Longarm and the Dime Novelist

by Tabor Evans

  “Take up the collection and put his name on a tombstone and under it the words, he was a fine dime novelist.”

  “You think that’s what he’d like to have carved on his tombstone?” someone asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” Longarm replied as he headed for the door.

  Outside, he took a few deep breaths and then he headed down to a quiet saloon where a man could drink and not be bothered. Where Longarm could try to figure out what he might have done differently in order to save a ruined life that had once been celebrated in both cities and small ranching towns. And especially in isolated Nevada bunkhouses.

  Chapter 10

  “Delia,” Longarm said, gently nudging her awake. “The train just pulled into town and it’ll be taking on wood and water. I checked and it leaves for Reno in less than two hours. Thought you might want to get dressed and packed, then we can go find something to eat before we get on board.”

  She yawned and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I feel a lot better today. And I’m so glad that you weren’t hurt last night and were able to kill Frank Roman before he had another chance at me.”

  “Yeah,” Longarm said quietly as he pushed the window curtain aside and looked down at the street. “It worked out, I suppose.”

  “What does the suppose mean?” she asked, sitting up and pushing a tendril of hair back from her face.

  Longarm turned to face her. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel good about killing him.”

  “He stabbed me!” Delia said, voice rising. “Frank meant to kill me and he would have killed you as well.”

  “True, but he had what he thought were good reasons.”

  “Because I took some of his story ideas?”

  “And used the man before you broke his heart.”

  Delia sat up in bed, covers falling to her lap, breasts exposed. “Custis, are you worried that I’m going to do the same thing to you? Is that what this is about?”

  “No,” Longarm told her without hesitation. “I’m not Frank Roman and I have no illusions about who you are and the lengths that you will go to in order to get what you want.”

  He thought she was going to explode, but then Delia took a deep breath and relaxed. “Custis, I told you that I only wanted stories to use for my future dime novels and that I’d change all the names. I don’t see what that has to do with Frank Roman.”

  “I had to kill him, didn’t I?”

  “Come here.”

  Longarm went over to stand by the bed. “What?”

  She began to unbuckle his cartridge belt and then his pants. “I think we need to have a little lovemaking before we leave this hotel room.”

  Longarm shook his head. “That isn’t going to change how I feel about what happened to Frank Roman.”

  “Screw Frank Roman! He was an arrogant, difficult, and self-inflated man who used and discarded women and then couldn’t stand being used and discarded himself. He stabbed me and you shot him dead. He would have tried to kill someone else so you did the world a favor by putting the man out of his misery.”

  Longarm shook his head but Delia was already in his pants and when she pulled him closer to the bed she rolled over and took him into her mouth.

  Damn, Longarm thought, I’m no stronger than Roman had been when she starts to do what she does so well.

  • • •

  Five minutes later he was between her legs and they were lost in the pleasure of lovemaking. Longarm rode her gently, not wanting to hurt her because of the knife wound. But when he was a too gentle, Delia bit his earlobe hard and whispered, “Stop treating me as if I’m breakable! Come on and do me harder!”

  Longarm was all too happy to grant her wishes. And when he roared and slammed his seed into her beautiful body, he made up his mind that she was a poison that he dared not take much longer or just like with Frank Roman, the results could be fatal.

  The remainder of their train trip to Reno was uneventful. Delia was a little pale from the loss of blood but in high spirits. She had never been to Reno or the famous Comstock Lode and wanted to see them as soon as possible.

  “The Comstock mines are mostly played out,” Longarm explained. “The bodies of gold and silver under Virginia City and Gold Hill were discovered in the sixties and seventies and now all of Sun Mountain is honeycombed with mine shafts and tunnels. There hasn’t been a huge ore discovery in at least a decade.”

  “I’ve read about what the Comstock was like in its heyday,” Delia said. “It was a wild place.”

  “Wild and dangerous,” Longarm added. “Over on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains the Forty-Niners panned gold out of streams and rivers. But when all the placer gold had been panned out the Comstock Lode was discovered and the same miners raced over the Sierras. Arriving on the Comstock Lode they found that there were no rivers or streams or any kind of good drinking water. No tall ponderosa pines, either. Instead, Sun Mountain is barren with just a few scrawny piñon and juniper pines scattered among the rocks and sage.”

  “So the Forty-Niners who had become accustomed to panning gold out of the streams couldn’t pan anymore?”

  “That’s right. Some hammered short tunnels and shafts into the rocky mountainsides but they hadn’t a prayer of reaching the big underground ore bodies with mere picks and shovels. That meant they had to lose their precious independence and hire on with the rich mine owners who were building steam hoisting works and drilling deep shafts straight down through the hard rock. The miners found themselves being herded into wire cages and lowered hundreds of feet into the belly of the mountain, then working in dim tunnels that branched off the main shaft.”

  “It sounds like it was a brutal existence for miners.”

