by Tabor Evans
Annotation
When the biggest cattle baron in Texas is assassinated, naturally the Feds send in U.S. Marshal Long. Longarm finds himself threatened by a conspiracy reaching from Washington to Japan, armed with a strange new weapon never seen before in the West.
But Longarm finds allies in an unlikely duo. Jessica Starbuck is a breathtaking beauty with her own cattle empire, who shoots as straight as any man and knows the arts of love better than any other woman. Ki is her half-Japanese samurai protector whose shining knives and flying kicks can match any guns in Texas. Together, they're out for blood and justice… and Longarm is in for the time of his life!
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Tabor Evans
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Tabor Evans
Longarm and The Lone Star Legend
OCR Mysuli: [email protected]
Chapter 1
It was nine-thirty in the morning on a gray day in Denver, and Longarm, his steel-blue eyes bleary, was wondering just how many fried eggs and slices of ham he was going to have to watch Billy Vail eat before the man explained why the hell they were having breakfast together. Not that Longarm and his boss, the Chief United States Marshal of the First District Court of Colorado, weren't friends, but Billy's usual style was to summon his deputies to his Federal Courthouse office up on Capitol Hill, growl out his orders, and then send his men off with a boot in the ass.
But not this morning. This morning, Vail's pale-faced young clerk, Henry, had left his typewriter in the front room of the marshal's office long enough to skitter his way across Cherry Creek, over to the unfashionable part of town, to Longarm's rooming house. The knock on Longarm's door had brought the lawman awake, his big right hand finding his double-action Colt .44 in its place beneath his pillow. His groggy-sounding "Who is it?" nicely covered the sharp double click of the Colt's hammer being pulled back.
Henry had identified himself and called out Vail's invitation through the room's closed door. Longarm had eased down the Colt's hammer as he told the clerk that he'd meet Marshal Vail presently, and then swung his six-foot, four-inch frame up and out of bed.
He'd stared into the old mirror above the dressing table, viewing his reflection in between the black spots where the silvery stuff had been scraped off the glass over the years. His longhorn mustache and close-cropped hair, both the brown, lustrous color of well-oiled saddle leather, had been tended to just yesterday by a barber over on Colfax Avenue, so Longarm had figured he could get through the day without a shave. Over on the washstand, a bar of soap floated in a china basin three-quarters filled with tepid water. Having decided that being able to see the basin's cracked bottom vouched well enough for the purity of the water, he'd frothed up some suds, dipped a washrag into them, and scrubbed himself down. The friction of the rough cotton against the hide of his lean, muscular body had soon banished the last remnants of the previous evening's tour of Larimer Street's saloon row.
So much for the outer man, Longarm had thought. He'd picked up the bottle of Maryland rye he kept by the bed, pulled the cork with his teeth, and aimed the bottom of the bottle toward the grimy plaster of the ceiling. One big swallow later, with the rye stoking a fire in his belly, Longarm had felt ready to face the day.
He'd dressed quickly, shrugging on a clean gray flannel shirt, fumbling his shoestring tie into place, and tugging on his cotton longjohns and skintight brown tweed pants. After hauling on a pair of woolen socks and stomping his feet against the threadbare carpet of his room to get his low-heeled stovepipe boots on snugly, he'd turned his attention to the important parts of his wardrobe. His gunbelt was a cross-draw rig, and he wore it high, just above his narrow hip bones. Retrieving his Colt Model T .44-40 from where he'd left it on the bed, Longarm had slipped the sixgun butt forward, into the waxed and heat-hardened holster on his left hip. He'd positioned himself in front of that tarnished mirror, and had then reached across his belt buckle with his right hand, drawing the weapon in a whip-fast, rock-steady, single motion. Yep. the gun's polished walnut grips were just where they ought to be…
Longarm had next turned his attention to the Colt itself. He'd cleaned and oiled the weapon and then checked all five of its cartridges — only a fool neglected to let the firing pin ride safely on an empty chamber — late last night, before turning in. Lucky for Marshal Vail that he had, Longarm had thought to himself with a grin. It could've been the President of these United States, Rutherford B. Hayes himself, waiting breakfast for him — Longarm never started the day without first seeing to his revolver. He'd paid his respects to the grave markers of too many fellow lawmen ever to neglect the main tool of his trade.
