Longarm and the Colorado gundown

_{Longarm hefted his bag and saddle—at this point he was taking the precaution of carrying the bag in his left hand and the saddle under his left arm; the arrangement wasn’t comfortable but it allowed his gun hand to be free, just in case—and walked in the direction Capwell indicated, back more or less in the direction of the railroad station and the first hotel he’d stopped at.}

_{It seemed rather fitting, he decided, that his first experience in Snowshoe was to run in circles.}

_{The night watchman—the man was wearing a badge, but surely he was only a night watchman or jailer; a man this pigheaded and dull couldn’t possibly be a town policeman— turned his head and spat a stream of thick brown juice that landed close enough to splatter the instep of Longarm’s right boot.}

_{“Closed is what I said, mister, an’ closed is what I meant. Chief ain’t here. Won’t be till momin’. You come back then an’ ask fer the chief.”}

_{Longarm put a tight rein on his patience and forced himself to speak calm and clear. “And where can I find the chief, please?”}

_{“Here. Tomorra. Chief Bevvy is gen’rally at his desk by eight. Never knowed him t’ be later than nine. You come back here then.”}

_{Longarm thought it over. Reached a conclusion. “Very well,” he said. “In the meantime I want to see the prisoners in your jail.”}

_{“When Chief Bevvy says,” the watchman agreed stubbornly. “I ain’t unlocking for you till.”}

_{“I’ve showed you my credentials,” Longarm reasoned. “You know I am a deputy United States marshal. You know I have a right to see any prisoners under federal jurisdiction.”}

_{“I don’t know shit ’bout that,” the man said, a claim that Longarm was willing to accept at face value. “What I do know is what I tolt you a’ready. When Chief Bevvy says open ’er up, I’ll open ’er up. Till then,’at door stays locked, mister. No exceptions.”}

_{“I’m not no fucking mister,” Longarm barked. “I’m a deputy United States marshal.”}

_{“All right. Lemme put it this way. I’ll open ’at door an’ let you in when Chief Bevvy says I should. Mister Deputy United States Fucking Marshal. Sir.” The SOB spat again. Closer this time.}

_{The worst part of this was that there wasn’t a damn thing Longarm could do about it short of beating the watchman up—which he could easily do—or shooting him—even easier done—and taking the jail keys from him. But what would that accomplish?}