Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) (27 page)

Longarm was satisfied long before the other guests had eaten their fill. He tried to protest when Mordka spooned a large serving of the fruit pudding onto his plate, but his host insisted that a meal was not finished without a helping of a sweet. Longarm tasted the odd-looking pudding somewhat gingerly; desserts, except for pie, were not among his favorite foods. He found that the mixture of coarsely cracked steamed wheat and pureed fruits, with just a touch of ginger and other spices, cleared his palate of the lingering taste of onion from the cabbage rolls and eggplant, and so he managed to put away the pudding without any trouble.

At last the pace of the eating slowed down. A voice from the far end of the table broke the silence that had prevailed since the meal began.

“Have you told yet the marshal
Amirikanits
, Mordka?”

“
Nyet
,” Danilov answered. “
Padazhditi nimnoga
, Pavel. There is plenty of time for you to ask questions.”

“If you gents want to start our talking while we finish eating, it's all right with me,” Longarm offered. His ear was by now keenly enough attuned to the speech of the Brethren to let him recognize the reference to him as “the American marshal.” He rubbed a hand over his stomach and shook his head. “I'm all out of room to put anything more in me, anyway. I don't recall when I've tucked away so much food in just one sitting.”

“We will not talk yet,” Mordka said firmly. “First we will finish supper. He turned to Longarm. “I have seen you smoking your cigars, Marshal Long. Tobacco, we of the Brethren do not allow ourselves, but if you wish to smoke, it will not bother us.”

“Well, thanks. I guess you men have all done better than I seem to be able to.” Longarm produced a cheroot from his vest pocket and lit it. “I try now and again to go without cigars, but I guess I ain't got enough willpower or something.” He leaned back in his chair and puffed contentedly while the others finished clearing their plates.

One by one, the diners pushed away from the table. Mordka looked at them and asked, “
Vi gatovi?
”

A chorus of “
Da
” answered him. They stood up, and Danilov led them outside, saying, “We will enjoy the fresh night air, and it makes no difference where we have our discussion.”

Though the evening air was balmy, there was a hint of oncoming autumn in the light breeze. In the blue-black sky the stars were diamond-bright, shining more brilliantly in the absence of a moon. There was silence for a few moments while deep breaths were taken and exhaled with sighs of repletion.

Mordka Danilov began, “When I saw you earlier today, Marshal Long, I did not want to say too much on the street. Others might have overheard us, you understand. But you see now for yourself my second reason. It is time that you hear from more than one of us about what we fear might be coming to happen.”

“Well, none of us did too much talking while we were eating,” Longarm said. “But I guess what you're talking about is the fence-cuttings and crop-trompings. You men figure they're going to get worse because you're coming up to harvest time?”

“We are still not so close as you think to reaping our crop,” one of them replied. In the darkness, Longarm couldn't identify the speaker. The man went on, “It will not be until after the election that we will harvest our crop.”

“November?” Longarm frowned. “Ain't that awful late? This part of the country, you can pretty much count on a freeze and maybe some snow before then.”

“
Eta pravlina
,” another voice said. “We have been here long enough to know the weather. Mordka, tell the
Amirikanits
of what you are saying to us before he got here.”

“To understand what I will tell you, I must go back to the time before we came here,” Mordka began, his voice thoughtful. “You know why we must leave Russia, where our grandfathers and great-grandfathers had emigrated a hundred years before to escape from Germany, where it was happening to them what came to be our fate in Russia. Because we did not swear oaths or fight in the Tsar's armies, the persecution started. Even so, we endured as long as we could. We did not want to do violent acts, to hurt or maim or kill.” He sighed. “But after so many years, when the Cossacks began to come in and ravage our homes, rape our women, and kill our young men, some of us agreed that we must defend ourselves. We could not stay in our church, so we became what you know us as the
Bratiya
, the Brethren. We bought guns and knives and learned how to use them.”

“Can't say I blame you a bit,” Longarm told the group. “A man ought not to have to do a lot of things, but if it's do or die, he swallows his craw and does 'em.”

“So,” Danilov continued, “we fought back, and we survived. Now, tell me, Marshal, have you ever heard of a man called Carl Schmidt?”

“No. Can't say as I have.”

“You vould have no reason to,” Nicolai Belivev put in. “Ve came to know him because he is our great friend and benefactor.”

“Most of Carl's family came to America many years before we of the Brethren did,” Danilov explained. “They did not abandon our religion, or part of it, as we had to do. But some were in Russia yet, and through them Carl Schmidt learned how we were responding to the harshness of the new Tsar. He found a way to let us come here, through the railroad land. By his cleverness, most of us managed to bring with us a bit of gold, so we could get started here. And so it has been Carl who has helped us to sell our crop each year.”