The Colt had a barrel cut down to five inches, eliminating the front blade sight as well, and good riddance to it — a front sight could cost a man a precious instant of drawing time if it snagged the lip of an open-toed holster. A handgun was for close-in work. If a man needed to sight-aim, he'd best turn the job over to Mr. Winchester's saddle gun.
Returning his Colt to its place on his hip, Longarm had then put on a vest cut from the same brown tweed as his pants. Next came his ace-in-the-hole. He'd scooped up his Ingersoll pocket watch on its long, gold-washed chain. The other end of the chain was clipped to a ring in the butt of a double-barreled .44 derringer. The watch had gone into the left breast pocket of his vest. The derringer — that ace — had gone into the right. As always, the gold-washed chain draped between the two, like a wide, innocent smile.
He'd slipped into his brown frock coat, patting the pockets to be sure they held some spare .44 cartridges, his wallet — inside of which was pinned his silver-plated federal badge — a pair of handcuffs, and a bundle of waterproofed matches. On the way out of his digs he'd grabbed his snuff-brown Stetson from its nail on the wall. After locking his door, he'd pulled out one of the matches and broken off a piece of matchstick, then wedged it into the crack between the door and the jamb.
Longarm considered himself a generous man. He liked to give surprises, not receive them. If the match splinter had been dislodged when he returned, he'd know somebody had been in the room. Or was still in it, waiting for him.
He'd crossed the little sandy wash of Cherry Creek, leaving the cinder path behind as he headed up Colfax Avenue, his boots clicking on the brown sandstone sidewalks they'd installed here on the better side of the city. Up ahead, the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol glittered against the overcast sky like a fine piece of jewelry nested in folds of gray flannel.
Nodding good morning to the Front Range of the Rockies, fifteen miles to the west, but looking like they were close enough to topple over and crush a man, Longarm had begun to turn into the Federal Courthouse before he'd remembered that Marshal Vail wasn't in his office upstairs, but was waiting for his deputy down the block, in Hodder's Cafe.
Breakfast had proceeded at a leisurely and — for Marshal Vail — very subdued pace. The big-gutted, red-faced, balding marshal was normally about as quiet and easygoing as a Kansas twister. This morning, or at least so far, all Billy did was make dumb small talk.
But something was up. Longarm had sensed it. He'd been a lawman too long not to know when a man had something on his mind but wasn't yet r
eady to speak it plain. The cafe was still crowded, so Longarm had figured that Billy was waiting until these stinkwater dudes had drained their teacups, gathered up their legal briefs, and then wandered off to do battle along the marble corridors of the State House and the Federal Court.
At about nine-thirty, the large group sitting at the table just to the right of Longarm and Vail had lit up their cigars and pipes, paid their check, and left. Vail had watched them go as if they were the James gang on their way to the nearest bank.
Longarm leaned back in his chair and tucked the end of a cheroot into the corner of his mouth. He didn't light it, and not just because Billy was still working on his second plate of ham and eggs. Longarm had been trying to quit the damned tobacco habit for a long time, and his latest ploy was a vow not to light up a smoke before noon.
The waitress, a pretty little redhead whose sky-blue eyes had been sending smoke signals Longarm's way since he'd come in, came around to their table to refill their coffee cups. As she passed behind Longarm's chair, her cool fingers caressed the back of his neck. Not a word passed between them, and then Longarm was watching her walk away, her shapely behind doing a soul-stirring, rhythmic dance beneath the snug expanse of her skirt, which was stretched even tighter by the big, puffy bow of her apron…
"Why don't you ask her if she's on the menu?" Vail grumbled as he pushed his cleaned-off plate away.
