by Tabor Evans
“Mister, if you aren’t the miserablest-looking fucker I seen this whole day long,” he said loudly.
Longarm took a small sip of his whiskey and ignored the fellow.
“Mister, I’m talkin’ to you.”
Another sip. “This is good whiskey,” he said to the bartender.
“Pay attention when I talk to you, mister,” the loudmouth at the bar insisted.
Longarm finally looked at him. “When you have something t’ say that I want t’ hear mayhap I’ll give you that attention. For right now, I just want to enjoy my drink in peace.”
“I’ll tell you something you ought to hear. I think you’re a pussy, that’s what I think. One of those girly boys that likes to suck cock and have it up your ass, coming in here wearing slippers and smelling like a French whore.”
That, Longarm realized, was about the concoction the barber smeared on him after his shave. It did smell a little high. Not bad. But there was a lot of smell to it.
Longarm took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could continue to ignore the son of a bitch. Or he could kill him.
He knew which of those he would prefer. But someone might actually miss him.
Instead Longarm smiled and nodded for the bartender to give the fellow another.
Then he walked over to the belligerent man and coldcocked him with a sudden right cross.
Longarm looked down at the unconscious man lying at his feet, looked at the fellow’s drinking partner, and said, “I’ve had a hard night, mister, an’ I’m not feeling myself at the moment. Tell him that when he wakes up, will you?”
Then Longarm turned and walked out in search of a saloon where a man could drink in peace.
Chapter 12
He had lunch at Buck Walters’s café. It was just as satisfying as the breakfast had been. Then he idled along the street, peering into windows and poking among aisles of goods.
As the day progressed the presence of townspeople increased until Crowell City was actually busy. Not busy the way Denver can be but busy enough for a small mining town tucked away amid the peaks and the canyons of the backcountry.
Longarm avoided the saloon where he had that bit of trouble earlier in the day. By five o’clock in the afternoon he was about on his last legs. He was tired after walking all night and getting more and more cranky as time wore on.
Finally he had had enough. He turned and headed back toward his hotel, figuring to turn in for an early night and not even bother with supper.
“You, you son of a bitch,” he heard from behind his back.
“You sucker punched me, damn you,” the man with the loud mouth accused. “You couldn’t o’ done any such of a thing if I’d been expecting it.”
Longarm had really had quite enough of the man. He stopped, spun around, and headed back toward the fellow, who was now flanked by two rather large friends. All three of them looked like they had spent the day pouring shots down their throats.
“All right,” Longarm snarled. “Now what? You want to tangle? You’d best think twice about it ’cause I am not in a very good mood for your kind of bullshit right now.”
“You won’t do anything this time, asshole,” the fellow said. “This time I’m looking straight at you. I know your kind. You are yellow through and through, cocksucker.”
Longarm hauled off and coldcocked him once again with a sudden right hand that came out of nowhere and wound up about three inches the other side of the belligerent’s jaw.
For the second time that day the man went down, out cold and crumpling to the ground.
Longarm looked at his two companions. “Are you here t’ carry the body home? Or do you want t’ try me?”
“Mister, we got n . . . n . . . nothing against you. Timothy thought . . . he said . . . well, never mind what he said. Reckon we’ll pick him up and cart him off now.”
The place they carted Timothy off to, Longarm noticed, was the same saloon they had been drinking in all day long.
With a snort of disgust, Longarm resumed his walk back to the hotel where he had a soft bed just waiting for him to occupy it.
Chapter 13
Longarm woke up groggy, his eyelids glued shut and his head aching. There was daylight streaming through the hotel room window. He sat up on the side of the bed and pondered would it be worthwhile to go downstairs for supper.
Then he noticed the direction the sunlight came from and took out his Ingersoll. The reliable, railroad-grade pocket watch—it was a wonder Nic hadn’t stolen that from him; but then she probably had not had a chance to get around to it when he came to—informed him that it was 10:27. And with sunshine showing outside the window, that pretty much had to be the time of morning. He had slept the clock around and then some.
After all that sleep he would have expected to feel fully rested and eager to go. As it was, he felt pretty much like shit.
He stood up and groaned a little. His feet were hurting more than ever, and all he had to put on them were the new socks and borrowed carpet slippers.
“Lordy!” he mumbled as he stood, knee joints cracking, and stumbled over to the washstand.
A splash of water on his face and chest helped. So did a long drink out of the pitcher. He still felt like someone had slipped in during the night and stuffed his mouth with cotton. But there was less of it now. He took another drink, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it into the enamelware basin.
Finally he checked his pockets—a habit—and looked to see that all was right with his .45 before he stepped out into the hallway.
“Good morning, Mr. Long,” the desk clerk called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Good morning.”
“There is a gentleman who has been waiting for you,” the clerk added, inclining his head toward the velveteen furniture at the side of the lobby. “He has been there for quite some time now. Very patient, he is.”
“Thanks.” Longarm yawned and ambled in the direction the clerk indicated.
“Oh, shit!” he barked when he saw who the visitor was. And what he held in his hands.
