Longarm and the Bandit Queen

by Tabor Evans

  A few more steps took the trio out of earshot. Longarm went into the barn. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see what he was doing. The horses and mules were standing quietly. Two or three of the horses nickered, but that was all. He spotted the low loft that filled about a third of the end of the barn farthest from the house. Cleat steps, on one of the posts supporting the rooftree, led up to the loft. Longarm climbed up and found that the loft had just about enough hay in it to make the foundation for a bed. He scraped the hay into a rectangle and spread his bedroll on it. After folding his coat for a pillow and arranging his vest as a pad for his Colt, Longarm stretched out and relaxed as well as he could without taking off his boots. Tonight he thought he'd be better off wearing them than shedding them.

  It had been a long day and, in spite of his booted feet, sleep came to him quickly.

  Longarm wasn't sure which roused him, the broken rhythm of hooves or the faint call for help. He heard both at the same time and snapped awake, slid his Colt out of its holster, and sat up in bed in the same easy movement.

  He listened consciously as soon as he recognized the source of the noises that had awakened him. Neither the irregular hoofbeats nor the cries were close at hand. He stood up and put on his gunbelt, climbed down the cleat steps to the barn floor, and stepped outside. Here the sounds were louder. They seemed to be coming from behind the house.

  Longarm walked fast, following the noises to their source. There was no moon, just starglow in a cloudless sky. He strained his vision through the darkness when he'd cleared the corner of the house. Perhaps a hundred yards away he could make out movement. He walked toward the shapeless black form, and slowly it took shape: a horse and rider. There was something wrong with the configuration of the rider, and the horse had gone lame in its off-hind foot.

  As the distance between him and the approaching horse diminished, Longarm could understand why he'd been puzzled. There wasn't one rider on the animal, but two. One of them was curled forward in the saddle, and the second rider was holding the limp figure of the first in place. The horse was moving slowly, much slower than Longarm was walking. Several moments passed before the laden beast came close enough for Longarm to see that the rider who was erect was a woman. She must be old, he thought fleetingly; he could see long white hair streaming across her shoulders, and her cries were in the hoarse, high-pitched voice that often comes with age.

  She did not see Longarm until he'd gotten to within a few yards of her. Then she croaked in a thin whisper, "Oh, thank God! Help me, please help me! I'm afraid he's hurt real bad!"

  "How'd he get hurt?" Longarm asked. He grabbed the reins and pulled the limping horse to a stop. "Horse throw him?"

  "No. He-he got shot."

  "I see." Longarm decided he'd better stop asking questions and give the woman the help she was pleading for. "You're all right, ma'am? Not hurt or anything?"

  "No, I'm not hurt," she whispered, her voice high and rasping. "But my throat. I've called and cried so much..."

  "You don't have to yell or cry anymore," he told her.

  Longarm released the reins, hoping the horse would stand. It did, and he sidled along its neck until he reached the limp figure of the man.

  "Please, can you hold him up?" the woman gasped. "I've held him so long that I don't have much strength left."

  "You can let go. I won't let him fall."

  With a relieved sigh, she took her arms away from the slumped waist of the unconscious man. She reeled and almost toppled from the saddle herself, but Longarm held up a hand, which she grasped, steadying herself.

  "I'm all right now," she said thinly. "I just lost my balance for a minute. Please, look at Lonnie. I know he's in bad shape, but I think he's still alive."

  Longarm pressed a hand to the wounded rider's chest. He felt a heartbeat, slow and irregular, but a beat, just the same.

  "He's alive," he told the old woman. "But we got to get him to where he can stretch out, and where there's light so we can see how bad he's hit." He was feeling for the man's wounds as he spoke, but the unconscious rider's shirt was so stiff and thick with dried blood that he could not locate them.

  "How long ago was he shot?" he asked.

  "Last night. About midnight, I guess. Please, can't you just take care of him now and wait until later for me to tell you how it all happened?"

  "I ain't trying to waste time, ma'am. I just need to know how old that wound is, so I can take care of him right."

  "Oh. I guess I didn't understand that. But do something for him now, please! I'll help you lift him off the horse."

