Longarm #431

by Tabor Evans

  “No, sir. Miss Thompson doesn’t work for a house. She has a, uh, a special friend, as she puts it. A man, of course. But the two of them come and go. Her gentleman friend is away at the moment, which I know for a fact. Otherwise he would have been the one to arrange for you to have her company,” the clerk said.

  Shee-it! Longarm thought. Melody was a whore. She had a pimp. But last night . . . what the devil was that all about? Certainly she never mentioned money. He’d had no idea who she really was.

  Longarm had no illusions about his own looks. Oh, it was true enough that he had no trouble finding pussy. Women seemed to think his rugged looks were attractive enough. But whores? Why in the world would a working girl approach him, give him a delightful night of fucking and sucking, yet never so much as mention payment?

  That did not seem reasonable. Certainly a whore would not be in the game just for the fun of it.

  At least he did not think that seemed reasonable. Melody seemed a smart girl, competent and capable. And damned good in bed. If all she wanted was a roll in the hay, she could get that professionally.

  In his experience, whores did not generally give free samples.

  Was she setting him up for something? For what? And if she was, why disappear now?

  Longarm grunted. Smoothed the ends of his mustache. Turned around and headed for the street.

  He had many more questions than answers. If he kept this up, he decided, he was just going to give himself a headache. Better, he thought, to go have a drink, maybe find a friendly card game. For sure he wanted to quit thinking about Melody Thompson and the many possible reasons for her actions.

  Chapter 24

  The saloon seemed more whorehouse than drinking establishment. There were eight or nine of the soiled doves fluttering around the place in their short dresses and feathers, and he had had just about enough of their sort for the time being. He was still not over the surprise of learning about Melody.

  On the other hand the bar served a decent brand of rye. And they were cheap. The place was a bit house, meaning any drink you ordered cost only a bit, two drinks for a quarter or thirteen cents if you only wanted one.

  Longarm laid down a half dollar. “Rye whiskey,” he said. “Beer chaser.”

  The rye was good on the tongue and warm in the belly, and the beer was crisp and pleasant.

  “Cigar?” the bartender offered.

  Longarm smiled. He was definitely beginning to like this place with its low ceiling and dark walls. A man could lose himself here, and that was just exactly what he intended.

  Half an hour later he was giving thought to supper. Buck Walters was not open for the evening meal. He and his wife started early but closed their café in midafternoon, so that was out.

  In the meantime there was the free lunch spread to assuage his hunger. Longarm reached for a pickled egg and started to munch.

  “Are you Long?” The question sounded more challenge than simple inquiry.

  Longarm turned. Saw a short, stocky man with a receding hairline. Receding jaw, too, or so it appeared. This fellow would have an unfair advantage in a fistfight, Longarm thought; he didn’t have a chin to punch.

  “I’m Long,” Longarm admitted.

  “You murdered my brother,” the man accused.

  “Y’know, neighbor, I don’t recall murdering anybody real recent,” Longarm said, fashioning a smile and placing the remains of his egg down on the bar.

  “Does the name Timothy Wright mean anything to you?”

  Longarm nodded. “He’s the fella as tried to kill me over in the hotel lobby. Laid in wait for me with a shotgun an’ an attitude. I shot quicker an’ straighter. Let me ask you something. You got any more brothers?”

  Wright looked puzzled. “Why would you ask that?”

  “T’ see if I got t’ watch over my shoulder for any more o’ you Wright boys after I’ve done with you,” Longarm said. He straightened, putting his back to the bar. “What will it be? Are you gonna make me shoot you, too?”

  Wright hesitated. For a moment Longarm thought he was going to go for the pistol on his hip. Instead he looked like he was about to cry. His face flushed dark red and he began to shake. With a stifled cry he turned and walked, practically fled, out of the saloon and into the street.

  With a sigh, Longarm turned back to the bar. He did not want what was left of the egg after it was lying on the bar so he reached for another. Good eggs, he thought. Tasty.