It was that son of a bitch Timothy from the day before. And he was holding a shotgun.
He and Timothy locked eyes at just about the same moment.
Timothy reached for the hammer of his double-barrel, fumbled his thumb over it, cursed, and got the hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger.
Timothy’s bad luck was that, as fast as he was to cock the shotgun, Longarm’s Colt was faster.
Longarm’s .45 erupted with smoke and fire, its roar seeming louder than ever inside the close confinement of the hotel lobby, and a 230-grain solid lead bullet slammed into his upper chest, just about over the point where his heart should lie.
The man was probably as good as dead right there, but Longarm did not take a chance. He fired again, this time his bullet striking Timothy square in the face.
“Jesus,” the hotel clerk shouted, clapping his hands over his ears.
“If you can get him here, it probably would be a good thing,” Longarm said as he shucked his empty cartridge cases and dropped fresh ones into the cylinder.
“What? What’s that you said?” the clerk asked, working his jaw in an effort to unclog his ears.
“Never mind,” Longarm said. “Reckon it’s too late anyhow. Now,” he said, smiling, “where’s the best place t’ get a meal in this town?”
Chapter 14
Longarm was busy surrounding a plate of steak smothered in gravy when a pudgy fellow wearing a derby and a nickel-plated revolver slid onto the stool next to his.
“I’m not interrupting your meal, am I?” the gentleman asked.
“Not yet,” Longarm said around a mouthful of leathery beef. “D’you intend to?”
“Sorry, but I may have to.” He stuck a hand out to shake, so Longarm laid down his fork a
nd shook with the man.
“My name is Wilson Hughes. I’m town marshal for Crowell City. Your name is Long?”
“That’s right,” Longarm said, thinking more about his steak than about Wilson Hughes.
“You’re the man who shot and killed Timothy Wright.”
“If that was the man’s name that I shot this morning, then yes, I’m the one as did that. Did anyone happen t’ mention to you that your man Wright laid in wait an’ tried t’ kill me? It was purely self-defense. I didn’t see that I had a choice,” Longarm said.
“Then that will all come out at the inquest,” Hughes said, smiling.
“Inquest?”
“Oh, yes. We will have to have an inquest into the death of Mr. Wright,” Hughes said.
“I was plannin’ on leaving t’morrow morning,” Longarm said.
“Yes, after your boots are repaired,” Hughes said.
“You seem t’ be mighty well informed.”
“I try to be.” The marshal plucked a pickled pepper off the side of Longarm’s plate and popped it into his mouth. “Until the inquest you will have to wait in our town jail.” He smacked his lips and took Longarm’s last pepper then smiled. “You could, of course, post a surety bond instead.”
“An’ that bond would be paid to . . . ?”
The man’s smile became wider. “Why, to me actually.”
“How much are we talkin’ about?” Longarm asked.
“A pittance,” Hughes said. “Twenty dollars.”
Longarm nodded his understanding. And he did, in fact, understand now. Twenty dollars was not a bond, it was a bribe. The money would go straight into Hughes’s pocket. “I think we understand each other,” he said.
“Then you will want to post bond?” Hughes asked.
“Oh, yes. Let me finish my lunch here an’ I’ll pay. Where will you be?”
“I have an office over at town hall,” Hughes said. “It is just around the corner and one block down. There’s a sign outside.”
Longarm nodded and picked up his fork again. He used his knife to saw off another chunk of beef and shoveled it into his mouth. Hughes took the hint and left.
Twenty dollars, Longarm was thinking. Not only was Wilson Hughes a bastard, the man was a cheap bastard.
But his steak and gravy were good, and a bowl of apple cobbler was waiting when he was done with his steak and fried potatoes.
Life could have been worse. Much worse, he thought as he reached the back of his neck and picked at the scab that had formed there.
In fact, he could have had no life left at all.
Chapter 15
Hughes was seated at a rolltop desk when Longarm walked into the town marshal’s office. There was not much to the place, the desk and two chairs, a gun rack with a lone shotgun in it, a cast-iron stove, and in the back two prefabricated cells.
“Welcome,” Hughes said. “Do you have the, um, bond money for me?” Right to the point, it seemed.
Longarm nodded and dug a gold double eagle out of his pocket. He handed the coin to Hughes, then sat on the chair facing the marshal.
“Oh, there isn’t any paperwork involved if that’s what you are waiting for,” Hughes said. “This is between you and me.”
“I got no interest in paperwork,” Longarm said. “It don’t pay to spread a man’s name around.” He smiled. “If you know what I mean.”
Hughes laughed and reached forward to slap Longarm’s knee, a gesture Longarm did not particularly like. “I think I know what you mean, Mr. Long.”
Longarm pulled out a pair of cheroots, offered one to Hughes, who accepted it with pleasure. When both men had their cigars burning, Longarm said, “You might be able to help me find a fellow.”
“I might,” Hughes said around a mouthful of aromatic smoke. “Who is he?”
“Man name of Al Gray,” Longarm said.