  "No. There ain't enough light even to see by out here, let alone to try and bandage up a bullet wound by. Best thing we can do is get him to the Starrs' house. It's just a little ways from here. Then we can tend to him proper."

  "All right." The woman swayed again and reached out a hand, seeking support. Longarm reached up and grasped the hand and steadied her.

  He asked, "You think you can walk a little piece, ma'am? I can't hold you and your friend in the saddle and walk the horse too."

  "Yes. I can walk. If you'll hold him, I'll get off."

  Longarm balanced the limp, unwieldly form of the unconscious man while she pulled her skirt free and dismounted. She was unsteady on her feet. Longarm put an arm out and she leaned against him. He stifled the exclamation that rose to his throat. What he'd mistaken for an old woman with a creaking voice and long white hair was a young woman with long blonde hair and a voice made hoarse by calling for help and crying. He decided questions could wait.

  "you get on the other side," he told the woman. "Just walk by the horse and steady Lonnie as much as you can. I'll hold him up on this side and guide the nag."

  Their progress toward the dim shape of the house was painfully slow. The lame horse, with the wounded man balanced precariously on its back, forced them to creep along. They reached the house at last, and Longarm guided the horse around it to the front door.

  "Sam! Belle!" he called. "Make a light inside there! I got a man out here who's been hurt real bad. He needs to be looked after right away!"

  "Windy?" Sam Starr's sleepy voice called from the blackness of the house. "What's going on?"

  "You and Belle get up, Sam!" Longarm called back. "There's a man shot out here, and he needs help!"

  A match flickered in the house, then the steadier glow of a lamp replaced it. Sam Starr came out onto the porch carrying the lamp. He was sleepy-eyed and slack-jawed, and wore only his long cotton undersuit. He held up the lamp and peered, blinking, at Longarm, the girl, and the wounded man on the horse.

  "Who is he?" Sam asked. "Who shot him?"

  "I don't know yet. All I know is he's in real bad shape," Longarm replied.

  "Please," the woman said to Starr. "Please, can't you take him inside? Help him? Bandage him up?"

  "Sure." Starr came down the steps. He winced when his bare feet met the rough-packed earth, but came on to where Longarm stood beside the horse, supporting the wounded stranger. He looked at the man sagging forward in the saddle, his shirt encrusted with dry blood.

  "We better get him inside," Starr said. He handed the lamp to the woman. "Here, you carry this. I'll help Windy."

  Between them, Longarm and Sam got the stranger's limp, unwieldy body off the horse. They worked as gently as they could, but, as they started with him into the house, fresh blood began dripping from the unconscious man's back. The drops left a trail, black in the lamplight, up the steps, across the floor, and into the main room.

  "Where you want to put him?" Longarm asked.

  Starr looked around. "The table's the best place, I guess." He spoke to the girl. "Lady, set that lamp down on a chair and clear that stuff off the table."

  There were an almost empty bottle of whiskey and a scattering of dirty glasses on the table. The girl moved quickly, placing the lamp in one of the chairs and setting the glasses and bottle beside it. Longarm and Starr lifted the wounded man to the tab
le. He was too tall for its length, so his legs dangled off one end.

  "Put a chair under his feet," Starr told the girl. "We want to get him stretched out as straight as we can."

  She'd been hovering around, trying to help. Longarm, seeing her for the first time in the light, wondered how he could have made the mistake of thinking she was old. Her face was smooth and unwrinkled, her lips firm and full, her eyes clear, though their lids were puffed from tears and the night wind. What had fooled him, Longarm decided, was her hair. It was ash-blonde, almost white, and she wore it long and loose, caught up only by a small pin that gathered it at the back of her neck. He squinted at her hairline in the lamplight; there was no telltale sign of dyeing.

  Starr tried to move around the table and bumped into the girl. He said, "You get up on one of them chairs and light that ceiling lamp, miss. We're going to need to see what we're doing."

  A reflector-type kerosene lamp hung above the table. The girl moved a chair to stand on, and touched the match Starr had given her to the wick. The room grew brighter as she adjusted the flame to stop its smoking.

