Free Longarm and the Great Divide by Tabor Evans Page B

and squatted on the top of a low rise to light a cheroot and enjoy the feel of the day.
    While he watched, a wagon approached pulled by a pair of cobs and carrying four barrels. The driver carefully backed his outfit down to the water’s edge, then climbed down and used a bucket to begin filling the barrels.
    It was a slow and cumbersome process but the burly fellow—Longarm was sure he had seen the man in town on the Nebraska side—seemed to know what he was doing and went at it with dogged determination.
    After several minutes Longarm mounted the gray and rode down to the lakeside where the gent continued to work at filling his barrels.
    â€œMornin’.” Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson.
    â€œGood morning yourself.” The man with the bucket continued to work at his task.
    â€œCould I ask what you’re doing?” Longarm said.
    The fellow gave him a look that was just short of disgust. “Filling these barrels, of course.” His tone of voice suggested that Longarm must be daft if he could not see what he was doing.
    Longarm smiled. “No, sir, I mean
why
are you doin’ this hard work.”
    â€œEverybody needs water, mister. To drink, to wash with, whatever, everybody needs water one way or another. I sell it to them. Wallace Waterman, they call me. That ain’t my right name, but it’s what everybody calls me. And you would be that marshal from down Denver way, name of Long.” He nodded as if affirming his own statement but continued to dip his bucket into the edge of the lake and empty it into one of his barrels.
    â€œHow long does it take you to fill all four of those barrels?” Longarm asked.
    â€œOh, couple hours, I suppose. I can make two, sometimes three trips out here each day. Only one on Sundays. Sunday mornings I rest. Sundays the folks in town have to use less water.”
    â€œCan’t they come get it for themselves?”
    Wallace the Water Man grinned. “They ain’t allowed to.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Longarm asked.
    â€œâ€™Cause I filed on this land. Own it legal and clear. Or anyhow will once I’ve been on it long enough to prove up.”
    â€œWise,” Longarm commented.
    â€œI ain’t no scholar,” Wallace said, “but I ain’t maybe as dumb as I look.” With pride in his voice he added, “I can read and cipher, you know.” He splashed another bucket of lake water into a barrel.
    â€œThanks for the information, Wallace. Mind if I water my horse here?”
    â€œThat will be all right if he bends down and drinks, him or you either one, but you can’t lift it up to him. That’s the law. Water rights. I know about them,” Wallace said proudly. “I read all about it in one of those gummint brochures.”
    â€œRight you are,” Longarm said. He led the gray to the edge of the lake, but the horse had no interest in drinking at the moment. “Thank you again, sir.” He stepped onto the horse, nodded good-bye to Wallace Waterman, and reined the gray back toward the twin towns.
    It was time for him to get back to the nearly complete jail. And to see that Dave Ashford was fed and had a trip to the outhouse.

Chapter 33
    Longarm had to keep everything in balance. Two carpenters from Valmere; two carpenters from Stonecipher. One man with pick and shovel from Wyoming; one man with pick and shovel from Nebraska. And never mind that only one man at a time could work in the hole that would serve as the latrine. Balance between the twin towns, always balance.
    â€œWhen you’re finished putting that last wall in place,” he told them, “start on the outhouse. An’ after that, build me some stools, a cot for inside the cell, stuff like that. We can’t afford t’ buy ready-made furniture so’s we’ll just build what we need. Oh, an’ make me a desk, too, please. An’ some shelves to go on that wall there.