  “It was,” Longarm said, “but the miners formed unions and they made good money. A lot of them died deep underground when their picks broke into underground reservoirs of boiling water or the tunnels collapsed. Even so, the hard rock miners kept arriving from all over the world. I didn’t see the Virginia City in her prime, but even ten years ago it was a sight to behold. On C Street there were no less than fifteen saloons, and all of them were packed day and night. They have a big opera house and some amazing mansions.”

  “I want to see it all,” Delia told him. “Even if Virginia City has gone bust.”

  “Well,” Longarm said, “you can do your sightseeing while I look to find out who murdered federal marshal John Pierce and his wife and who abducted their daughter, Emily.”

  “You don’t really think you’ll find her still alive, do you?”

  “I’m an optimist,” Longarm replied. “Emily was young and beautiful and she would bring a steep price down in Mexico.”

  Delia nodded. “I can’t even imagine a girl like that being taken into slavery and sold as a concubine for sexual pleasure.”

  “It’s not a pretty picture, but if that did happen, then there is a chance I can find her.”

  “Even if you have to go into Mexico where you have no authority?”

  “Yes,” Longarm said, “even if I have to go deep into Mexico.”

  “I don’t think I want to go there,” Delia decided. “I would be afraid of what might happen.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Longarm told her. “Mexico is a very hard and dangerous country. Down along the border there are bandits and raiding Apache. There are all kinds of people who would kill just for pleasure on both sides, and it’s no place for a woman like you.”

  “You mean a woman with my looks.”

  “That’s right. You’d attract way too much attention with your blond hair and beautiful face. If I have to cross the border, I’ll try to be as inconspicuous as I can, and I damn sure won’t tell anyone I’m a federal marshal because that would be needlessly putting a death warrant on my head.”

  “So if you decide to ride south to the border, I’ll have to d
ecide where I’m going to stay if you return with or without that girl.”

  “Exactly.”

  Delia patted his thigh. “Well, I’ll make that decision when I come to it. The beauty about being a dime novelist is that I can write anywhere I stay.”

  “You should have stayed in Denver.”

  “If I had,” Delia shot back, “Frank Roman would have killed me by now.”

  Longarm agreed. Looking out the window he studied the stunted sage and the long, white stretches of salt and alkali flats. “Nevada is probably the bleakest landscape in the entire West. It has very little drinkable water and the summers are scorching hot while the winters can be bitterly cold. The wind blows across Nevada as hard as it does across Wyoming and Montana.”

  “How much farther is it to Reno?”

  “We should reach it in about four hours.”

  “Is it as ugly as Elko and some of these towns we’ve passed today?”

  “No,” he said, “Reno is beautiful. It’s situated at the base of the Sierras and the Truckee River runs right through town. Reno is smaller than Denver but a major city because of the railroad and all the mining and timbering in the area. You’ll find it pleasing to the eye.”

  “Nice restaurants and hotels?”

  “Very nice.”

  “Then maybe if you decide to go to Mexico I’ll spend a while in Reno.”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad idea. There are daily stagecoach rides up to the Comstock Lode. It’s something not to be missed.”

  Delia smiled. “Let’s just see where the cards fall after we arrive and then we can both make our decisions.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Longarm said, watching a skinny coyote trot across a ridge of stunted sage and broken rock.

  Chapter 11

  When their train reached Reno, Longarm and Delia had found a hotel beside the Truckee River and then enjoyed a fine dinner in the dining hall. They made love and slept well that night. In the morning both took baths and gave their soiled clothing to the hotel maid to be washed and dried.

  Longarm buckled on his gun and cartridge belt, then prepared to meet the local sheriff and get updates on the murder of federal marshal John Pierce and his wife and the abduction of their daughter.

  “I’d like to be in on that meeting,” Delia said, slipping into her coat.

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what the sheriff here has to say might be confidential and I’m sure he’d rather not discuss the case with a dime novelist who might use it in one of her future novels.”

  “Then don’t tell him I’m a writer.”

  “What would I tell him? That you’re my curious and beautiful lady friend? I doubt that would go over very well.” Longarm picked up his Stetson. “Let’s be straight about something, Delia. I’ve enjoyed your company very much so far, but the real reason you’re coming along is that you are the daughter of Colorado’s governor. That won’t carry much weight here in Nevada. In fact, it won’t carry any weight at all.”

  Delia didn’t like hearing that and it plainly showed on her lovely face. “I could help you with this . . . if the trail doesn’t lead to Mexico.”

  “And how, exactly, would you do that?”

  “Because I’ve written so many violent scenes in my dime novels I have a unique way of looking at crimes.”

  Longarm almost laughed out loud. “Do tell!”

  “Yes, I really do. And, I have more money than you and sometimes money can be used to obtain information that could not be gotten in any other way.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Longarm replied. “Are you going to take a stage up to Virginia City today?”

  “Not today. I’m planning on looking around the town and taking some notes to use in a future novel. Also, I wouldn’t dream of leaving until you’ve told me what you learn this morning about the Pierce family.”