  Chapter 25

  Bad luck. Longarm was trying to avoid Wilson Hughes, and the son of a bitch walked into the same saloon where Longarm was trying to enjoy a quiet drink or two.

  “Ah, there you are, Long,” Hughes said, showing his teeth in a wolfish grin. He joined Longarm at the bar, uninvited. “I thought you said you had things to do this evening.”

  “Yes, and I done ’em,” Longarm returned. He had been about to leave the saloon and look for a bite of supper, but he definitely did not want to have the marshal for company. Instead he ordered another drink.

  “Make that two,” Hughes said. “On my tab, Jesse.”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal,” the bartender said. It seemed that Hughes was a regular at this saloon. But then for all Longarm knew, the bastard might be a regular at every saloon in Crowell City.

  “Mr. Long can’t buy a drink tonight, Jesse. He’s drinking on me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Longarm gritted his teeth and lifted his fresh rye in Hughes’s direction. “T’ your good health, Wilse,” he said. “Any news about that, uh, matter we was discussin’ earlier?”

  “No, not yet, but don’t you worry. As soon as he gets back, I will know it, and I will set up something between the two of you. You have my word on that, and my word is my bond. Anyone in Crowell City can tell you that.”

  Right! Longarm thought. Your word is as good as gold . . . unless someone crosses your palm with some gold. Then you bow to the highest bidder, Wilson. Oh, I do know your kind.

  Longarm downed his rye—it seemed a shame to toss it back like that when it deserved to lie on the tongue for a moment so he could savor the liquor properly—and hitched up his trousers.

  “Excuse me, Wilse. There’s something I need t’ do. But thanks for the drink. They serve good stuff here.” Longarm tugged the brim of his Stetson a little tighter, nodded to Hughes, and headed for the door.

  He was three steps out onto the boards of the sidewalk when he heard the unmistakably nasty click of a firearm hammer being cocked.

  Chapter 26

  Without taking time for thought, Longarm immediately dropped facedown. By the time he hit the boards his .45 was in his hand.

  He heard a roar and felt the passage of a hot wind across the back of his neck, which still bore a scab from the last time someone tried to dry gulch him.

  From off to his left he heard a plaintive, “Oh, Jesus. I’ve missed the son of a bitch.”

  He looked up to see Timothy Wright’s brother trying frantically to reload a shotgun, perhaps even the same shotgun his brother used in his failed assassination attempt.

  Thoroughly disgusted with the Wright clan, Longarm stood, transferred the Colt to his left hand, and with his right began brushing away some of the dried mud that many passing boots had left on the wooden sidewalk.

  “You’d best quit tryin’ to reload that fowling piece, mister. If you do manage t’ get it charged again I’ll prob’ly have t’ shoot you. I mean, one family only is entitled to so damn many tries at killing me. Pretty soon you’re either gonna do it . . . or make me really pissed off. Now drop that smoke pole. Yes, damnit, and the shells for it, too.”

  Longarm walked over to the man and slapped him across the face. He did not punch him since there was so little, undersloping chin to aim at. He simply slapped the idiot. Like a woman might except Longarm’s backhanded slap was enough to rock Wright back
on his heels.

  With a snarl and a curse, Longarm bent down and retrieved the shotgun. It was a double barrel, far from new with whatever bluing it might once have had long since worn off.

  Without a word, Longarm handed the gun back to the startled man.

  “But . . . I thought . . .” Wright leaned over to pick up the fallen shotgun shells, but Longarm stopped him, touching his wrist with the side of his boot. “You don’t need them things,” Longarm said. “Not ’less you see a squirrel hereabouts, an’ I don’t think you’re likely t’ do that. Now take your damn gun an’ go.”

  Wright turned but after he had taken a step or two, Longarm said, “Wait a minute. There’s something I got t’ ask you. Is that the same gun your brother tried to use on me?”

  Wright stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then, shoulders slumped, resumed walking away.

