Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œAfternoon, Marshal. What can we do for you?” the on-duty deputy asked when Longarm walked in.
    â€œIs Bud in?”
    â€œSorry, 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.”
    â€œChance Hardesty,” the deputy said.
    â€œCan you tell me anything about these stagecoach robberies, Chance?”
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI heard something ’bout that,” Longarm said.
    â€œRight. 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.
    â€œCan I take a look at those reports you wrote out?” Longarm asked.
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œAll 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?”
    â€œGo ahead,” Longarm said. “I won’t let anybody swipe the jail while you’re away.”
    â€œThanks. I was afraid I was going to have to use the thunder mug, and then I’d just have to clean it out