“Is in Russia not like here,” one of the men broke in. “We did not own land, you know, Marshal. We worked on one of the Tsar's big estates—
mantulit
, we say—we eat the scrapings off his plate.”

“What Tikhon means is that we plant and harvest, and for our work, we get to keep enough grain for living until next harvest, and if it is lucky, we get more to sell for other things we need.”

“Sharecroppers!” Longarm exclaimed. “All you were doing was working for whatever bits the boss threw your way.”

Mordka said, “We did not learn how grain is sold in America, you see. Why should we, when we had Carl to sell it for us? But now it is to say of what is the past.” He paused a moment, as though to collect his thoughts, then went on. “You see, the money we brought with us was not enough to last very long. We did not make a good harvest the first year after we settled here; the time was too little. The next years our wheat was good, and Carl sold it at good prices. But not good at all the last year. The rain was not enough and the wheat did not do well.”

“It was a dry year all over,” Longarm said. “But you ought to've got a good price. Wheat goes up, just like anything does, when there ain't enough to let everybody have all they want.”

“We did not understand this then,” Mordka said. “So last year, the year of the small crop, a man came to us. Oren Stone, his name is. He looked at our wheat and he visited us, and offered to buy the whole crop, in the field. Carl was not here. He had gone back to Russia to help others emigrate. He had told us to reap our grain and store it until he got back. But we had very little money, Marshal. We took Stone's offer, and he kept his word and paid us what he said he would, even before the harvest. And because we thought he was our friend, when he offered us papers to sign, promising that we would sell him this year's crop, most of us signed them.”

“Wait a minute,” Longarm broke in. “This fellow Stone. Did he set a price on your wheat before it was cut, or did he pay you the going figure when you made your harvest?”

“Ah.” Mordka's voice was sad. “That is what our friend Carl Schmidt asked us, when he got back and we told him of the sale we had made. You see, Marshal, we did not then know that men can make much money by speculating in your grain exchange in the town of Chicago.”

“Which is what Stone was doing, I'll bet,” Longarm said thoughtfully. “He was likely traveling as much territory as he could cover, buying up crops, and holding what he'd bought off the market. Then he'd catch a broker on the wheat pit in Chicago who'd made a short sale and couldn't cover it, and gouge a top price out of him, because the broker had to deliver the wheat he'd sold.”

“So Carl explained to us,” Danilov replied. “He said if we had waited until after harvest, we would have made many hundreds of dollars more than Stone gave us.”

“And now Stone's got an option—which is what I'd guess you signed—to buy this year's crop,” Longarm said.

“Yes. Tell us, Marshal Long, is this something that is lawful for Stone to do?”

“As far as I know, there ain't any law against it. Maybe there ought to be, but if a man wants to gamble on a business deal, he's pretty much free to do it.”

“
Kak eta mozhna?
” one of the Brethren asked. In the darkness, Longarm could not see his face.

Danilov answered, “How is it possible, Tikhon? You remember how Carl explained it to us last year, don't you? He told us how foolish we had been to sign away our crop, if you recall.”

“Ya nipanimauy,”
another of the men said, disgust in his tone.

“You must understand, Pavel,” Danilov said patiently. “The man Stone goes around finding ignorant ones like us and cheating us of what we should have for our labor, like the
aristokratiya
.”

“And I don't see that there's much you can do about it,” Longarm told the group. “There sure ain't any way I know of that I can help you on something like this. It's a legal business deal, as far as the law's concerned.”

“Perhaps if you would talk to Stone?” Mordka suggested.

“Well, I wouldn't mind talking to him for you, except I don't know where I'd find him,” Longarm replied.

“He is in Junction now,” Danilov said. “He has a railroad car of his own, and it was pulled into town today. Anatoly Yanishev came and told me he had seen the car arrive. I was on my way to talk with Stone when I saw you, Marshal Long. After you said you would meet with us tonight, I did not go to see him, though.”

“You understand I can't do much except ask him to let you off on those options you signed, Mr. Danilov? I can't go beyond that.”

“Perhaps if Stone thinks you are watching him, he will be afraid,” Danilov said hopefully.

“Maybe,” Longarm replied, “but I doubt it. A man like him will know what he can and can't do, where the law's concerned.”

“But you will see him?” Danilov urged.

“Sure. I said I would. Now, then. Let's talk about the reason why I'm here in Junction, which is the election.”

