady Slocum won’t rest until either you or he is dead.”
Longarm pulled the brim of his hat down tight. and up ahead he saw a bolt of lightning shiver down to strike a big juniper pine. The treetop exploded and then began to smoke in the driving rain. A moment later, it burst into flames. The gray gelding shied and snorted in fear, and they gave the burning tree a wide berth.
“Bad sign!” Ira called. “Real bad!”
Longarm didn’t have a reply. Most Indians saw signs and read deep meanings in things like lightning and a lame coyote crossing their path or a burning tree, but as far as he was concerned, it was all just native superstition.
Chapter 9
Longarm had experienced a few Southwest storms in his time, but this was one of the worst. The wind was howling, the sky was boiling with dark clouds and the rain was slanting directly into their faces as they tried to make their way north.
“Hey!” Longarm shouted. “You know this country. We need to hole up for the night and wait out this storm!”
“I thought you were in a big hurry to get to Monument Valley and see what that damned Fergus Horn is up to.”
“I already know what he’s up to, and it’s causing big trouble!” Longarm yelled. “And I need to find out what happened to his wife!”
Before Ira could shoot back a reply, another bolt of lightning lanced out of the sky and struck a rock pinnacle not a quarter mile away. The gray gelding whirled in panic and tried to run. Longarm was hauling back on the reins when the horse tumbled down into a deep and brush-choked arroyo. He kicked free of his stirrups, struck the muddy ground hard and rolled through a pile of tumbleweeds until he came to a stop against a boulder.
Ira’s pinto was rearing and pulling at the reins and he had to calm the animal down before he could help Longarm. “You all right, Marshal? You sure took a hard fall. This damned arroyo was almost covered up with sage and brush, and I doubt that the gray even saw it until it was too late.”
“If I find him I’ll shoot the loco sonofabitch!” Longarm spat, slapping red mud from his face.
“That wouldn’t be a very good idea unless you’d like to walk all the way back to Holbrook and buy another horse.”
Longarm cussed and fought back the pain. “I’ll bet those damn stitches in my side broke free and the wound opened up again.”
“Can you stand?” Ira asked, extending a hand.
Longarm took the half-breed’s outstretched hand and hauled himself erect. “My horse is gone!” he shouted into the storm.
“If you’re okay to stay here a few minutes, I’ll ride after that horse,” Ira said. “It probably didn’t go very far.”
Longarm was doubled up with pain and his head was throbbing. His clothes were covered with red mud and he was standing in a cold, driving rain. “I’ll be all right. Get the damned horse and let’s find some shelter if there’s any to be had nearby.”
“I know just the place,” Ira shouted as he leaped back onto his pinto and went galloping off to find the gray gelding.
Longarm sat down on a rock and bent over as the rain kept beating against him. He’d lost his hat someplace, and at the moment he was hurting too much to go and search for the damned thing. Maybe Ira had been right when he’d said that the burning juniper was a bad sign and there might be bad things coming at them in the next few days.
But right now, Longarm knew he would have traded most everything he owned for a roof over his head, a fire at his feet and a bottle of good whiskey to sip while this miserable storm raged directly overhead.
After a few minutes Longarm pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was bleeding but knew he wasn’t going to bleed to death. He walked around in the arroyo and finally located his mud-stained Stetson. He was about to sit down and rest again when he heard a roaring sound like that of a distant onrushing train.
Flash flood!
Longarm threw himself at the steep bank, clawing for footing, grabbing bushes and hauling himself upward in a wild scramble for his life. He wasn’t a moment too quick reaching the top of the bank, because a churning wave of tumbleweeds, brush and all kinds of matter came hurling down the arroyo, sweeping away everything in its foaming path.
Longarm collapsed in exhaustion at the top of the arroyo. After only a few minutes, the roar subsided and the water suddenly lost its force and became just a tumbling stream of muddy water and flotsam.
An exceedingly miserable hour passed before Ira returned with both horses. The rain was still pelting down in cold sheets, and Longarm managed to haul himself back into his saddle.
“This way!” Ira shouted. “It’s not far.”
Longarm ducked his head and let the gelding follow Ira’s pinto. It seemed like they traveled for at least two hours before they suddenly came to a stop before Navajo hogan. Longarm had never been inside of a Navajo hogan, but he would have stepped into a grizzly bear’s den to get out of this cold wind and rain.
“Where do I tie my horse?” he yelled into the storm.
“Just wrap your reins around your saddle horn and grab your bag and our weapons,” Ira shouted. “These horses will be taken care of by the boys.”
Longarm didn’t argue. He untied his canvas bag, grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and the old Winchester rifle that belonged to Ira and followed the man inside the big hogan.
It was surprisingly warm inside, and well lit inside despite the fact that there were no windows. The doorway was covered with the tanned hide of a bay horse on the outside and the hides of shorn sheep sewn together on the inside, making a heavy double flap able to withstand the outside elements. Longarm glanced around and saw at least seven or eight family members sitting on beautifully woven Navajo rugs and sheepskins around a crackling cooking and heating fire. There was a pot of corn and bean stew with chunks of mutton bubbling over the coals. The women of the hogan ranged from an old grandma to a young and pretty girl of about sixteen. They were dressed in long, colorful velvet skirts. An old man smoked a pipe near the fire, and several children stared at Longarm with round, black eyes.
One of the women, who looked to be in her late thirties, got up from her place by the fire and came forward to bow slightly to Longarm. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you,” Longarm said, removing his mud-caked hat.
“Ira,” the woman said, turning, “I did not expect you to bring a white man here as your guest, but he is welcome.”
“This man is hurt. I will make medicine for him before he gets weak and sick. He is hungry and so am I.”