  By rights Longarm could have arrested the man. Or killed him. Neither seemed worth bothering with.

  Longarm continued on in his search for a decent supper.

  Chapter 27

  Longarm slept alone that night. He would have preferred the company of Melody Thompson, whore or not, but the room she had occupied was empty, the door to it standing ajar—he had checked, hoping to find her there—and her belongings gone.

  In the morning he walked down to Buck’s café for breakfast, then over to a barbershop where he joined a half dozen men who were in line for shaves.

  He picked up a two-month-old New York newspaper and pretended to read it while he eavesdropped on the conversations around him.

  The men spoke quietly, mostly about mining, using terms like “yield per ton” and “rock strata.”

  Longarm knew that most hard rock mining camps had short lives. They boomed wildly and were flush with money but only until the valuable ores that supported them began to fail. Soon thereafter the population declined, and the town began to shrink. Most eventually faded away completely and became ghost towns.

  The western mountains were thick with abandoned towns, the men who once had flocked to them long gone, and only shadows and memories remained.

  “Just the shave,” Longarm said when his turn in the chair came. “I’ll take care o’ my own mustache.”

  “You’re new in town,” the barber observed while his hands flew back and forth, stropping his razor.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mining man, are you?” The barber finished sharpening the razor and began whipping soap into a lather.

  “Just passing through,” Longarm said.

  “Lots of mining engineers come through here,” the barber said. “Are you . . . ?”

  “No.”

  “You’re dressed like you might be an engineer. You aren’t a working stiff, I can see that. Likely not a gambler, either. And you’re not a stockman bringing beef up from the lowlands. Not wearing low-heeled boots, you aren’t. Are you—”

  “I’m a man as likes t’ mind his own business,” Longarm cut the garrulous man off.

  “Oh. Sorry.” He began smoothing lather onto Longarm’s cheeks. The remainder of the brief time Longarm spent in the chair was silent.

  When he got out onto the street again, Longarm chuckled softly to himself. The barber had spanked him for not being chatty. The son of a bitch had neglected to splash aftershave onto him when he was done. Instead of being angry, Longarm was amused by the petty little show of pique.

  But he would not be using that barber again if he was in Crowell City long enough to need another shave.

  He wondered if there was any point in walking over to the town marshal’s office to see if there was any word yet about when Al Gray would get back. Probably not. But he had nothing better to do anyway.

  He tipped his Stetson back on his head and ambled in that direction.

  Chapter 28

  “Long. Mr. Long. Wait.”

  Longarm stopped and turned to see Marshal Hughes scurrying up the street after him. The marshal was puffing and flushed.

  “Wait. I have some information for you,” Hughes said as he came near.

  Longarm glanced around, then leaned against the front wall of Walker’s Mercantile. “Yes, Marshal? Have you heard from Gray about when he’ll get back?”

  Hughes reached Longarm and stopped. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees for a moment while he sucked in deep breaths. “Ah. I’m out of condition,” he complained. “There was a time when I could run like a deer.” He looked up and laughed. “But that was quite some time ago.”

  “You was saying something about Al Gray?” Longarm prodded him.

  “Yes. Of course. I didn’t hear direct from Mr. Gray, but I did hear about him. It seems that, uh, Mr. Gray has been detained. In a county jail, actually. Over in Wynn County. He was arrested on a charge of drunk and disorderly and did not have the wherewithal to bail himself out. So he is not expected back here now for more than a week. I thought it only fair to tell you. Naturally I still intend to complete our bargain. When Mr. Gray does return, I will be glad to put you two gentlemen together.”

  “Thank you for tellin’ me, Wilse. More than a week, you say?”

  Hughes nodded. “So I am told, yes.”

  “All right, thanks. I may mosey along an’ take care of some other business while we’re waitin’ for Gray t’ get back here,” Longarm said.

  “Yes, of course, and you will have the remainder of my, um, fee at that time?”

  “I said I would,” Longarm said.

