Longarm 242: Red-light (9 page)

The proprietor was the only one in the store, standing behind a counter in the rear. He looked nervous—like just nearly everyone else in Galena City—as he called to Longarm, “You know what's goin' on out there, mister? I heard shots and all sorts of runnin' around.”

Longarm shook his head. “Afraid I wouldn't know, friend,” he said. “You see, I'm the peaceable sort, and I stay as far away from trouble as I can.”

Longarm stayed in the hardware store for a while, poking around at the items on the shelves. He didn't want to buy a pickax or a shovel or an auger, though, and when the storekeeper began to get really anxious, Longarm just said, “Much obliged,” and stepped back out onto the boardwalk. He saw several groups of men standing around on both sides of the street, talking animatedly, but that was the only sign that anything had happened recently. The creaking of wheels drew Longarm's attention, and he looked over to see a wagon moving slowly along Greenwood Avenue. A man in a black suit and a tall hat was handling the reins, and a blanket-draped shape was in the back of the wagon. The local undertaker was already hauling off the man Longarm had killed.

He wondered about J. Emerson Dupree, wondered as well if there was a doctor here in Galena City. He waited until a woman was passing him on the boardwalk, then reached up and tugged on the brim of his hat as he said, “Pardon me, ma'am. Could you tell me if there's a sawbones in this town?”

She was a middle-aged woman with graying dark hair under her bonnet. Her gaze played over Longarm, and she said, “You look healthy enough, sir.” He thought he saw just a hint of flirtatiousness in her eyes, so he grinned at her.

“I hope I am, ma'am,” he said, “but you never can tell what's going to happen in the future.”

“That's true enough,” said the woman. “Unfortunately, there's no doctor here, just an old granny who serves as midwife and patches up bullet wounds.”

“How is she at that?”

“Which one, midwifery or bullet wounds?”

Longarm chuckled. “I ain't likely to need a midwife any time soon, ma'am.”

“In that case, I'm told she's quite efficient at cleaning and bandaging bullet holes.”

Longarm tipped his hat again and said, “I'll keep that in mind. I'm obliged for the information, ma'am.”

So there was at least a chance Dupree was in good hands, thought Longarm as he moved on down the street. He hated to think that the newspaperman might die simply because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, talking to Longarm.

But then, folks hardly ever died from being in the right place at the right time, he mused.

His horse was still tied in front of the newspaper office. He got the dun and led it down to the livery stable, where an old hostler took Longarm's money and put the horse in a stall. “We'll take good care of him,” he promised.

Longarm nodded and asked, “Where's the nearest hotel?”

The hostler pointed out the open double doors of the barn. “Right across the street. Place is called Kingman's.”

“Much obliged.” Longarm had taken his Winchester from the saddle boot on the dun. He carried the rifle and his warbag with him as he crossed the street toward the hotel, a two-story frame building made of thick, whitewashed planks.

Kingman's Hotel wasn't nearly as fancy inside as the International in Virginia City, but it would do for his needs, Longarm decided as he crossed the lobby. The floor at least had a rug on it, and several padded armchairs that weren't too broken-down were scattered around the room. A clerk with hair that was slicked down with pomade and parted in the middle stood behind the registration desk. He gave Longarm a professional smile and said, “Howdy-do. You want a room?”

“That's the idea,” said Longarm with a nod. “Something quiet.”

“That's a mite hard to come by in a place like Galena City,” the clerk told him. “But I can put you on the second floor, rear. That'll get you as far away from the street as possible. Room'll run you two dollars a night.”

Longarm frowned. “Pretty steep, ain't it?”

“Mister, you're lucky to get any place at all to sleep in this town. We've got half a dozen new silver mines in these parts producing like crazy, and there's more folks coming in all the time.” The clerk looked dubiously at Longarm's rifle. “You want me to put that in the storeroom for you?”

“I reckon I'll keep it with me,” said Longarm, “unless that's against the rules in a high-priced place like this.”

