Read Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) Online
Authors: Tabor Evans
Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839)
 . . . from Novel 7: . . . the High-Graders
Sylvia was a pretty little thing, and Longarm was powerfully attracted. Suddenly, there were little fireflies swimming before his eyes and he didn't think it was the right time for romancin'. More to get rid of her than anything else, he reached out and caressed her.
She stiffened. “Am I to take that as a compliment or a challenge, Mr. Long?”
He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. The room was spinning. He was going to be sick . . .
And then he was in this funny big room with red velvet drapes and a mess of undraped women were coming at him from all directions. They had painted faces and high-heeled shoes and they were grinning from ear to ear. But they were grinning evil and they had guns in their hands . . .
. . . from Novel 8: . . . the Nesters
“Would you do me a great favor?” she asked.
“Sure if I can,” replied Longarm.
“Be my messenger to my countrymen. Tell them of my interest in their well-being, convince them that I will help them.”
“That's a pretty big order. What makes you think they'll listen to me?”
“They trust you. And so do I.” Ilioana stood up and came to his side. “It would make me very happy if you would do this for me. And I always respond to men who make me happy. I try to make them happy, too.” She bent over Longarm and lifted his chin with a soft, warm hand. “Men say I have a great talent for pleasing them. You are a man I would enjoy pleasing, Longarm.”
Before Longarm could move, her lips were on his . . .
Jove Double Editions by Tabor Evans
Longarm Double #1: Deputy U.S. Marshal
NOVEL 1: LONGARM
NOVEL 2: LONGARM ON THE BORDER
Longarm #2: Longarm of the Law
NOVEL 3: LONGARM AND THE AVENGING ANGELS
NOVEL 4: LONGARM AND THE WENDIGO
Longarm Double #3: Frontier Justice
NOVEL 5: LONGARM IN THE INDIAN NATION
NOVEL 6: LONGARM AND THE LOGGERS
Longarm Double #4: Legend with a Six-Gun
NOVEL 7: LONGARM AND THE HIGH-GRADERS
NOVEL 8: LONGARM AND THE NESTERS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LONGARM DOUBLE #4: LEGEND WITH A SIX-GUN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / December 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Milo Sinovcic.
Longarm and the Highgraders
copyright © 1979 by Jove Publications, Inc.
Longarm and the Nesters
copyright © l979 by Jove Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60183-9
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NOVEL 7
Longarm and the High-Graders
Chapter 1
Longarm entered the Manzanita Saloon to the lilting strains of “Garryowen,” being played very fast on what sounded like tin pans. Had he come through the front entrance, he'd have been able to see who or what was making all that racket an hour before noon. But when a shifty-eyed stranger tells a lawman that someone is waiting for him in a saloon, then darts away before he can be questioned further, common sense dictates a prudent avenue of approach. So Longarm came in the back door.
There was a pantry to his right. The kitchen to his left was deserted. Longarm nodded. Drawing the .44-caliber Colt Model T he carried for just such mysteries as this, he eased toward the barroom on the balls of his feet. He moved quietly for a man of his size, but the music out front was so loud that he probably could have ridden a horse along the corridor without being noticed. It was a noisy place, considering that it seemed to be empty.
That was something to ponder. August was hotter than the hinges of hell in the Sierra foothills, and the dusty streets of Manzanita were devoid of life as the siesta hour approached. He'd only been in town about a half hour, and hadn't climbed up on a soapbox to announce his arrival. Yet the rat-faced little cowhand had been waiting in the empty street as Longarm had come out of the livery after leaving his army issue gelding in a cool stall. The hand had just said something about Longarm's being wanted over at the saloon, and then had slithered away like a sidewinder seeking shade under a flat rock.
Who in thunder could know he was in Manzanita? They were expecting him up at the mine, and he'd intended to pay a courtesy call on the local law before beginning his investigation, but he'd deliberately arrived two days early. It was surprising what a lawman could stumble over that way. Yet he'd been spotted the moment he had ridden in. Someone probably had a reason for watching the trail from Angel's Camp.
There was a bead curtain across the doorway into the barroom. The tall deputy stood in the shadows behind it as he studied the barnlike space on the other side of the beads. There was no bartender behind the long oak bar to his right. The rinkytink music was coming from a coin-operated harmonium against the wall to his left. In the middle of the room, seated at a table with his back to Longarm, was a dark figure in a brocaded charro outfit. A black sombrero hung on his back between his shoulders. The exposed hair was dishwater-blond. Some Anglo had apparently taken to the Old California style, which made no never-mind to Longarm, but he did think the double-barreled shotgun the stranger held trained on the swinging doors to the sunlit street was a proper thing for any lawman to take an interest in.
Training his .44 on the man at the table, Longarm said, “You just freeze in place and listen, friend. I've got the drop on you. A sudden sneeze could get you killed. You got that much of my message, old son?”
Without moving a muscle, the man in the charro costume asked, “Is that you, Longarm?”
“Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, at your service. In a minute, we'll palaver about who
you
might be, and why you have a scatter gun trained on the doorway you invited me through. Right now I want you to slide your chair back away from that gun on the table. Then I reckon you'd best put both hands on top of your golden locks and stand up slow and easy. I'll tell you when I want you to turn around.”
The man at the table didn't do as he was told. He crabbed sideways off his chair, shotgun and all, and pivoted on one knee to fire.
He didn't make it. The twin barrels were three-quarters of the way around when the Colt kicked in Longarm's palm and the lawman's first slug slammed into the man's chest. The shotgun went off, blowing a hole in the baseboard of a corner as Longarm fired again. Between the recoil of the twelve-gauge and the .44 slug that caught him just under one eye, the would-be ambusher was thrown flat on his back to the sawdust-covered planks. A booted heel drummed mindlessly a few times, as if dancing to the music box, and then the corpse lay very still, staring up into the drifting blue gunsmoke with a bemused smile.
Longarm parted the beads and strode over to stare down at the man he'd just shot. He was a total stranger. Longarm reached into the side pocket of his Prince Albert coat for two fresh rounds as he studied the odd situation. The harmonium tinkled merrily on as he thumbed the spent brass from his cooling weapon, wondering how to go about shutting the infernal contraption off. He muttered to the dead stranger, “You likely thought you were as smart as an old he-coon in a henhouse when you put a penny in and cranked her up, huh? What was I supposed to think it was, a piano being played in a crowded saloon?”
Holding the Colt in his right hand, Longarm dropped to one knee, being careful not to get the spreading blood on his tobacco-brown tweed as he went through the dead man's pockets with his free hand. The man he'd shot was about thirty, with one of those uninteresting faces you see every day. He'd backed his shotgun with a brace of Smith & Wesson .45s in a silver-mounted gunbelt. Longarm noticed that one of the ivory grips had been notched four times. He sighed and muttered, “Jesus, you've been reading Buntline for sure. No calluses worth mention on your gun hand, so despite the vaquero outfit, you ain't a dally roper. You're tanned enough to have been out in the sun a few years, so you ain't some loco Easterner playing big bad cowboy, either. But those notches don't make you look like anyone with a lick of sense. Who were you trying to scare?”
At that moment a shadow appeared in the front doorway and a voice called out, “What's going on in here? You are talking to the law!”
Longarm looked up at the worried-looking newcomer in the doorway and replied, “I'm law, too. Just shot it out with this cuss for some fool reason. I'm still trying to find out why.” He reached into his inside coat pocket. Producing his wallet, he flipped it open. His badge glittered dully in the dim light filtering in from the street. “Custis Long,” he said. “Deputy U.S. marshal out of Denver. Now who the hell are you?”
The Manzanita lawman came in to join him, introducing himself as one Constable Lovejoy. As he got his first good look at the body, he said, “Oh, Jesus H. Christ! You've shot the Calico Kid!”
“Is that who he was? The name doesn't mean much to me, Constable. I pride myself on a tolerable memory, but if any wanted fliers on a so-called Calico Kid have ever come my way. I disremember seeing them.”
Lovejoy said, “God, this is awful! We have a nice quiet little town here, and I don't have deputy-one who'd go up against the Calico Kid and all.”
Longarm got to his feet, dusting off his trousers and holstering his six-gun as he studied the concerned-looking smaller man. Lovejoy was gray around the edges and had a slight pot. He had the kind of politician's face that seemed to be made for smiling a lot. But right now he looked as if he were getting ready to burst out crying. Longarm said, “He did seem to think he was one mean fellow, but I doubt that he'll give anyone any more trouble. You reckon he really shot four men like he bragged?”
“Hell, it's more like a dozen. I'm going to have to do something about this mess, Longarm.”
Longarm managed not to raise an eyebrow. He had no memory of having told the constable his nickname. Counting the dead man at his feet, that made at least three people in Manzanita who had been expecting him to ride in early.
Playing dumb, the tall deputy said, “Well, it was open-and-shut self-defense, even if I wasn't packing a federal badge. I'll make a statement for the county before I mosey on.”
Lovejoy said flatly, “Longarm, you ain't going nowhere in
this
county! You just shot the Calico Kid!”
Longarm pushed his Stetson back from his forehead. “You keep saying that like it's important. Who was he, the bully of the town?”
“Damn it, he was a killer. Meanest son of a bitch we've had in these parts since Joaquin Murietta rode through in '53!”
“Well, don't get your balls in an uproar. His killing days are over.”
“Hell, I'm talking about his friends, Longarm!”
Longarm looked down at the glassy-eyed corpse and shrugged as he mused, “He had friends? Well, anything's possible, I reckon. The way it seems to read right now is that he recognized me as I rode in and decided to build his rep some more with an easy murder. If his plan had worked, you'd likely be telling him right now what a serious thing he'd just done. I've got friends, too. They call themselves the U.S. Justice Department.”