  “Very good. Thank you.” Hughes gave him a carrion eater’s grin and rubbed his hands together.

  Longarm turned and resumed walking. But not with his original intent. He knew very well Sheriff Bob Kane in Wynn County. Bob would be happy to turn the prisoner over to Longarm for delivery to the courts down in Denver.

  Longarm’s next logical move, he thought, would be for him to go over to Wildwood, the county seat there, and collect his man after someone else had done the work of finding him. Longarm smiled to himself. Perhaps he should pay Wilson Hughes that other hundred dollars since he had made the arrest so easy.

  Not that he seriously intended to do that. He was already thinking about how he should describe the first hundred dollars of bribe money on his expense report.

  He walked down to the livery where his strayed horse seemed to have found a new, if somewhat illegal, home. It was not a terribly far ride over to Wildwood. Longarm intended to hire a horse here in Crowell City and make the trip.

  Chapter 29

  The horse the livery gave him was hardmouthed and sassy. It would not hold a gait and constantly wanted to reach down and crop grass while it was moving. It had a vile disposition and spooked at every bush or shrub they came to. In short, it was what Longarm was accustomed to borrow from the Army Remount Service; certainly it was no worse than his usual mounts.

  Even so it carried him the thirty or so miles from Crowell City to Wildwood in less than the day. He reached Bob Kane’s office in the Wynn County courthouse late in the afternoon.

  “Custis Long!” Kane yelped when Longarm walked in. The tall, lanky sheriff jumped up from behind his desk and raced to pump Longarm’s hand in an enthusiastic greeting. “Damn but it’s good to see you, old son. It’s a very pleasant surprise.”

  “Good t’ see you again, Bob,” Longarm said with a broad smile. “How long has it been?”

  “I know exactly how long it has been,” Kane said.

  Longarm’s eyebrows went up in surprise at that statement.

  Kane laughed. “It has been exactly too long.”

  “Now I can agree with you ’bout that,” Longarm said.

  “What brings you out our way, Custis?” Kane asked.

  “Fella name of Alton Gray. I believe you have him in your jail. I want him.”

  Kane shook his head. “I don’t have anyone by that name, Custis.
I’ve seen the flyers on him, and I would have held him for your people if I had caught him.”

  “I was told you had a man here on drunk and disorderly, was serving ten days or something like that,” Longarm said.

  The sheriff shook his head again. “No, no one by that name. I did have a fellow, called himself John Amos, but he bonded out yesterday. What does your Gray look like again?”

  Longarm described his recent prisoner.

  “Damn,” Kane grumbled. “That was Gray that I had, all right.”

  “You say he bonded out?”

  “That’s right. Or to be more accurate about it, he was bonded out but not out of his own pocket. A woman came and paid his bond. Paid for the damages he caused over at Pete Vold’s saloon, too. Good-looking woman. Makes me wonder how a piece of slime like Amos . . . or Gray, I suppose . . . corralled one like that. But then some women are attracted to ruffians, and it seems like the classier the woman the worse the scoundrel she is with.”

  “Aye, does seem like that sometimes,” Longarm said. He laughed and added, “Bein’ something of a no-good myself it’s the only way I can get hold of any women. Any idea where Gray an’ this woman friend went from here?”

  “No, but I know they went in different directions. The woman took a stagecoach. Amos—Gray, I mean—rode off on horseback.”

  “His own horse?” Longarm asked.

  “I suppose so. I didn’t ask,” Kane said.

  “So you don’t know where he kept the horse while he was behind bars?”

  “We only have two livery stables in Wildwood. It would almost have to have been with one of them. I suppose the woman paid for that, too, or the horse would have been impounded and put up for me to sell,” Kane said.

  “I’ll have t’ ask them,” Longarm said. “Maybe they have an idea of where he’s gone.”

  “I’ll take you over and introduce you,” Kane said. Then he grinned. “But afterward I insist that you come home and have your supper with Leanne and me.”