Longarm in Hell's Half Acre

by Tabor Evans

  Longarm nodded, then turned and headed for Tater Allred’s wagon. Over his shoulder he said, “Just capital, by God, Marshal Farmer. Capital.” Once in the wagon’s seat, he called out to Doc Wheeler, “We’ll leave Mattie here until you deem it safe to move her, Doc. Make damned sure you take good care of the lady. See to it she gets whatever she requires. I’ll stand good for any cost.” He turned to Willard and said, “Let’s go to the Elephant. Stand you to another drink. Know for damned sure I could use a glass of Maryland rye right now. Maybe even a double.”

  Chapter 10

  Longarm leaned on the White Elephant’s polished mahogany bar. An overwhelming weariness pervaded his being. He poured a shot of amber-colored bourbon, then shoved it toward Willard Allred. Allred snatched up the glass, downed the liquor in one quick gulp, and, grinning, pushed the tiny beaker back with a single finger.

  “Special deputy. Ain’t that somethin’. Been a spell since anyone bothered to express the slightest kind of faith in me, Marshal Long,” Allred said. “Want you to know I’ll do my best in whatever endeavor you choose to have me take on.” He picked up his refilled glass, saluted, then downed the second shot as quickly as the first. “First time I’ve felt like a man in a spell and, I gotta tell you, it feels damned good.”

  On the third round, both men gave their waiting glasses of nose paint a brief rest. They leaned against the bar and gazed into the White Elephant’s enormous silvered mirror. Longarm watched the beautiful hostess reflected in the mirror as she guided guests into the dining room for a late breakfast or an early lunch.

  “Tater, I’d never seen Quincy Ballentine before I whacked him the other night. Heard enough of him, but we’d never met face-to-face. Funny thing is, all the stories about the man, as I’m familiar with, didn’t involve anything like the sorry bastard being a pimp and confidence artist. Kinda scum who’d use a good-lookin’ woman to steal from unsuspecting men with big eyes and a hard-on.”

  Allred grinned. “Well, as my ole pappy used to say, skunks is skunks. And them as is skunks will do anything to get their hands on a little money. Wouldn’t put it past ole Quincy to rob the offerin’ plate at a church, given the chance.

  “Well, that don’t make him much different than a good many around these days.”

  “Given the way the truth suffers at the hands of writers these days, just about anybody can get a reputation as a badman. But the real truth bein’ what it is, though, ole Quincy ain’t never been much more’n a pimp, as far as I’ve ever known. ’Course he does seem to be able to keep company with some real bad actors, though. Hard to know why or how, but he seems to be able to get dangerous men to do his biddin’. Must have something of the leader in ’im as most of us can’t see.”

  Longarm leaned closer to his new deputy. “Think you can find the son of a bitch? He doesn’t know we’re connected, at least not yet, anyway. As a consequence, I think you can move around down in the Acre and find out a good deal more, and a lot quicker, than I probably could.”

  Allred nodded, scratched his stubble-covered chin, looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “The Acre ain’t real big, you know. But they’s lots of places to hide. Town’s like a rat’s warren. Might take a day or two, but I’ll find him, if’n he’s still around.”

  “Oh, I doubt he’s bothered to leave. I’m of the firm opinion that he figures to have killed Mattie. Doesn’t know yet that she’s still alive, and I want to keep it that way till we can find him.”

  Allred stared into the full glass of liquor on the bar. He twirled the drink around in a tiny circle of liquid puddled beneath it. “Man travels in some pretty rough company, Marshal Long.”

  “Call me Custis, or better yet, my friends call me Longarm.”

  “Longarm?”

  “Yep. If you’re the type who’s one of those folks that society needs to jack up the jail and put you under it, the long arm of the law’s gonna snatch your ass up and make you pay. I’m that long arm of the law.”

  “Ah, well, Longarm, not for dead certain sure, but they’s men in the Acre that a lotta folks claim are close associates of ole Quincy’s. So far, the whole bunch has kept pretty low to the ground. If’n anyone knows where he is, it’ll be one of them ole boys as he keeps company with.”

  Longarm held up his glass, then clicked it against Allred’s. Another shot went down, and the fourth one got poured.

  “Who and how many, Tater?”