“What is there to talk about?” Nicolai Belivev asked. “We of the
Bratiya
will vote for Fedor Petrovsky, here. That is all we can say,
nyet
?”

“No it ain't,” Longarm replied. “I went out and paid a little visit on Clem Hawkins today. I told him just what I aim to tell you now. I don't intend to stand for any fighting or keeping people from voting, or letting anybody vote more than once.”

“Marshal Long. We would not do any of those things,” Danilov protested. Then he added, “But the ranchers who favor Sheriff Grover, they might.”

“I didn't say you folks in the Brethren would get out of line, Mr. Danilov. I'm just telling you what I'm going to be watching for while the voting's going on.”

“We will be watching with you,” Nicolai Belivev said. “We do not trust Hawkins. We know he's the one who encourages the cutting of our fences.”

“I'm betting he ain't the only one, Mr. Belivev,” Longarm told the Russian. “There ain't a rancher anyplace who likes a fence chopping up range that used to be open.”

“Not all the land to the ranchers belongs,” one of the other homesteaders said angrily. “Ve have some rights to keep our vheat from being spoiled,
nyet
?”

“Sure you have,” Longarm agreed. “Especially if the sheriff doesn't do anything when you complain to him.”

“Sheriff Grover only listens to our complaints,” Danilov put in. “He does nothing to stop the fence-cutting. He is—”

Whatever else Mordka had intended to say was lost. A rifle shot cracked from the darkness. One of the homesteaders spun around and dropped to the ground with a cry of pain.

Chapter 6

Longarm reacted instantly to the sniper's shot. He'd been standing facing the house, with his back to the fields from which the shot came, and hadn't seen the rifle's muzzle flash, but before the echoes of the shot had died away he'd wheeled, drawing as he turned, and sent a pair of slugs winging in the general direction of the sniper.

Distantly, a horse's hooves drummed on the hard earth, and, in a matter of seconds, faded away to silence. Night shrouded the horse and rider. In the blackness there was no way by which the direction of the galloping horse could be traced. All Longarm could tell was that the sniper had made good his escape and that pursuit would be useless.

Holstering his Colt, Longarm joined the homesteaders who had gathered around the fallen man and were bending over him. As Longarm moved, shadows blotted out the rectangle of yellow lamplight streaming from the doorway; Marya and Tatiana Danilov had crowded up to see what had happened.

“Let's get him inside,” Longarm said crisply. “Not much way we can tell how bad he's hurt, out here in the dark.”

“Of course you will bring him in!” Marya called from the doorway, then turned and, in rapid-fire Russian, rattled off a series of instructions to Tatiana.

On the ground, the homesteader who'd been hit moaned softly. The men lifted him and carried him into the house. Blood dripped from the fresh wound and spattered on the scoured floor as they stood for a moment, looking for a place to lay the wounded man.

“Here!” Marya Danilov grabbed a pillow from her husband's armchair and put it on the floor. “Let him down here, where the light is good.”

Tatiana came from the stove, carrying a basin of steaming water. She had a clump of rags in one hand. Marya kneeled by the wounded man's head, scissors in hand, and began snipping at his bloodstained shirt to pull it away from his shoulder.

Longarm needed only a glance to see that the wound was superficial. The rifle slug had ripped through the man's upper arm just below his shoulder. If it didn't hit bone, Longarm thought, he ain't going to be too bad off. He frowned, trying to recall the homesteader's name, and after a moment it came to him. He was Fedor Petrovsky, the candidate the Brethren were putting up against Sheriff Grover. Then Longarm's frown deepened. He'd been standing just in front of Petrovsky, outside. He wondered if the sniper might have been aiming at him instead of the Russian.

Mordka bent over Petrovsky, who was beginning to recover from the shock of the rifle slug's impact. The elder sighed with relief. “It is not bad,” he said to the others. “Fedor will have a stiff arm for a while, but by harvest time his shoulder will be completely healed.”

“
Da, ita nilza
,” Marya nodded. “A clean wound. Tatiana, give me the antiseptic.”

A sharp, acrid odor filled the room as Marya wet a piece of cloth with liquid from a blue bottle that her daughter handed her. She daubed the wound with the cloth, and Petrovsky twitched his shoulder.

“It hurts,” he protested.

“Better to hurt now than to swell up later,” Marya told him tartly. “Lie still, Fedor. I must be sure this goes into the hole the bullet made.”

Mordka stood up and faced Longarm. “This is what I have feared would happen,” he said soberly. “Once men begin to think of doing harm to their fellows, it is a short path that leads to violence.”