"Chief, that line stopped getting women when you were still young enough to want them," Longarm drawled, knowing that Vail could take a joke. The marshal had long ago been roped and branded by a fine woman. Like most lawmen smart enough to survive. Vail had waited until he'd taken a desk job before taking a bride.
Vail signaled for more coffee and the check. "I don't want us to be disturbed while we talk," he told the pretty waitress. Longarm breathed a sigh of relief when Vail paid for the meal. Fifty-five cents for two breakfasts was robbery, even if this eatery was a Capitol Hill hangout! He'd not had a raise since '78, and everybody was saying that 1880's inflation was going to be the worst ever.
Longarm eyed Vail, wondering if now was a good time to bring up the question of his raise. It was funny how a man might be able to measure his opponent when it came to a fight, and yet be as skittery as a mustang when it came to jawing about money matters.
"You're most likely wondering why I didn't want to talk to you in my office," Vail began once the waitress had scooted off with their money, giving them both a big smile of thanks for their generous tip.
"It had crossed my mind," Longarm replied, chewing on his cold cheroot, trying to keep his mind off that waitress and on what Billy Vail was saying. She'd settled down at a table on the far side of the now nearly empty dining room, taking a break now that the morning rush was over. She was counting up her tip money as she sipped at her own mug of coffee. Every time she leaned forward over her sums, her fine, full breasts strained the buttons of her bodice, threatening to pop over the demure white piping of her uniform as if they too wanted to witness the count.
"Fact is, I've been issued orders from the Justice Department not to let anyone but the deputy I'm assigning hear about this case," Vail quietly explained. "I've sent you out to investigate murders before, but this time I've got something a mite rarer for you, Longarm." Vail took a deep breath and looked his deputy square in the eye. "This time I'm sending you out to unravel an assassination. You remember the killing of Alex Starbuck?"'
"Hell, everybody remembers the Starbuck shooting," Longarm said. "He was one of the wealthiest, most powerful cattlemen in Texas. But why all the secrecy? Usually we're either in a case or we're not, depending on whether any federal laws have been broken. What's Justice's angle on this one?"
"A lot of angles," Vail muttered into his coffee. "But the one that scares me is that we've been unofficially ordered in." He sighed. "Maybe I'd better start from the beginning. At the time of his death, Starbuck was in his late fifties." Vail reached down for a manila folder that had evidently been propped on his lap throughout breakfast. He opened it and removed from it a photograph, which he handed across to Longarm. "Got this sent to me from San Francisco. Big newspaper there had it in the files."
It was a well-detailed, full-front, formal pose, showing a tall, barrel-chested man with a full head of gray hair. The man was dressed in a fine suit, obviously custom-tailored, and probably from one of the shops in San Francisco. Once, while on a case that had taken him to the West Coast some years before, Longarm had visited such a shop. Even then, a suit like that worn by Starbuck in the photograph would have cost Longarm half a year's salary. He flipped the photograph over. "According to the date written here, this was run pretty recent. Whatever they were writing about him, it wasn't his obituary. How did a Texas cattleman rate a picture in a San Francisco newspaper morgue?"
Vail smiled. "You ain't been reading the financial pages."
"Where you've been sending me, there's no newspapers. I did run across one of those telephone contraptions a while back, in the Sand Hills…"
"Well, if you did read a paper once in a while, you'd know that cattle were the least of Starbuck's fortune, and the most recent addition to it," Vail replied, tapping the manila folder. "He got into beef just in time to reap the profits of the bad harvests and political troubles in Europe. He made his real fortune back in the fifties. Starbuck happened to be one of the sailors on Perry's fleet, when the commodore used his gunboats to convince the Japans to open up their ports to the United States. Hell, that was around '50, I'd reckon…"
"It was 1853 to '54, Chief," Longarm grinned from behind his cheroot. "I read me a book about it once that some fellow wrote," he added in an attempt to damp down Vail's slow burn.
