private cell had the plank walls still been standing. The poor bastard could've kicked his way out any way but through the stout oak wardrobe he was trying to escape through."
Longarm grimaced as he pictured it, and worse yet, sort of felt the bewilderment the trapped man must have felt when, flinging open what he thought to be the door of his cubicle, he'd stepped into that tall oak wardrobe against the wrong wall!
He started to ask another dumb question. He didn't, because it was obvious the volunteer firemen or railroad dicks would have made mention of any large sum of paper money they'd found miraculously preserved among the ashes of a burned-down and water-drenched frame structure. He swallowed the last of the liquor instead and got back to his feet, saying, "We both know why no pals of a wanted man came forward to identify his body, if that was his body. We're more certain that was the real Brick Flanders butchered and baked over in Denver more recently."
Gilchrist rose to walk him out front. "Glass eyes and gold teeth do say more about a well-done cadaver. How do you like a second in command using the name of his dead boss to confound us all further?"
Longarm didn't like it that much. But he never said so, lest he waste more time with a cuss, however agreeable, who didn't know one thing more about that fire in Denver or the note cashed in Minnesota than anyone else on the side of the law.
He allowed he'd see if the boys in the back rooms up the way knew anything about other strangers, the one called Chief in particular, who'd passed through Durango about the same time as the late Calvert Tyger. Then he asked when he could catch a train out. But Gilchrist said there wouldn't be another train in or out this side of sunrise, explaining, "The engineers are sort of unsure about the tracks ahead. So we have no call to cross the Divide by the dark of the moon."
To which Longarm could only answer, "Shit, I'll just have to study on finding me a room for the night then. Is it safe to say most new folks in town will have already booked their own rooms for the rest of the night by this late?"
Gilchrist agreed that seemed just about the size of it. So they parted friendly and Longarm ambled over to the one main street in no great hurry. For there was more than one primitive but brand-new hotel in the brand-new mushroom town, and if they couldn't fix him up at one he could always ask at another, or in a pinch, sleep sitting up in a lobby chair for the usual dime tip.
There was little going on in any of the four saloons and the one pool hall he dropped into long enough for a short beer and such few words as he could get out of anybody. It was the wrong night of the week and too far from payday for a town that tiny to show that much action along a public thoroughfare. It was tough for a new cuss in any town to find the high-stakes gambling and serious sinning the money folks indulged in behind closed doors and drawn curtains. So nobody he could get into a conversation with could recall much about that rooming house fire, even if they'd been in Durango a whole fortnight.
Longarm had a light supper of elk venison steak smothered in chili con carne under two fried eggs, washed that and the service-berry pie down with buttermilk instead of the usual black coffee--lest he find it tough to fall asleep sitting up--and headed for the nearest hotel with no baggage but his Winchester cradled in the crook of his right elbow with his thumb through the trigger guard.
It was easy to shift the saddle gun so its muzzle and fifteen-round magazine preceded him along the shadowy planking of the partly covered sidewalk as he walked with some interest in the direction of a gal complaining low and a male cussing loud in a drunken tone.
As Longarm drifted closer, unseen by anyone involved in the late night dispute, he saw the gal was in more trouble than he'd first expected. For the cowhand holding on to one arm of the gal in a dark velveteen
Longarm grimaced as he pictured it, and worse yet, sort of felt the bewilderment the trapped man must have felt when, flinging open what he thought to be the door of his cubicle, he'd stepped into that tall oak wardrobe against the wrong wall!
He started to ask another dumb question. He didn't, because it was obvious the volunteer firemen or railroad dicks would have made mention of any large sum of paper money they'd found miraculously preserved among the ashes of a burned-down and water-drenched frame structure. He swallowed the last of the liquor instead and got back to his feet, saying, "We both know why no pals of a wanted man came forward to identify his body, if that was his body. We're more certain that was the real Brick Flanders butchered and baked over in Denver more recently."
Gilchrist rose to walk him out front. "Glass eyes and gold teeth do say more about a well-done cadaver. How do you like a second in command using the name of his dead boss to confound us all further?"
Longarm didn't like it that much. But he never said so, lest he waste more time with a cuss, however agreeable, who didn't know one thing more about that fire in Denver or the note cashed in Minnesota than anyone else on the side of the law.
He allowed he'd see if the boys in the back rooms up the way knew anything about other strangers, the one called Chief in particular, who'd passed through Durango about the same time as the late Calvert Tyger. Then he asked when he could catch a train out. But Gilchrist said there wouldn't be another train in or out this side of sunrise, explaining, "The engineers are sort of unsure about the tracks ahead. So we have no call to cross the Divide by the dark of the moon."
To which Longarm could only answer, "Shit, I'll just have to study on finding me a room for the night then. Is it safe to say most new folks in town will have already booked their own rooms for the rest of the night by this late?"
Gilchrist agreed that seemed just about the size of it. So they parted friendly and Longarm ambled over to the one main street in no great hurry. For there was more than one primitive but brand-new hotel in the brand-new mushroom town, and if they couldn't fix him up at one he could always ask at another, or in a pinch, sleep sitting up in a lobby chair for the usual dime tip.
There was little going on in any of the four saloons and the one pool hall he dropped into long enough for a short beer and such few words as he could get out of anybody. It was the wrong night of the week and too far from payday for a town that tiny to show that much action along a public thoroughfare. It was tough for a new cuss in any town to find the high-stakes gambling and serious sinning the money folks indulged in behind closed doors and drawn curtains. So nobody he could get into a conversation with could recall much about that rooming house fire, even if they'd been in Durango a whole fortnight.
Longarm had a light supper of elk venison steak smothered in chili con carne under two fried eggs, washed that and the service-berry pie down with buttermilk instead of the usual black coffee--lest he find it tough to fall asleep sitting up--and headed for the nearest hotel with no baggage but his Winchester cradled in the crook of his right elbow with his thumb through the trigger guard.
It was easy to shift the saddle gun so its muzzle and fifteen-round magazine preceded him along the shadowy planking of the partly covered sidewalk as he walked with some interest in the direction of a gal complaining low and a male cussing loud in a drunken tone.
As Longarm drifted closer, unseen by anyone involved in the late night dispute, he saw the gal was in more trouble than he'd first expected. For the cowhand holding on to one arm of the gal in a dark velveteen
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