  “Well, one of them as I know of is that one-eyed humpback, Silas Brakett. Ole Silas is bad enough, but then there’s that back-shootin’ weasel from Georgia, Dead Eyed Zeke Cobb. But by far the worst of ’em might be Tanner Hackberry.”

  Longarm’s eyes snapped shut. His chin dropped down till it touched his chest. He shook his head, glanced back at Allred, then said, “Jesus, you’re sure about that? You’re sure Tanner Hackberry’s in town?”

  “Seen ’im. Seen ’im my very own self. Had a fare from the depot what wanted to go to the Red Light Saloon and Dance Hall down on Rusk. Rough joint not far from the Emerald—place we passed on the way in yesterday.”

  “Yeah, remember that’n. Didn’t look much like an emerald to me.”

  “Anyhow, stopped outside and walked my fare into the saloon. Introduced him to the drink slinger there, friend of mine—Buster Coody. Buster fixed the feller up with a buck-toothed whore of my acquaintance, widely sought out for her ability to suck the silver plate off a pistol barrel.”

  Longarm chuckled. “Sweet Jesus. Wouldn’t mind meetin’ her myself.”

  “Yeah, well, I wuz a-standin’ at the bar when I spotted this big ole boy who’d staked out one whole end of the counter down next to the entrance of the dance hall. Mean-lookin’ son of a bitch. Kinda cold-eyed scum that just oozes trouble. Whispered at Buster and asked who he wuz. Buster says, ‘Tanner Hackberry. Best stay away from him.’ Seemed like mighty good advice at the time.”

  “God Almighty, that’s the truth, Willard. Hackberry’s the kind that’ll give small children nightmares for the rest of their tender lives. He’s a man killer of the first water.”

  “Heard tell as how he once cut off a man’s sack—made himself a purse. Wore it around his neck a-danglin’ from a piece of braided horsehide. Gives me the willies just thinkin’ ’bout it.”

  “You think Ballentine might be hangin’ around the Red Light with Hackberry and the others?”

  Allred eased his glass back over for a refill. Once the glass was full again, he said, “Ain’t certain. But it’s a good place for all of ’em to lay low while in town, that’s for damned sure. One of the roughest places around these days.”

  “These days?”

  “Yeah, Waco Tap used to be the wildest joint in town. When it burnt slap to the ground, the crowd that raised hell over there moved down to the Red Light and the Gilded Lily. Over the past two years or so, that’s made the Red Light a damned tough joint to find yourself in once it gets dark. Likewise for the Lily.”

  “You have any problem hanging around there and keepin’ your eyes open?”

  “Nope. Bartenders look out for me, kinda like a pet dog with a bad leg.”

  Longarm slapped the old soldier on the back. “Well then, get on down there and keep an eye out for Quincy or Hackberry or either of them other bastards. Let me know, double quick, if any of ’em shows up. I’m going upstairs. Think I’ll spend the evenin’ playing poker. Tomorrow you can find me in the El Paso’s lobby at the table closest to their bar’s batwing doors.”

  Allred threw down his final shot of bourbon, nodded, came to military attention, did a smartly executed about-face, then headed out the Elephant’s front door.

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Longarm staked a claim on an overstuffed chair in the El Paso’s lobby near the entrance to the hotel’s popular saloon. He flopped into the wonderfully comfortable overstuffed seat and, for a while, attempted to scan a copy of the Fort Worth Daily Democrat someone had abandoned on a nearby table.

  A raging headac
he, a holdover from the previous evening’s protracted poker game, pushed any plans he harbored for an eye-opening glass of rye to a back burner. Instead, he occasionally sipped at his steaming cup of coffee, which a friendly waiter had brought over from the restaurant. The syrupy liquid had been cooked to the consistency of something akin to roofing tar. Longarm sipped, rubbed his temples, and prayed for an end to the darting pain that tortured the inside of his skull.

  Eventually, he gave up on the newspaper, leaned back in the chair, placed his hat over his face, and drifted off into a much-needed nap. Gunshots, from somewhere outside the El Paso’s door, jerked him out of his pleasantly soothing snooze.

  Longarm reacted exactly as any conscientious lawman should. On his feet in an instant, he slapped on his hat and headed toward the action.

