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have so much of a margin that we can afford for anything to go wrong around here,” Will said.
    â€œShe told me,” Longarm said. “There isn’t anything I can do to help you out with the company, but I sure as hell hope I can do something about these robberies.”
    â€œJoin me for a drink?” Will said.
    Longarm nodded. “With pleasure.”

Chapter 16
    Longarm spent the next several days riding on top of the stagecoach with Will Carver, but there was no sign of the highwaymen. He did, however, come to know and like the young driver. And he met the men Will dealt with along the Carver Express Company route.
    On Sunday the coach remained parked behind the company office, while the horses stood quietly in their stalls.
    Longarm slept late, past six o’clock, then rose and shaved. He bundled up his dirty clothes and carried them down to the Chinese laundry on his way to a café for breakfast.
    He dawdled over a platter of beefsteak and fried potatoes then walked over to the sheriff’s office to see if Bud Jahn had returned yet. He had not.
    â€œI don’t know when the sheriff will be back,” Deputy Tommy Bitterman told him. “But, say, could you hold down this desk for a few minutes while I go take a leak? Please?”
    â€œSure, I can do that,” Longarm said.
    Bitterman disappeared almost before Longarm got the words out of his mouth. Longarm smiled. He had been in such a situation before and remembered well the discomfort.
    He also knew better than to expect the deputy back in “a few minutes.” Bitterman would take advantage of this respite for every bit as long as he thought he could get away with.
    It was all fair game when a man was trapped on boring duty on a Sunday morning, Longarm knew, so he leaned back, crossed his legs, and lit a cheroot.
    Two minutes later all hell broke loose.

Chapter 17
    A young man came larruping into the sheriff’s office, hatless and breathless and wild-eyed.
    â€œWhere . . . where’s Tommy?”
    â€œI’m settin’ in for him,” Longarm said. “What’s the matter?”
    â€œA deputy. We’re needing a deputy. There’s . . . a fight. Somebody’s gonna get killed, sure as shootin’.”
    Longarm came around in front of the desk. He was not sure what Sheriff Bud Jahn’s rules were about leaving the place empty—there were prisoners in the jail back there, after all—but apparently this was an emergency. And anyway, Bud’s rules were not Longarm’s rules and his best judgment would just have to do.
    â€œShow me,” he barked, and the fellow turned and started back down the stairs at a good clip.
    The fellow led the way to a saloon four blocks distant. Even before they arrived, Longarm could hear the commotion that was going on inside.
    There must have been a dozen men or more involved in a wild melee. Fists were flying. Anyone on the floor was apt to get his head kicked in. Empty bottles, glass mugs, chairs, anything and everything constituted a weapon.
    A man who Longarm assumed had to be the bartender—he was wearing a stained apron anyway—was down on the floor, bleeding heavily from a split in his scalp. It was obvious there was no one else interested in keeping order.
    Longarm flipped his wallet open and hung it in the breast pocket of his coat with the badge showing bright and prominent. Then he waded into the fight, grabbing people by the scruff of the neck and hauling them upright, growling instruction for them to shut the fuck up and move aside, moving on to the next man.
    He whittled the size of the fight down one by one until he came to the last man swinging. That one was the size of a small mountain. Or maybe not so small.
    The fellow was huge. He was wearing shirtsleeves with only the sleeve garters holding them up because what remained of his shirt was hanging down around his waist. He was gleaming with sweat. And