  “Delia, please don’t start asking questions about the murders and Emily’s disappearance. I want to be able to move around and dig up my own information and I don’t want you to muddy the waters before I have a chance to reach some solid conclusions.”

  “Perhaps the sheriff has already found the girl dead . . . or alive.”

  “I hope he’s found her alive and well,” Longarm answered. “If that is the case, I still need to make sure that justice is served. Marshal Pierce was a federal officer and I can’t allow his murder or that of his wife to go unsolved.”

  “Understood. Can we meet for lunch?”

  “Make it dinner,” he told her. “I’ll be back here before dark.”

  “You will unless someone recognizes and tries to ambush you like they did Marshal Pierce and his poor, dead wife.”

  • • •

  Longarm knew where the sheriff’s office was located and he wasted no time with breakfast although a strong cup or two of coffee was in order. When he entered the office, he recognized Sheriff Tom Quinn from an earlier visit and recalled that they had worked well together. Sheriff Quinn young for the job, probably not yet out of his twenties. He was handsome and not especially bright, but tried his best to keep law and order in Reno. People liked Tom Quinn because he was always smiling and congenial, but Longarm had his reservations about the man’s dedication or willingness to do any serious investigative work.

  “I expected you to come in on the train yesterday,” were the first words out of Quinn’s mouth. He picked through the papers on his desk and found a telegram. “Your boss, Marshal Vail, said that you would arrive yesterday.”

  “I had a little trouble in Elko,” Longarm replied glancing around the office and spotting a pot of coffee on the man’s stove. “Any of that left?”

  “Sure, help yourself, but you probably remember that I like my coffee hot and strong like my women.”

  Longarm found a reasonably clean cup and poured coffee. He tasted it and found it to his satisfaction. “I remembered that you made a good pot.”

  “And I recall you smoke damn good cigars.”

  Longarm got the hint and gave the man a cigar, then took one of his own and when they were settled and smoking he said, “You’re looking good, Tom. Better than I thought you’d look given the murders and the disappearance of the Pierce girl.”

  “I’m pretty sure that we’ve already caught the ambusher.”

  Longarm’s cup of coffee stopped halfway to his lips. “Really?”

  “That’s right. I was leading a posse four days ago when we came upon a man that was considered a strong suspect in the murders. He had more cash than he should have and his rifle had recently been fired.”

  “Any other proof and did he say what he did with Emily Pierce?”

  “No,” Quinn said, suddenly looking away. “I brought him back here and tossed him in jail. There was a crowd outside that grew big and angry. It became a lynch mob around midnight.”

  Longarm glanced at a back door that he figured stood between them and a few cells. “I’m sorry to hear that. How many deputies do you have working for you?”

  “None. The damned city cut my budget to the bone and I’m all on my own for the time being.”

  “I have a feeling this story is going to get worse.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Quinn drew deeply on the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. “I had a shotgun in my hands when I faced the lynch mob just outside the front door and I made it clear that no one was going to get past me. I told the mob that the man I’d jailed would go before a judge and jury and have a court of law decide his fate based on the very strong evidence we’d already confiscated.”

  Longarm nodded with understanding. “I take it that the evidence you were referring to was the cash presumably taken from Marshal Pierce after he and his wife were ambushed.”

  “That’s right.
Only it wasn’t nearly as much cash as we’d expected.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred and sixty dollars.”

  Longarm shook his head. “From what I’ve been told, Marshal Pierce had a great deal more money that he was taking to someone in Carson City.”

  “True, but I figured the suspect had been smart enough to stash most of the money and planned to pick it up after things quieted down.”

  “So how do you know the money had been taken from Marshal Pierce?”

  “Well,” Quinn said, “this suspect’s name was Dub Robertson and he was a known thief and cattle rustler.”

  “Being a thief and cattle rustler is a long ways from being a murderer.”

  “That’s right,” Quinn admitted. “But Robertson had blood on the cuffs of his shirt and bloodstains on his boots. When last seen a few days earlier, he’d been dead broke and drunk as usual. When we overtook Dub Robertson he had a good horse and saddle as well as a Winchester and new Colt revolver with several boxes of ammunition.”

  “Were the weapons recognized as belonging to Marshal Pierce?”

  “No, but a man with lots of stolen money could buy weapons any place, no questions asked. I’m sure we had the ambusher but he was sober enough to keep his silence. In fact, he surprised us by asking for a good lawyer.”

  “So, what’s he saying now?”

  The sheriff sighed and shook his head. “He isn’t saying anything.”

  Longarm placed his cigar down and sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Sheriff, I’m starting to think that Dub Robertson isn’t around anymore.”

  “I’m afraid that’s right. While I was out in front that night holding a lynch mob at bay, someone snuck around behind the jail in the alley, struck a match, and shot Dub Robertson to death in his cell. Before I could circle around and try to capture the shooter, he galloped away in the night.”