“Friend of his, are you?” Hughes asked.
“No, sir, I never met the man. I could stand next to him at a bar an’ never know it. This Gray has . . . what you call . . . been recommended to me. As someone who might be able t’ help me with a, uh, particular line of work.”
“And what sort of work would that be?” Hughes asked.
Longarm gave him a tight smile. “Mine.”
Hughes laughed again. “I think I understand you, Mr. Long.” He puffed on his cheroot for a moment, then held it a few inches in front of his face as if examining the coal. Finally he said, “I may be able to help you with that. You wouldn’t, um, want to help ease my efforts on your behalf, would you?”
Longarm reached into his pocket and produced another twenty-dollar double eagle. He handed the coin to Hughes, who quickly made it disappear into his own pocket.
“Your boots will be ready this afternoon,” Hughes said. “Too late for travel then anyway so why don’t you come by the office tomorrow, oh, say around ten o’clock. I’ll see if I can find some information for you by then. Say, this really is a nice smoke. Thank you.”
Longarm stood, touched the brim of his Stetson toward the thoroughly detestable town marshal, and got out of the man’s office before Longarm might give in to his true impulses and punch the man square in the face.
Chapter 16
Glenn Farley had the boots ready and good as new when Longarm showed up in the middle of the afternoon. Not only had he replaced the soles, he added new heels and polished them as well.
“You, sir, are a craftsman,” Longarm said, meaning it.
“A man is as good as his work, I always say,” Farley responded.
Longarm returned the borrowed carpet slippers and very gratefully pulled his boots on again. “Now that feels good,” he said with a smile. He stamped his feet a few times to get the tall, black, cavalry style boots settled and smiled again. “Better than new,” he said.
It seemed a shame that a man had ended up dying because of the carpet slippers. But then the true cause was not what had been on Longarm’s feet—the simple fact that Timothy Wright was an asshole had had something to do with it, too.
Longarm paid Farley for his excellent work and dropped in at one of Crowell City’s saloons for a drink to celebrate the boots. And to waste a little time.
He was interested, if not altogether surprised, by the idea that Wilson Hughes might be able to give him a line on the whereabouts of Al Gray. The corrupt little town marshal would have his sources of information. Longarm’s hope was that one of those bits of information might turn out to be where he could find Gray.
Billy Vail had sent him to bring Gray in for trial, and Longarm damn sure intended to do exactly that.
He was, however, running a little short of cash and might be expected to grease the marshal’s palm further to get that information about Gray.
“Is there a telegraph in town?” he asked the bartender.
“Ayuh.” The man nodded and pointed. “Sensabaugh’s got a line. Right next to the post office. You can’t miss it.”
Longarm grunted. He was always suspicious of any directions that claimed you couldn’t miss something because more often than not it seemed entirely possible, even entirely likely, that the desired object could indeed be missed.
Still, the barman’s directions were good this time. He found Sensabaugh’s Dry Goods and the telegraph desk inside it.
Longarm took only seconds to write out his message but much longer than that to decide what to do with it.
He needed money, and the office would be able to wire funds to him.
But he did not want anyone in Crowell City to know that he was a deputy United States marshal. Sending a request for funds to Billy Vail at the Federal Building in Denver would not exactly seem prudent under the circumstances.
He settled for sending the money request to Henry at his home address. That should tip them to the fact that he did not want the
money to appear to come from official sources without him having to come right out and say so.
NEED FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS STOP SEND SOONEST STOP THIS ADDRESS STOP SIGNED CUSTIS
No title mentioned nor last name. Now he hoped for two things. One, that they understood. And two, that they authorized the expenditure.
He would know the answers to both soon enough.
“I’ll check back with you for my answer tomorrow,” he told the dry-goods clerk who took the message form.
“We’ll be here,” the clerk said cheerfully, reminding him that not everyone in Crowell City was on the far side of the law. A clear majority of the people he encountered here were pleasant, decent, hardworking folk. There were times when a lawman had difficulty keeping that in mind, considering that his daily dealings were mostly with criminals.
“Thank you very much,” Longarm said with a tip of his Stetson toward the young man.
He turned and headed back toward the saloon.
Chapter 17
Longarm felt good when he returned to the hotel that evening. He had a hot meal and several shots of rye whiskey in his belly and was well rested after a good night’s sleep the previous evening. A fellow couldn’t ask for much more than all that.
Except, he realized, one thing.
Like the beautiful young woman walking ahead of him in the upstairs hallway when he came off of the stairs.
Longarm smiled and tipped his Stetson to the lady.
She was tall and slender, probably in her middle twenties or thereabouts with hair the dark gold color of honey. Or good whiskey. She had a long, thin neck, small nose and chin and exceptionally large, blue eyes. Her dress was modestly cut but fitted close to her form, showing that she had small, perky tits and practically no waist at all.
All in all a most handsome lass, he thought as, still smiling, he passed by her in the hallway.
Longarm was almost to his room door when behind him he heard, “Sir. Sir?”