  Longarm got his first good look at the unconscious man. The stranger was young, probably in his mid-twenties, as closely as Longarm could tell through the smudges of grime and trail dust that covered his face. The man was clean-shaven, though now his cheeks and jaws bore the dark stubble of a three or four days beard. His lips were full but bloodless, so that his face appeared almost to be lacking a mouth. Waxen white lines showed at his nostrils under the coating of dirt. The man was hatless, and a shock of thick brown hair was tousled around his ears.

  Looking at the blood that was beginning to pool on the table under the stranger's body and trickle in a slow drip-drip-drip to the floor, Longarm shook his head.

  "He's really hurt bad, isn't he?" the girl asked. Her voice was still hoarse, and she spoke in a cracked whisper.

  "He don't look very good," Longarm affirmed.

  Starr had gone into the bedroom. He came out carrying a handful of white cloth. "One of Belle's old petticoats," he told Longarm, handing him the wadded cloth. "I'll see if I can't find some more in a minute. Looks like we're going to need them."

  Longarm frowned. "Where's Belle?"

  "I don't know," Sam replied. "She's a restless sleeper, you know. A lot of nights she'll get up and walk down to the river, or up to the groves on the hill. I didn't wake up when she slipped out of bed."

  Longarm was busy unbuttoning the man's shirt. He pulled the front open and looked at the raw flesh just below the unconscious stranger's ribcage. It was an exit wound, and the slug had torn out flesh and skin to leave a deep wound almost as big around as the palm of a man's hand. There was a second bullet hole on the other side, but it was a mere scratch compared to the big wound, from which blood seeped steadily.

  Longarm ripped pieces of cloth from the petticoat and made a wad to go into the bigger of the two wounds. He tore a wide strip from the hem of the garment and handed it to Starr.

  "Slide this under him when I lift up his shoulders," he said.

  He lifted the limp form, and Starr slid the bandage under the man's back. Longarm wrapped the improvised bandage as tightly as he could around the man's chest, and tied the ends of the cloth. The man stirred and twitched, and his lips moved for the first time.

  "He's trying to say something," the girl whispered. "Do you think he's coming around?"

  "Might be," Longarm replied. He handed the girl a piece of the petticoat. "Here. Wet this and sponge off his face."

  "There's water in the bucket back of the stove," Starr told her.

  High heels beat a tattoo across the porch and Belle Starr walked into the room. "What's going on here, Sam?" she asked as she came through the door. Inside, she saw the unconscious form of the stranger on the table. "Who is he?" she asked nobody in particular.

  "I don't know," Sam replied. "I haven't had time to find out. Windy brought him down to the house." He squinted through the lamplight at his wife. "Where the hell you been, Belle?"

  "Down by the river. I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk." Belle turned to Longarm. "You know who he is, Windy?"

  "Nope. I heard a horse and what sounded like a woman's voice, so I went out to look. Found this fellow on a lame nag, with this girl here holding him up. I got them down here and yelled for you and Sam."

  "I wondered where you were," Belle said. "I stopped at your cabin."

  She saw Sam looking at her and added quickly, "To see if you were comfortable. Then I walked on down to the river."

  Booted feet grated over the dirt outside and clumped across the porch. Floyd came in. He had on boots and trousers and his gunbelt, but was shiftless. He blinked in the sudden light.

  "What's the trouble, Belle?" he asked. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw the stranger lying on the table with the girl bathing his face and Longarm adjusting the bandage, which was now stained with blood.

  Floyd's eyes slitted and the corners of his mouth pulled down in an angry snarl as he said, "Goddamn! That's Lon Taylor! Me and Steed been looking for him to get here."

  "He's the fellow who was going to help you with-" Belle began.

  Floyd cut her off. "That's him. Who the hell shot him up? Is this some more of your goddamn work, Windy?"

  CHAPTER 8

  Before Longarm could say anything, Belle cut Floyd short. "shut up, Floyd! Windy didn't have anything to do with Taylor being shot. All he's doing is trying to help him."

  "That's right," the girl seconded, "if this big man here is the one you call Windy. If it hadn't been for him hearing me calling for help, and if he hadn't come to see what was wrong, I don't know whether we'd have made it to the house." Floyd was slowly subsiding. He said, "All right, if that's the way of it."