The constable was sweating profusely now. “Yeah, but
your
friends ain't likely to ride in shooting in the next hour or so. The Calico Kid's friends
are!
You take my meaning?”
“I'm not sure. Since I don't have the calling for raising folks from the dead, what is it you've got in mind?”
“I want you to
git
, damn it! If you've a lick of sense, you'll fork that pony you have over at the livery and ride out sudden and far!”
Longarm shook his head and said, “Can't. My outfit sent me here to do a job and I don't aim to ride anywhere till it's done. I'll help you put what happened here on paper, then I've got to head up to the Lost Chinaman diggings. I was aiming to poke around here in town for a spell before I rode up for a look-see at the mine itself. But since everyone seems to know Uncle Sam has a man in the field already, I don't reckon it's worth my time to jaw with the local barber and such.”
Lovejoy hesitated. Then he nodded and said, “I figured you were on that case. We'd best go over to my office. If you won't leave peaceable, we may as well take down your statement and at least get you out on the trail. Calico rode with a mean bunch and at least one of them knows you just killed him.”
Longarm thought,
Strike two!
but didn't say anything aloud as he followed the constable out the door. Other men were standing in the street now, and Lovejoy called to one of them, “Hawkins, go fetch Doc Forbes and tell him we got a fellow who needs planting. Me and this deputy U.S. marshal will be at the jailhouse if you need us.”
The little crowd parted as they crossed the street to the shady overhang of the opposing frame buildings. Longarm was now aware that the local law knew how he'd been set up. Yet he didn't remember having told Lovejoy about the rat-faced hand by the livery. That could be taken several ways. Lovejoy might have heard it from the stablehands. It seemed a bit soon to conclude that he was in cahoots with the gang against a fellow lawman.
The Manzanita jail was a thick-walled adobe structure with a redwood-shingled roof. Lovejoy ushered him in and Longarm saw that it was a one-room building partitioned by iron bars. A morose-looking Indian sat crosslegged on the floor of the lockup. He didn't look at them as they entered.
The office was furnished with a rolltop desk and some bentwood chairs. There was a typewriter on the green blotter of the desk. Beside it stood a funny-looking contraption of a kind that Longarm had never seen before. He asked, “Is that one of Professor Bell's newfangled talking telegraphs?”
“It sure is,” Lovejoy said proudly. “We're up to date in California. Got us a line running all the way to Sacramento, now.”
Longarm was impressed. “You must have some budget. My boss, Marshal Vail, has been trying to get him one of those back in Denver. Washington keeps telling him it's a passing fad.”
Lovejoy put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and began to hunt and peck, standing. Longarm snorted and said, “Hell, let me type it up for you. I ain't got all day.”
“You know how to play a typewriter?” Lovejoy said incredulously.
“Some. I've been fooling with the one in the office in Denver.”
He sat down at the desk and began to hunt and peck a bit faster than the constable had, but not much. For the life of him, he couldn't see why everyone was in such an all-fired hurry to change things. He'd been writing his reports in longhand for six or eight years and nobody had ever said they couldn't read his Palmer penmanship.
He had typed out,
REPORT BY CUSTIS LONG, DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL, DISTRICT COURT OF DENVER
, before Constable Lovejoy got up the nerve to place the muzzle of his revolver against the nape of Longarm's neck.
Longarm stopped typing. He asked, “Do you have a reason for whatever you're trying to pull, Lovejoy?”
The constable licked his lips and said, “You just keep them hands up there. I don't want no trouble, Longarm.”
Longarm said, “Hell, old son, you've already
got
trouble.” But he did as he was told. As Lovejoy held the muzzle of the revolver against the base of Longarm's skull with one hand, he frisked and disarmed him with the other. As Lovejoy took the derringer from Longarm's right-hand vest pocket, the lawman nodded and sighed, “Yeah, they gave you a pretty good rundown on me, didn't they? Not many folks know about the derringer on my watch chain. Who are you working for, those jaspers who've been stealing high-grade from the Lost Chinaman?”
“State of California,” Lovejoy said, adding, “You could have rode out like I asked, but they said in Sacramento that you was a stubborn cuss. You get up, now, and move slow for the lockup. I don't want to shoot you, but . . .”
Longarm rose slowly to his feet, the gun pressing against his back, but he protested, “Lovejoy, you are starting to piss me off a mite. You can't lock me up.”
Lovejoy cut him off. “You ain't the law in California. You're out of your jurisdiction, and Justice Field, down in Sacramento, says you have no call to mess in local matters.”
As the constable opened the jail door and shoved him inside, Longarm snorted, “Hell, if you mean Justice Stephen Field,
he's
in trouble too! I wasn't ordered out here by the Denver office. I'm on a special assignment from Washington! It seems they've been wondering why the federal marshals out here can't seem to get a handle on those missing gold shipments.” As the door slammed shut, he added, “We're talking about gold being sent to the U.S. Mint in San Francisco, Lovejoy. We're talking about Uncle Sam's money. Savvy?”