“It's a violent world,” Longarm told Mordka. Always has been, ever since Cain tried to cheat Abel. But I ain't so sure that bullet was meant for your man Petrovsky. I was standing right in front of him. Whoever the shooter was, he might've been aiming at me.”

“Who in this place would want to shoot you? You have been here only a few days.”

Longarm's smile was grim. “Somebody who couldn't care one way or the other about what's going on in Junction, Kansas. I've put a passel of men behind bars at one time or another, Mr. Danilov. They sometimes carry a grudge out of prison with them, and if they run into me, they're apt to try to work it off with a bullet.”

Mordka nodded. “I hadn't thought of that. I was about to ask you if you would try to find out who might have shot Fedor. You will be doing that for your own interest, though, will you not?”

“I sure as hell will be,” Longarm assured him. “Not much I can do tonight, but first thing in the morning, I'll be back out here nosying around. And if I can find the sheriff and get him interested enough, I just might be able to talk him into coming along with me.”

“And the fence-cutting? The damage to our wheat? We did not even begin to talk about them,” Mordka reminded Longarm.

“Not much to talk about. I'll have a word with Grover when I catch up with him. Might be that if he knows I'm ready to step in if he doesn't do something about all that, he'll do his job right.”

“What of Oren Stone?” Mordka smiled sadly, shaking his head. “It seems we are asking a great deal of you, but there is no one else to whom we can look for help.”

“Ain't much I can do about Stone. But I'll have a try at talking to him, as soon as I finish trying to run down that bushwhacker.”

“Thank you, Marshal. Now I must see about getting Fedor made comfortable. I think it will be better if he does not try to move from here tonight.”

“You'd know best about that, I guess,” Longarm said. “That being the case, I'll just say thank you for my supper, and ride on back to town. I'll report the shooting to the sheriff. He'll probably be out to ask about it later on.”

*   *   *

Junction's jail was an unpainted building at the end of the town's only street. It had been constructed by spiking together railroad ties left over when the spur line was completed. The little building had two windowless cells across its back, and space enough in the front section for a desk and three or four chairs. The door was padlocked on the outside when Longarm stopped there after leaving his horse at the livery stable; quite obviously, Sheriff Grover couldn't be inside. Longarm shrugged and started toward the hotel.

He stopped in at the Ace High Saloon for a drink, and found the place nearly deserted. At the back, two poker tables were in operation, catering to the needs of a half-dozen dedicated gamblers, but there was no one at the bar drinking. The barkeep and the saloon girls were clustered at the end farthest from the swinging doors, chattering idly.

After the barkeep had detached himself from his conversation with the girls and served the shot of rye Longarm ordered, he started back to his interrupted gossip session. Longarm stopped him with a question.

“Sheriff Grover been in this evening?”

“Come to think of it, he hasn't. Sorta funny, because most nights he'll stop in once or twice while he's patrolling around town, but not tonight.”

“Guess he's out on a case at one of the ranches, or something,” Longarm said. He drained his glass and set it on the bar. “Well, it ain't all that important. I'll run into him sooner or later.”

Up the street at the Cattleman's a few minutes later, he asked Bob the same question and got the same reply. Before Longarm could carry their conversation any further, Ruthie left the table at which she'd been sitting with another of the girls, and came up to stand beside him. Tactfully, Bob moved away.

I was wondering if you'd be dropping in,” Ruthie said. “I sort of thought you'd be in here earlier.”

“Why? You got some more troubles?”

“No, thank goodness! And I'm not going to get into any, if I'm lucky.” She looked around, and saw that Bob was still standing within earshot. “Come on over to one of the tables and sit with me a few minutes, if you don't mind. There's something I want to tell you.”

She led the way to a table against the back wall, across the room from the bar. Longarm followed her, carrying his glass.

When they were seated, she said, “After I got back here from your room this morning, I lay awake a long time, thinking about what you said. And I made up my mind, Longarm. I'm going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Shake this place. Get out of the sporting life. For good, I mean. Listen, I went to the boss as soon as he came in and told him he'd better find another girl to take my place. I'm going to take the first train out of town, even if I've got to ride in the engine cab or in a cattle car.”

“Got any idea where you'll be heading?”

“California, I guess. Maybe San Francisco. It's a big enough place that I ought to be able to find a job there. A decent job, I mean.” She grinned lopsidedly. “Maybe after a while somebody'll come along who'll want to marry me. And I'll swear to make him the best wife a man ever had.”

“Sure you will.”

“Even if I can't lasso a man of my own, I'll get along, you know.” She paused before asking in a strangely shy voice, “You won't mind if I come to see you again tonight, when I get off, will you?”