“Naw, there ain't no ordinance against carrying guns. No ordinances of any sort, come to think of it.” The clerk spun the registration book around on the desk and asked, “Well, how about it? You want the room or not?”

Longarm dropped some coins on the desk and reached for the quill pen in its holder. “I reckon,” he said as he scrawled “Custis Parker, Denver, Colorado” in the book. It was an alias he used sometimes when he was keeping his real identity a secret, comprised of the first and middle names his mama had given him back in West-by-God Virginia.

The clerk slid a key across the desk. “Room Twelve, Mr. Parker,” he said. “Up the stairs and all the way to the rear.”

Longarm nodded his thanks and hefted his Winchester and warbag. As he carried them up the stairs, he thought that his description as the man who had provoked a fight in the Chinaman's place earlier by asking questions about Ben Mallory must not have reached the clerk. Otherwise the man would have probably been more leery of renting him a room. He wondered what the clerk would do when he eventually heard the stories and realized he had a troublemaker lodging upstairs.

Until that happened, Longarm was going to get some rest. The strain of the past few days had made him weary, and he was feeling a little edgy from the showdown that had left the would-be outlaw dead and J. Emerson Dupree badly wounded. Longarm had traded lead with plenty of killers over the course of his years as a marshal, but a fella never got completely used to such things. As soon as he had gone inside the hotel room and shut the door behind him, he leaned the Winchester in a corner, put his warbag on the bed, and fished out a well-padded bottle of Maryland rye that was wrapped up in a pair of spare longhandled underwear. After a long swallow, he lowered the bottle and said, “Ahhh.”

Nothing like coming close to death for reminding a fella that he was truly alive, thought Longarm. But that was a feeling best experienced in small doses ...

 

It was getting on toward evening when Longarm came back downstairs. He had stretched his long frame out on the bed and dozed for a while, but the whole time his hand had been on the butt of the Colt he had slipped under the pillow. The single chair that was in the room looked too rickety to be much good for propping under the doorknob, so he had settled for leaning the Winchester against it instead. If anybody opened the door or as much as rattled the knob, the rifle would fall and wake him.

No one had disturbed him, though, and now he was hungry after his nap. Somehow, he didn't think the Chinaman would want his business after what had happened there earlier in the day, and he hadn't seen a dining room downstairs in the hotel. So Longarm shrugged into his coat and put his hat on, prepared to go back out into the raw evening. He left the Winchester lying on the bed as he went out. Pausing momentarily just outside the room, he placed a match between the door and the jamb, low down so that it wouldn't be easily noticed, then carefully shut the door. If anybody was waiting for him inside when he got back, he'd have at least a little warning.

Judging by the look the clerk gave him, Longarm's reputation had spread to the hotel during the afternoon. The slick-haired gent frowned at Longarm and said, “You didn't tell me you came here to raise hell.”

“You didn't ask,” Longarm pointed out. “Anyway, my money's as good as anybody else's, ain't it?”

“There's money, and then there's money,” said the clerk. “And some of it ain't worth dying over. I'd appreciate it if you'd gather your gear and leave, mister.”

Longarm fired up a cheroot and said around it, “That ain't likely to happen, old son. I paid, and I'm staying. But you can tell Mallory that you did your damnedest to run me out of here. Maybe he won't hold it against you that you didn't succeed.”

The clerk stared at Longarm for a moment, then said in a voice ragged with anxiety, “What the hell do you want here in Galena City, mister?”

“That's my business.” Longarm blew out a cloud of smoke. “And maybe Mallory's.” There. That was another prod that was bound to reach Mallory's ears sooner or later.

The clerk shook his head. He wore the look of a man staring into his own grave. “I wish you'd never come here,” he said solemnly.

“Well, I'll be out of your hair for a little while,” said Longarm. “Soon as you tell me where a gent could get some supper.”