“It is a bad day to be outside,” she said to Longarm with a warm smile. “My name is Betty. This is my home and these people are my family.”
“I am honored to meet all of you,” Longarm said. “And sorry that I am such a mess and in a bit of difficulty.”
“It is good you are here,” Betty told him. “Please sit by the fire and warm yourself while we get something for you to eat.”
Longarm’s coat and hat were taken, as well as his gun, soggy vest and shirt. He sat bare-chested on a Navajo rug by the fire and was fed corn, bean and mutton stew. It was hot and spicy with sage and other herbs, and it was delicious. Longarm ate three bowls of the stew and the children tittered with ill-concealed laughter at his ravenous appetite. Later, his wound was cleaned and then a warm poultice was applied and he lay down to rest. The last thing Longarm heard was the laughter of women and children, the low talking of the Navajo and the booming of thunder over the vast reservation.
When Longarm awoke he was staring up at the faces of three small children who seemed very curious about his drooping handlebar mustache. They jumped back when his eyes popped open, and when he sat up they scurried outside.
With the hide flap thrown back, the sun was now streaming into the hogan from the east so that Longarm knew it was morning and the violent storm had passed. He heard the sounds of people talking in Navajo outside, and when he climbed to his feet Betty appeared to touch his forehead.
“You have no more fever and the wound is not so red and mean looking as it was yesterday. Do you feel better?”
“Much better. Thank you for your hospitality and that great stew.”
“You are welcome. My husband tells me that you had trouble in Holbrook with Marshal Brady Slocum.”
“Yes. He tried to kill me, and it was necessary that I hurt him.”
“He is too proud, that one. And mean, too! You must be careful. And the elders think you have come because of that other bad white man . . . Mr. Fergus Horn.”
“They are right,” Longarm admitted. “I hear that he is making a lot of trouble and trying to cause an uprising among your people.”
“That is true,” she said. “He has talked against the United States government and he is telling The People that the army horse soldiers will come again and round us all up and send us on another Long Walk to Fort Defiance in the New Mexico Territory.”
“Horn is lying to your people.”
Betty shrugged her shoulders. “I believe you, but some believe Horn and are very worried. The young men especially are ready to fight and die if the soldiers come to take them and their families away. Last time, so many died that the crying has not yet stopped among The People.”
“I am here to assure the Navajo that Fergus Horn is a liar and that I will stop him from telling so many bad lies. But first, I must find him, and I also hope to find his wife.”
Betty shrugged. “She has not been seen for a long time. I do not know if she is alive anymore.”
“It is said that Fergus Horn has found gold and silver. Do you know if this is true?”
For a moment, Betty was silent with eyes lowered, and then she raised her chin and said, “I only know that Fergus Horn has much money and he pays women to wait on him like slaves and do all that he asks. He also has a trading post and many guns and men who are bad.”
“Why don’t The People make him leave their reservation?”
“Because he is part Navajo and has much power.” She looked away and saw Ira braiding a rawhide lariat out by some flat red rocks. “Do not let him kill my husband.”
“I won’t.”
“Or let Slocum kill him, either.”
“I’ll do my best to keep both Ira and myself alive.”
“My husband says that he saw many troubling signs since leaving Holbrook. Maybe you should just go back to the place where you live.”
“I would like to do that but I cannot,” Longarm told her. “And besides, if Fergus Horn is stirring up your people to fight, then I need to stop the man before the soldiers come to fight. If that happens, blood will flow like water on your reservation.”
“I know,” Betty said quietly. “But what you do with Slocum and Fergus Horn is your business. My business is to see that I have a happy husband and that my children can watch their father grow old.”
“You could tell Ira not to go with me up to Monument Valley. If he chose not to go, I would understand that after having seen your family and this good life.”
“Ira would go even if I asked him to stay here. Ira does what he wants and he is a good husband and man. But he is troubled by recent signs and omens, and so am I.”
“I will send him back to you if it looks like I am going to be killed,” Longarm promised her. “That is all that I can do.”
“It is good that we now have an understanding,” Betty told him while looking straight into his eyes. “You must wait one more day in order to be strong enough to ride to Monument Valley.
“I’m sure that you’re right,” Longarm told her as a boy on a small bay pony came riding over a hill driving a small flock of sheep along with a few Angora goats. “Thank you for your hospitality. One more night, then tomorrow we leave.”
“Yes,” Betty agreed. “One more night with food, medicine and rest.”
Chapter 10
Former Holbrook town marshal Brady Slocum had weathered the fierce storm by huddling under a rock with his rain slicker pulled tight over his head. During the night, his horse had galloped away in fear, and now that the storm had passed, Slocum was wet, miserable and blaming all of his misfortune on United States Marshal Custis Long.
Until Custis Long’s unexpected arrival, Brady Slocum had thought his life was going to be easy, satisfying and prosperous. He had forged his will over the Holbrook townspeople and they had paid him his asking price out of raw fear. Now, however, he was no longer held in fear or respect, and it was all on account of the damned federal marshal.
Hungry, soaked, miserable and angry, Brady Slocum was a man on a mission, and that mission was simply to find Custis Long and kill him any way he could. And if the half-breed, Ira, didn’t like it, then Slocum was plenty happy to send Ira to the Happy Hunting Grounds . . . if the Navajo believed in that place. Or maybe hell . . . it just didn’t matter.
When the sun was full up over the eastern horizon and the storm was clearly past him, Slocum pushed himself to his feet and walked through the heavy, clinging mud in the direction of Ira’s hogan. His horse had almost assuredly headed back to Holbrook, and he’d claim the beast later. Right now, however, the nearest place that he knew he could find food and shelter was Ira’s hogan. He had never actually been to that hogan, but he was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be difficult to find if he didn’t go lame first.
