“Oh, yeah.” Jessop tipped the brim of his hat upward. “You understand I’m talkin’ about his age, not his size.”
Dismounting, Morgan nodded. “Sure. I understand.” He removed his Colt from his holster and handed it to Jessop. “I’ve got no problem leaving Jem to you and Jake’s tender mercies.”
Jessop grinned. “Tender mercies. Yeah. Sounds just like us.”
The Pennyroyal was not crowded. Morgan looked around as he approached the bar. He knew before he reached it that Jem was not in the saloon.
Walt Mangold stopped rubbing down the top of the bar. “What can I get for you, Mr. Longstreet?”
“Information.”
At first Walt stared at him blankly, then his smile emerged slowly, splitting his face and showing teeth almost as big as his fingernails. “That’s a good one. People don’t much come to me lookin’ to learn things.”
Morgan had heard Jake Davis remark once that Walt was slow off the mark. Jessop had jumped in with an opinion in the same vein. It was Jem who had come to Walt’s defense, pointing out that Walt just considered his words more carefully than most folks, and anyway, people were suspicious of someone who didn’t talk much, especially when the talk was about other people. That exchange had taken place over cards in the bunkhouse, and Morgan remembered it because it was the only time he’d seen Jem shut his brothers up. He felt a little sorry they were going to kick his ass.
“Has Jem been in here tonight, Walt?”
“Sure. Miss Renee’s workin’ tonight. That’s her over there talkin’ to Ted.”
Morgan did not turn to look. He did not want to attract Ted Rush’s attention. “Do you know where he is now?”
“Yep.”
Morgan waited, but when Walt did not expound on his answer, Morgan realized he had to ask another question. “Where is he?”
“That’d be the jail.”
“The jail.”
“Yep. You know where that is?”
“I do.”
“You look like you could use a drink, Mr. Longstreet. You sure I can’t pour you a whiskey? On the house. I can do that for certain people. Mrs. Sterling won’t mind. She likes you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Jessop’s waiting for me outside.” He straightened, and a thought occurred to him. He’d made an assumption. Talk about jail could put a hitch in his thinking. “When you said Jem’s at the jail, did you maybe mean that he was dropping by the marshal’s office to say ‘hey’ to Bridger? Maybe pick up his guns if he left them there?”
“No. Didn’t mean that at all. Jem said ‘hey’ to Marshal Bridger when the marshal arrested him.”
Morgan placed a quarter on the bar and slid it toward Walt. “Not what I wanted to hear, but I don’t kill the messenger.”
Grinning, Walt pocketed the quarter. “Much obliged, Mr. Longstreet. Much obliged.” He went back to polishing the bar as Morgan walked away.
Jessop was flapping his arms and pacing up and down the walk when Morgan came out. “Tryin’ to keep warm,” he said as Morgan made him the subject of his withering stare. “So where is he?”
“Jail.” Morgan loosened the hitch on the reins and mounted. He was too irritated to take notice of the pain. “In jail.”
Jessop stopped flapping and hurried to follow Morgan’s lead. It was a short ride to the jail, and he did not ask any questions along the way, but he did tell Morgan that if he changed his mind about kickin’ Jem’s ass, he and Jake would understand.
Cobb Bridger was sitting back from his desk, chair tilted, legs stretched, boot heels resting on the desktop. He had a book open in his lap, but he closed it and tossed it on the desk as the door opened.
Morgan glanced at the book when it stopped just short of falling over the edge. Triumphant Democracy? He asked, “One of your wife’s recommendations?”
Cobb shook his head. “Jim Phillips thinks everyone should read it. You can take it if you like.”
“Some other time.” Morgan felt Jessop at his back. He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. “Jessop would like to see his brother, and I want to talk to you.”
“Sure.” Cobb moved his feet off the desk and dropped his chair to all four legs.