"Anyway," the glowering marshal continued, "Starbuck might have been just another sailor boy, but he saw his opportunity. As soon as he was discharged back home, he gathered up every penny he could borrow and got himself passage back to the Orient. He stayed there for a while, learning the language and such, and then returned to San Francisco with a sizable piece of the Japans' import-and-export trade in his pocket."
Longarm nodded ruefully. "Then he was in the right place at the right time. San Francisco's harbors were just being dredged for foreign trade, and the transcontinental railroad was getting itself into one piece to carry his goods to the East."
"Today, the Starbuck empire stretches all across the country," Vail agreed. "But we ain't here to jaw about the man's good luck. What we're concerned with is the one instant when he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Starbuck was murdered in Texas, right?"
"Right."
"Well, Texas is a state," Longarm said. "One of the thirty-eight. They got all kinds of solid law down there. One more lawman shoves his badge into Texas, the state, big as it is, is going to sink like an overloaded rowboat. And I still don't understand what all the secrecy's about. It sure as hell ain't a secret that Starbuck's dead…"
"Keep quiet and let me gel there," Vail ordered. "First off, there's no local law big enough to investigate Starbuck's death. Hell, Starbuck was the law in his part of North-Central Texas. His hands did a damn fine job of keeping things peaceable, from what I've been told. The governor is a sissy who spends most of his time in Washington, sucking up to the federal politicos. Word is, he's got his eye on a Senate seat. That must have been all right with Starbuck, as he was the one who paid for the governor's election."
"I'm starting to get the idea," Longarm drawled.
"Then get this. President Hayes has personally taken an interest in this case. The worry is that without Starbuck's restraining influence on the area, vigilante groups will form, and then it'll only be a matter of time before range wars break out as the various groups start shooting each other up for killing Starbuck."
"Hell, Billy, I didn't think any man but the President was so all-fired important."
"Starbuck was also the head of the Cattlemen's Association. It was his money that allowed his neighbors to build up their ow
n herds. Starbuck lent them that money to bring stability to the state. His death has shaken Texas's stability. His killers have got to be brought to justice."
"And that's where I come in," Longarm nodded.
"Wrong," Vail spat. "That's where the army comes in."
"The army!" Longarm groaned. "They can't do this sort of snooping-around work. Everybody knows that the army's method of smoking out a rat is to burn down the whole barn!"
Vail shrugged. "Everybody but President Hayes, it seems. The various spreads in that part of Texas are about to start their big roundup, driving their combined herds to the railhead. They'll fatten those steers up in the feed pens of Kansas and Nebraska, but they breed 'em and birth 'em in Texas. The nation needs that beef, and President Hayes has promised millions of pounds of it to England and the rest of Europe. The President aims to keep his promise to those countries, and it's his feeling that what Texas needs is a good dose of martial law to keep things quieted down."
"How do we come into it?" Longarm asked.
"Secretly. I told you that the governor has friends in Washington. He's afraid that flooding the state with soldiers might make him unpopular, come the Senate elections."
"Makes sense," Longarm mused. "If the army comes into the proud Lone Star State, the governor's career would be finished. He'd be out on his ass."
"Now the Justice Department wants the credit for solving this case, so between Justice and the governor's friends, the President's orders to the army have gotten 'lost.' For the time being, at any rate. You've got a week, Custis, maybe a day or so more, but not much more," Vail warned. "If you can wrap it up by then, we'll both of us have earned ourselves a pat on the back from Justice. If you fail, it'll likely mean our jobs."
"You sure about that, Billy?" Longarm asked softly. "Damn, that don't hardly seem fair…"
"I'm sure."
Longarm looked into Vail's seamed, care-worn face, and saw that he was. He himself would get along just fine if he lost his badge. He was still on the friendly side of forty. But Vail had spent his entire life as a lawman, and was counting on his pension to support him and his wife in their old age. Damn — It was always the good and true men, men who had ridden out their lives in the cause of the law, men like Billy Vail, who had to suffer the consequences for the dumb actions of a bunch of politicos who'd ruined more lives with a stroke of their pens than any outlaw ever had with a sixgun.