“Now, Ruthie, you know you're welcome anytime.”

“I hoped you'd tell me that. It won't be late. Things are real slow tonight.”

Longarm drained his glass and stood up. I'll be looking for you, then, whenever you get there.”

Back in his room, he treated himself to a swallow from the almost empty bottle of bonded rye before he went through his regular nighttime routine. Before undressing, he cleaned his Colt and slid fresh cartridges into the cylinder to replace the two he'd fired at the bushwhacker. As he worked, Longarm wondered just who had fired that shot from the darkness, and whether the target had been the farmer who'd been hit, or the big lawman himself.

I guess that's something I'll find out sooner or later
, he told himself as he slid the Colt back into its holster and hung the revolver by his gunbelt on the left side of the bed's headboard.

He still couldn't dismiss the question from his mind, though, while he cleaned and checked his watch-chain derringer. Before hanging the vest on the right side of the headboard, Longarm fished a cigar out of its pocket and lighted it. Then, with the rye handy on the floor and his cheroot glowing comfortably, he propped himself up on the bed, stretched out, and waited for Ruthie. Not until her light tap sounded and he got up to let her in did the nagging question of who'd been the gunman's target leave his mind.

Ruthie said, “I told you I wouldn't keep you waiting long. To tell you the truth, I left earlier than I should've, but I got to thinking about last night, and just couldn't wait any longer.” As she spoke, she was unfastening her dress. “It's been a slow night, though. They won't need me as much as I've been needing you.”

Longarm had taken the whiskey bottle to the bureau and was pouring a glass for her. Ruthie came and snuggled up to him. She pushed aside the drink he offered her and began unbuttoning his balbriggans. Her fingers slid quickly from the neck button of the longjohns down Longarm's chest and stomach, and she dragged the undersuit off, freeing his crotch to her soft, caressing fingertips.

Ruthie slid between him and the dresser and turned Longarm to face her. Over her shoulder, in the flyspecked, tarnished mirror, he saw the sweep of her bare back from shoulders to buttock crease as she locked her arms around his neck and levered herself up to sit perched on the edge of the bureau. Her legs came up, her knees in Longarm's armpits. Her gusting breath fanned his cheek as she reached down with one hand, groped for a moment, found him, and guided him to touch her. A moment later, her hand closed around him in a convulsive squeeze as she felt him harden in response to the delicate dancing of her fingertips along his shaft.

“Don't make me wait any longer!” she begged as Longarm stood motionless. “Drive on in! I want all of you inside me, hard and deep!”

He responded to her demand with a sudden, rapid thrust that set her body quivering. She leaned back, accepting him, welcoming the piston strokes he pounded into her. Still, she wanted more. She pulled her legs free, twisting to get them from under his arms, and stretched them high, her feet above Longarm's head, the backs of her thighs soft and warm against his chest. Longarm let her move as she wanted to, without interrupting the rhythm of his own deep thrusting. His arms were around her now, embracing her raised thighs as well as her body. He felt for a moment as if he were holding two women instead of one.

“Oh, it's the best this way!” Ruthie moaned. “Now I'm really full of you! Keep going, Longarm! Don't ever . . . ever . . .” Her words became an unintelligible half-moan, half-scream, as her body convulsed in a series of jerking quivers.

Longarm waited until her cries trailed off to whimpers and the uncontrollable paroxysms of her body relaxed. In one quick motion, he lifted her limp form and swung her around. Still hard and deep inside her, he lowered her to the bed, following her without breaking the bond of flesh that connected them. Then he began stroking again.

For several minutes she lay supine, at the threshold of awareness, unable to respond. Bit by bit, she came to life again. Longarm felt her muscles tighten around him, felt her legs trying to work free of his arms. He moved to release her thighs. She sighed contentedly and wrapped her legs around him. Her arms went around his neck, she pulled her firm-tipped breasts to his chest, and nestled her face in the warm, soft hollow at the base of his throat.

“I said you were a miracle last night,” she whispered into his chest. Longarm felt the words rather than heard them. “I just didn't have any words to say how big a miracle you are. And I still can't find the words. But you can't keep going forever, Longarm. Don't worry about me. Come whenever you want to.”

“I can go awhile yet. Maybe long enough for you to make it again.”

He fell silent then and gave himself up to the pleasure of being engulfed in pulsing heat, of feeling the girl's soft body glued to his. He didn't want to stop any more than she wanted him to, and he paced himself to slow his rhythm, to stop now and again while he was buried to the deepest penetration inside her, and press with a gentle, sidewise rubbing, stimulating her while delaying himself, letting each minute stretch until it shattered.