  He made it to the front door just in time to be pushed aside by a wave of nattering women who elbowed their way past, then headed for the check-in desk and immediately went to chewing the ear of the surprised clerk.

  Longarm stopped in the doorway, then stole a quick glance up and down the street. The normally busy thoroughfare seemed to have cleared of most people, but a woman and small child appeared rooted to a spot in the middle of the street less that fifty feet from where he stood. Movement a block away, near the corner of Third and Rusk, drew his attention to at least two men who darted for any available shelter and continued to fire at one another. For several seconds, the blasting got right intense.

  Stray bullets kicked up dust and dirt clods near the panic-stricken woman’s feet. Longarm hit the street running, snatched up the child, grabbed the lady by the hand, and dragged them to a sheltered spot next to the White Elephant.

  As he handed the child over, the lady said, “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She hugged the tot to her ample breast. Hot tears flowed down cheeks bereft of color or rouge. “Don’t know what came over me. Just couldn’t seem to make my feet move. Felt paralyzed. This is just not the kind of thing you expect on this end of town. Very few street shootings up here away from the Acre.”

  Longarm’s attention shifted from the woman and her child back to the gunfire. None of Marshal Farmer’s policemen appeared anywhere in sight. He slipped his Colt Frontier model pistol from its cross-draw holster, snatched off his hat, then peeked up the street toward the noisy disagreement. Men yelled unintelligible threats and curses back and forth at one another, then opened fire again. A horse squealed in pain, reared from the hitch rail, then ran past Longarm’s hiding spot and down the street.

  He eased onto the boardwalk and took a step toward the action. Over his shoulder, he said, “Stay here, missus. Don’t go movin’ around in the street until all this indiscriminate shootin’ has come to a complete halt.”

  The belligerent combatants were so preoccupied with their noisy disagreement that neither of them spotted Longarm as he slipped across Main Street, then along the storefronts and saloons to the middle of Third Street. He landed behind a stack of empty flour barrels piled in front of Harlan’s Grocery and Mercantile.

  A cowboy, smoking pistol in each hand, stood in the middle of the thoroughfare. With great deliberation, he first fired one pistol, then the other, at a dodging brush popper trying his best to hide behind a water trough on the corner of Rusk Street. Liquid spewed into the street from a number of bullet holes in the wooden horse trough.

  After three or four more thunderous reports from the shooters’ pistols, Longarm called out, “That’s enough boys. You’re scarin’ the women and children. Not to speak of hittin’ horses what don’t belong to you.”

  The shooter in the street made a wobbling turn toward the new threat. Swaying, he tried to make out who’d interrupted his sport. The drunken leather pounder’s Mexican spurs made musical, tinkling sounds that drifted toward Longarm’s hidey-hole along with a wisp of gray-white, acrid-smelling gunpowder. Hammered silver rowels the size of ten-dollar gold pieces continued to jingle with the man’s every inebriated movement.

  “Who the fuck’re yew, asshole?” the waddie yelped.

  The man behind the water trough came to his knees and yelled, “What the hell’s goin’ on, Cass? Who is that dumb son of a bitch?”

  Over his shoulder, and out the side of his mouth, the cow chaser closest to Longarm said, “Don’ know who the witless bastard is, Pike.” He glared at Longarm and snorted, “Gotta lotta nerve a-goin’ an’ interruptin’ our friendly little disagreementin’, mister. Best take yer stringy self back on down the street, ’fore we decide to lay an ass-whoopin’ chastisement on yew the likes of what most folks ’round here ain’t never seed nor thought about.”

  Longarm stepped from behind his flour-barrel fortress, badge in hand. He held his silver deputy marshal’s star up so the cowboys could see it and said, “I’m the law, you stupid pile of walkin’ horseshit. There’s been enough of this haphazard gunfire. Gonna say it again—all this lead you’re throwin’ around is scarin’ the hell outta the women, children, and horses, not to mention it’s pissin’ me off. Now pitch them pistols aside and put your hands in the air. Both of you.”

  Pike clambered to his feet, then staggered over to Cass’s side. Short, stocky, unshaven, and dressed like a rail-riding bum, he was Cass’s exact opposite. The pair, who had just tried to kill each other, turned on Longarm, puffed their chests out, and appeared completely willing to go down shooting.

