Longarm and the False Prophet by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Chapter 19

Haynes was halfway through his first cup by the time Longarm arrived. “Sit down, Marshal,” the officer invited, standing politely and pointing to a chair. “Would you like coffee?”

“Sure. That sounds good, thanks.” Longarm laid the Winchester on the table and sat.

Haynes walked into the kitchen end of the mess hall, and returned with a huge enamelware pot and another cup. He poured for Longarm, then topped off his own cup before he resumed his seat.

Longarm laced his with sugar and tinned milk, then took an exploratory sip. He scowled. “What the hell? This shit is cold as a gold-camp whore’s heart.”

Lieutenant Haynes chuckled. “You didn’t think we would waste wood to keep the stove hot all night, did you? My standing order is for a fresh pot to be made the last thing in the evening and set atop the stove. When it cools off, well, so it does. But at least I have my coffee first thing. I don’t have to wait until the stove heats up and the water boils.”

“But damn, man, it gets bitter as gall when you do that,” Longarm protested.

“Yes it does, doesn’t it?” Haynes said with a nod and a laugh.

“You don’t mind that?”

“Bad coffee is better than none,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t you agree?”

Longarm sighed. And agreed.

“Now tell me,” Haynes said. “Why is it that you had me roused out of a warm bed to come here and drink this terrible coffee, eh?”

Longarm was filling him in on the problem when Sarah slipped quietly into the mess hall. She came and stood beside Haynes’s shoulder while Longarm finished explaining about the attempt on his life.

“Do you know who she is?” Haynes asked when Longarm was done.

Before Longarm had a chance to answer, Sarah—Snow Maiden—spoke. “She is Three Shells. She is of the Bannock tribe.”

“Why would she want to murder the marshal here?” Haynes asked. “Does she even know him?”

“I do not know why she would harm our guest. I can speak with her if you wish.”

“Yes, please.”

“When you are done with your coffee,” Sarah said. She drifted away, moving with the grace and the silence of a ghost, and began rebuilding the fire in the kitchen stove.

Haynes shrugged and picked up his cup. “I’ll just drink this down and we can go over there,” he said.

Longarm tried a tentative sip of his again. And again made a face. It was wretched stuff. Vile. On the other hand, it was also the only coffee available until a fresh pot was boiled. He took another swallow, deeper this time. Maybe he would get used to it, he told himself.

Twenty minutes later, George Haynes was finished with his morning ritual of the coffeepot and Sarah was done fiddling about in the kitchen. “We can go now,” the Indian woman announced, as if she were the one in charge here and not the officer.

Haynes obediently stood and followed her to the door, Longarm tagging along behind them.

A pale glow to the east suggested that dawn would not be long in coming.

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