packed iron. The way that fellow was going after you, once he shut you up with his fist, he'd have been on you and inside you before I opened my mouth. Warning him wouldn't have stopped him. All it would have done was to give one of the others time to kill me."
For a moment, the woman stared at Longarm as though seeing him for the first time. She saw a man taller and wider than most, with gunmetal-blue eyes in a tanned face, which was clean-shaven except for a bold, sweeping mustache. In the flickering torchlight, those gunmetal eyes reflected controlled anger.
He said curtly, "Now, if you've seen enough of what those four planned for you, let's go back to the fire. I'll drag that body out here later on and cover it up, after I go over it to see if that--Jasper, I recall you said his name was--to see if he had another name or two besides the one he told you."
"And after that?" she asked.
"After that, we'll talk about what comes next. Now, come along."
CHAPTER 2
Subdued and silent, the woman walked with Longarm back to the clearing. He tossed the torch on the fire and added two or three more pieces of wood from the fast-dwindling pile of chopped tree limbs. Night had arrived now, its blackness crowding the rim of the glade, held at bay only by the dancing firelight.
Longarm was still angry. He made no effort at conversation, but circled the glade at the perimeter of firelight until he found the deadfall log from which the firewood had been cut. Am axe was still buried in the log. He used it as a lever to roll the deadfall up close to the fire, and quickly cleared the log of its remaining branches. He motioned to the cleared log.
"Might as well sit down," he told the woman. "We've got to talk a mite. I'll cook up some supper and make coffee after a while. I guess you've got some grub and your bedding on that pack mule tethered over yonder?"
"Yes." She sat down on the log. "I gave those men twenty dollars to buy supplies. They told me they'd buy me a slicker, whatever that is, and a set of blankets. I suppose you'll find them with the supplies."
"Time enough for that," Longarm said.
He hoped there might be a bottle of Maryland rye among the supplies, but he knew the best he could hope for, if there was any whiskey at all, was a bottle of questionable origin, probably the watered-down product of one of the illegal stills in the Indian Nation that supplied half the liquor drunk in the towns along its borders.
"You've got a name, I guess," he told his companion. "Mine's Long. You've already seen my badge, so you know what my business is."
"I'm Maidia Harkness," she replied. Then, somewhat tartly, she went on, "If you'd explained to me what sort of pressures you were under in stopping those men, I wouldn't have been so critical, Marshal. But where I come from, the police don't act as judge and jury. They arrest criminals and take them to jail, and let the courts decide whether they're innocent or guilty."
Longarm decided to let that pass without comment. Instead he asked, "Just where do you come from, Miss Harkness? Or is it Mrs. Harkness?"
"It's miss. And my home's in Boston."
"I knew it was one of them big towns in the East," Longarm said, nodding. "And this is your first trip to the West?"
"Yes. And I must say, my first impressions of it aren't very favorable."
"They'd have been a lot worse if I hadn't come along when I did," he reminded her. "That is, if you'd stayed alive to get any kind of impression."
Maidia shuddered. "Yes. I'm still having trouble believing all this is happening to me, though. I keep waiting to wake up and find myself at home in bed. It's been something of a nightmare."
"And pretty much your own fault," Longarm couldn't keep himself from replying. "But I can understand why you acted like you did. Back where you come from, there's people underfoot everyplace you turn, all of them living in the pocket of the fellow standing next to them. And a policeman on every corner to look after them
For a moment, the woman stared at Longarm as though seeing him for the first time. She saw a man taller and wider than most, with gunmetal-blue eyes in a tanned face, which was clean-shaven except for a bold, sweeping mustache. In the flickering torchlight, those gunmetal eyes reflected controlled anger.
He said curtly, "Now, if you've seen enough of what those four planned for you, let's go back to the fire. I'll drag that body out here later on and cover it up, after I go over it to see if that--Jasper, I recall you said his name was--to see if he had another name or two besides the one he told you."
"And after that?" she asked.
"After that, we'll talk about what comes next. Now, come along."
CHAPTER 2
Subdued and silent, the woman walked with Longarm back to the clearing. He tossed the torch on the fire and added two or three more pieces of wood from the fast-dwindling pile of chopped tree limbs. Night had arrived now, its blackness crowding the rim of the glade, held at bay only by the dancing firelight.
Longarm was still angry. He made no effort at conversation, but circled the glade at the perimeter of firelight until he found the deadfall log from which the firewood had been cut. Am axe was still buried in the log. He used it as a lever to roll the deadfall up close to the fire, and quickly cleared the log of its remaining branches. He motioned to the cleared log.
"Might as well sit down," he told the woman. "We've got to talk a mite. I'll cook up some supper and make coffee after a while. I guess you've got some grub and your bedding on that pack mule tethered over yonder?"
"Yes." She sat down on the log. "I gave those men twenty dollars to buy supplies. They told me they'd buy me a slicker, whatever that is, and a set of blankets. I suppose you'll find them with the supplies."
"Time enough for that," Longarm said.
He hoped there might be a bottle of Maryland rye among the supplies, but he knew the best he could hope for, if there was any whiskey at all, was a bottle of questionable origin, probably the watered-down product of one of the illegal stills in the Indian Nation that supplied half the liquor drunk in the towns along its borders.
"You've got a name, I guess," he told his companion. "Mine's Long. You've already seen my badge, so you know what my business is."
"I'm Maidia Harkness," she replied. Then, somewhat tartly, she went on, "If you'd explained to me what sort of pressures you were under in stopping those men, I wouldn't have been so critical, Marshal. But where I come from, the police don't act as judge and jury. They arrest criminals and take them to jail, and let the courts decide whether they're innocent or guilty."
Longarm decided to let that pass without comment. Instead he asked, "Just where do you come from, Miss Harkness? Or is it Mrs. Harkness?"
"It's miss. And my home's in Boston."
"I knew it was one of them big towns in the East," Longarm said, nodding. "And this is your first trip to the West?"
"Yes. And I must say, my first impressions of it aren't very favorable."
"They'd have been a lot worse if I hadn't come along when I did," he reminded her. "That is, if you'd stayed alive to get any kind of impression."
Maidia shuddered. "Yes. I'm still having trouble believing all this is happening to me, though. I keep waiting to wake up and find myself at home in bed. It's been something of a nightmare."
"And pretty much your own fault," Longarm couldn't keep himself from replying. "But I can understand why you acted like you did. Back where you come from, there's people underfoot everyplace you turn, all of them living in the pocket of the fellow standing next to them. And a policeman on every corner to look after them
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