  The man called Cass squinted hard, shot a nervous, twitchy-eyed glance in Pike’s direction, then said, “Hell, that ain’t no real badge. You ain’t no real lawman. Lawmen ’round here wear long coats and slouch hats. All of ’em look the same. Ferret-faced ugly and stupider’n a wagonload of flattened shit. Wear big ole six-pointed gold stars pinned on their coats. Damned good targets.”

  As he swayed drunkenly at the side of the man who’d just been shooting at him, Pike blubbered, “Yeah, yew long, tall glass of skunk piss. ’At ’ere ain’t no real badge. An’ you ain’t no real lawman. So why doanchew go on back where yew came from and just fuck yerself.”

  Longarm slipped the badge back into his jacket pocket, then said, “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal, and you two jackasses need to pitch them pistols on the ground ’fore you hurt somebody, or get hurt. Damned near hit some folks down the street in front of the El Paso Hotel, and that’s two blocks away. Thank God you only managed to wound a horse—so far. Now throw them guns aside and put your hands in the air.”

  For several seconds the pair exchanged shocked looks and acted confused by the surprising turn of events surrounding their raucous fun. Then, without warning, the weapon in the right hand of the cowboy called Cass went off with a thunderous blast and sent a blue whistler that gouged a massive chunk of wood out of the barrel Longarm stood beside.

  Longarm’s responding shot caught Cass dead center and pitched him backward. The heavy .45 slug crushed the cowboy’s breastbone, bored through his upper body cavity, and exited in a fist-sized gout of blood, bone, and gory spray. He dropped on his side and flopped around like a landed fish for several seconds before coming to a twitching stop.

  Pike, stunned and surprised, gazed down at his dead friend for about a second, yelped like a kicked dog, then snatched a second pistol from a holster at his back. Before Longarm could respond, the screeching wrangler hung a curtain of lead in the air that shattered windows in Harlan’s Grocery, plowed furrows in the plank boardwalk around Longarm’s feet, and blasted holes in the stack of barrels, but failed to come anywhere close to punching a trench in the dodging object of his screaming hatred.

  As the wall of blazing slugs moved closer to his position, and appeared about to finally zero in on him, Longarm dropped to one knee, grasped his pistol in both hands, and took careful, steady aim. But before he could squeeze off a death-dealing head shot, a rifle somewhere to his right delivered a chunk of hot lead to Pike’s thick noggin that dropped the man in his tracks like a hundred-pound bag of fertilizer kicked off the back of a hoople head’s spring wagon.

  Longarm darted a glanc
e back toward the El Paso and the White Elephant. Willard Allred stood stock-still in the middle of the street, a smoking Yellow Boy Winchester snugged against his shoulder.

  Longarm stood, then strolled over to the bodies lying in the middle of Third Street. Neither man moved. He holstered his weapon, pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket, struck a match on the butt of his pistol, then puffed the tobacco to life. A soul-satisfying cloud of smoke hit his lungs just as Willard Allred ambled up.

  “Looked like the feller I put down wuz about to find the right range, Marshal.”

  Longarm threw his head back and blew a smoke ring toward a crystal blue, cloudless sky. “Yep. Few more seconds and he’d a found me for sure.” He slipped another cheroot out and handed it to Willard.

  In a matter of seconds, both men savored their cigars and wordlessly thanked God for deliverance from the vagaries of hollow-eyed Death’s bony grip. Then Longarm fished a Special Deputy badge out of his pocket and pinned it on Willard’s coat lapel. “Just to make it all legal. Consider yourself sworn.”

  About a minute after the cloud of gunsmoke that hovered over the bloody scene lifted, Sam Farmer and two of his deputies came running up, pistols drawn. “Sweet Jesus, what the hell happened here?” Farmer barked.

  As a crowd of inquisitive whisperers and pointers gathered around the dead men, Longarm calmly explained the unfortunate sequence of events that led to one of Fort Worth’s busiest thoroughfares being littered with dead bodies. He finished the detailed account with, “Sure hate it, Sam, but me and my special deputy here found it necessary to defend ourselves against a pair of drunken louts who’d have killed us if we had done otherwise.”