  "That's the way of it," Belle assured him. "Now, if YOU don't want to help, stay out of the way and we'll see what we can do for your friend."

  She went to help Longarm. As she bent over Taylor, she asked, "Where were you a while ago, Windy? I went but you weren't in the cabin-"

  "I was like you, Belle--I couldn't sleep, so I moved over to the barn."

  "Why the barn? You'd have been welcome in the house."

  "Never mind that now," longarm said impatiently. "Let's see if we can't stop that blood from coming up through the bandage I put on this poor devil."

  Belle looked at the bloodstained bandage. "You need lint under it to stop the blood. Wait a minute, I've got some cloth I Can shred UP." She hurried into the bedroom.

  "Is Lonnie going to be all right?" the girl asked Longarm.

  "Too soon to say, ma'am. He's in real bad shape. Lost a lot of blood, I'd judge." Floyd asked the girl, "Who in hell are you, lady? And how'd you get connected up with Lon?"

  "I've known Lonnie for years, mister. Ever since we were in school together, back in Kansas." She frowned, her eyes widening. "Why, you must be Floyd. Are you?"

  "That's me."

  "Lonnie was coming here to meet you. If he hadn't stayed conscious long enough to show me how to go, though, I never would've found this place."

  "How'd he get shot?" Floyd asked.

  "Do I have to talk about that now? Can't it all wait until we see how Lonnie's going to do?"

  "Sure. I was just asking," Floyd told her. He looked at Taylor on the table. "Old Lon sure don't look too good right now, though. I hope he pulls through."

  Belle came in carrying a handful of shredded rags. "Here," she said to Longarm. "We'll untie that bandage enough to get to where he's wounded, and put these over the place. Maybe that'll stop him from bleeding so much."

  For the next few minutes, Longarm and Belle worked over Taylor. When the lint had been packed in the gaping wound and the bandage retied, Belle said, "Well, that's all I can think to do for him right now. If he comes to, we'll try to get a little whiskey down him; that'll help his circulation. But all we can do right now is wait and see." She turned to her husband. "Sam, is there any coffee left from supper? I gues
s we could all use some. Or a drink, or both."

  "It's heating, Belle," Sam replied. "And I've got water hottening on the stove, too."

  A thudding of boots on the porch announced the arrival of Steed and Bobby. Steed growled, "What's all the fuss up here? Bobby woke up and seen the lights, and we figured something was wrong."

  "Taylor just rode in," Floyd said. "He got himself shot up somewheres. I don't know where or how."

  "Who done it?" Steed asked.

  "How bad is he hurt?" Bobby asked at almost the same moment.

  Floyd answered them both at the same time. "I don't know who got him. And we won't know for a while how bad it is." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The way he looks, he ain't going to make it."

  "Goddamn! That blows our job for sure!" Steed exclaimed.

  "We'll wait and see," Floyd replied.

  "But with Mckee dead, and now maybe Taylor, how could we pull it off?" Bobby asked. "You said there had to be five of us at least."

  "Shut up, Bobby!" Belle commanded. "Floyd, you and Steed cut it out, too. We'll see what happens to your friend, then we can make a new plan, if we have to. There's others we can bring in besides Mckee and Taylor."

  Longarm overheard the conversation; they were standing directly behind him. Apparently, in their excitement, they'd forgotten about him. Or, he thought, they might have accepted him as one of their kind by now.

  Taylor groaned and his body twitched. His eyes opened, but weren't focused; he shook his head to try to see clearly.

  Longarm said over his shoulder, not caring who responded, "Pour a little bit of that whiskey in a glass. Let's try to get a drink down him."

  It was the girl who reacted first. She splashed some of the corn liquor into the first glass she picked up from the chair. Longarm raised Taylor's shoulders; the wounded man was still trying to focus his eyes. The girl put the glass to Taylor's lips. He accepted the liquor in his mouth, but gagged when he tried to swallow it. Most of it trickled back out and dripped off his chin onto his bloodstained chest.

  "Try again," Longarm urged her.

  This time, Taylor managed to get a good swallow of the whiskey down his throat. Holding him by the shoulders, Longarm could feel the muscles of his back beginning to flex.