“Best place is the Chinaman‘s—” The clerk stopped short and shook his head. “No, you probably wouldn't want to go back there, would you? And even if you did, Ling wouldn't like it. Why don't you try Red Mike's, up on Comstock Street? There's already some bullet holes in Mike's walls, so a few more shouldn't make much difference.”

Longarm grinned wolfishly. “Much obliged. I'll mosey on up there.”

He went to the front door of the hotel, opened it, slipped outside quickly so that he wouldn't be silhouetted against the light inside for more than an instant. According to his watch when he took it from his pocket and opened it, the hour was only five o'clock, but already night was falling. The thick clouds shut out the sun and brought on the darkness that much faster.

Every instinct Longarm possessed was on the alert as he walked up Greenwood Avenue toward Comstock Street, which formed the upper bar of the T. He was still several blocks from the intersection when a woman's voice said, “Mister? Mister, can you help me?”

The voice was wracked with pain. Longarm looked over and saw a figure leaning against the side wall of the building he was passing. His first thought was that this was some sort of trap set by Mallory, but the anguish in the woman's voice had seemed genuine. He glanced around, but he was the only one on this stretch of boardwalk, and the building was dark and closed up.

Cautiously, he stepped toward the woman. “Ma'am?” he said. “Are you all right?”

She seemed to be having trouble catching her breath, but when she moved slightly, air hissed between clenched teeth. “They . . . they dragged me back in the alley,” she gasped out. “I ... I told 'em I was a respectable woman, a married woman. They ... they laughed at me.”

Longarm saw now that she was trying to hold the tatters of a torn dress around her. He felt anger welling up inside him. “Who was it?” he asked as he stepped toward her. “Did you know them?”

“It was ... Mallory's boys.”

Longarm wasn't surprised. The outlaws thought they could get away with anything they wanted to do around here, including rape. They were sure as hell going to find out different, he vowed. He reached out to the woman. “Here, let me help you—”

“No!”
It was a whisper, barely heard. She went on in the same low tones. “They made me say that, they threatened to kill my husband if I didn't. They saw me talking to you earlier today and figured you'd listen to me. Get out of here, mister, now!”

The words tumbled out of her, breathless and run together. But Longarm understood enough to know what she was saying. In the faint light that reached the mouth of the alley where she leaned against the wall, he recognized her as the middle-aged woman he had asked whether there was a doctor in Galena City.

Now, because of that innocent moment, she had suffered through no fault of her own, just like Dupree. Mallory's men had witnessed the conversation and decided to use her to strike back against the stranger who had come to town and started asking questions. They had beaten her, probably used her, and now she was the bait in a trap ...

Longarm grabbed her arm. “Come on!” he barked. “Let's get out of here!”

“No!” she said again, this time crying out the word. She didn't try to pull away from Longarm, though. Instead she threw herself in front of him.

At that moment, bursts of orange fire licked out from the darkness of the alley, and gunshots shattered the silence.

The woman was thrown forward, falling against Longarm, and he caught her instinctively as he realized in horror that she had been hit by the gunfire. He saw her face, inches from his, handsome and still dignified despite the hell she had been forced to endure, and as pain twisted her features, she moaned, “Better this way ... after what they did to me ...”

Then she sagged in Longarm's grip, and the rattle in her throat told him she was dead.

Guns were still blasting in the alley, and bullets sang a deadly song around Longarm's head. He felt the woman's body shudder as more slugs thudded into her back, but at least she was beyond the pain of feeling them now. Longarm reeled toward the corner of the building, intending to use it as cover if he could get there. With the woman's body in his arms, he couldn't reach his gun.

She slipped out of his grasp before he made it to the comer of the building. People on the street were yelling and running for cover as bullets chewed splinters from the planks. Longarm crouched and tried to draw his Colt, but as his fingers touched the smooth wooden grips of the weapon, something slammed into his side and twisted him around. The blow didn't hurt very much, but he was suddenly sick at his stomach. He had been shot before, and he knew the feeling.