Longarm 245: Longarm and the Vanishing Virgin

Table of Contents

 

 

Longarm was still hunkered down by the fire. Wallace was only a few feet away, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief, suspicion, and anger.

“Well?” Wallace said harshly. “What about it, Parker?”

“His name isn't Parker,” Nora said before Longarm could say anything. “It's Long, Custis Long.”

“Long,” Wallace said, and then his eyes widened in shock as a realization hit him. “Son of a bitch, you're the one they call Longarm!”

For an instant, Longarm thought about trying to talk his way out of this, but then he realized he wasn't going to be able to do that. Wallace was already reaching for his gun. So Longarm did the only thing he could do.

He threw the potful of scalding coffee right in Wallace's face ...

 

 

 

LONGARM AND THE VANISHING VIRGIN

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY Jove edition / May 1999

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-17893-5

 

A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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Longarm said, “Just put that gun down, old son. There's no need for anybody to die here.”

The Dragoon Colt trembled slightly in the hand of the kid pointing it at Longarm. From where Longarm stood, the muzzle of the ancient percussion revolver looked about as big around as the mouth of a cannon. Longarm wondered if the kid was shaking because he was nervous, or because that blasted Dragoon was so damned heavy. Either way it was worrisome.

The kid lifted his other hand and wiped the back of it across his mouth and the wispy mustache on his upper lip. The mustache was likely part of an effort to look older than he really was, which was about sixteen, thought Longarm.

“I know why you're here,” said the kid. “You're after me.”

“Fella, I never even knew you existed until I walked into this saloon a few minutes ago,” Longarm assured him. “And if you'll put that gun away, I might just disremember you pulling it on me. Maybe. If you'll put it up right now.”

The kid shook his head. “Hell, no. You think I'm goin' to trust the word of a
lawman?”
He packed all the contempt in the world into the word.

Longarm sighed and glanced around the room. Nobody showed any signs of wanting to pitch in and lend him a hand. He supposed he couldn't blame them. After all, he was a stranger in this little town, and a star packer to boot. Could be there were other men in this saloon besides the kid who wouldn't mind seeing him dead.

“You're right about one thing: I'm a United States deputy marshal. But I swear, I'm not after you, kid. Whatever you did that you think has got me on your trail, you're wrong.”

The kid snorted in disbelief. “You're the one they call Longarm, ain't you?”

“Some do,” admitted Longarm.

“I've heard about you. You don't never stop once you go after a man. And you don't bring in many prisoners alive and kickin' neither. If I put my gun up, you'll wind up shootin' me in the back and claimin' I tried to get away from you.”

Longarm's jaw tightened in anger. One of the bad things about having a reputation of sorts was that folks didn't seem to mind embellishing on it any time the notion struck them. He'd never shot a helpless prisoner in the back. Never would. But he'd play hob convincing this addlepated youngster of that.

The bartender, a tall, thick-bodied man with graying hair and a craggy face, put his hands on the bar and leaned forward a little. “Why don't you light a shuck out of town, kid?” he suggested. “We'll keep this law dog here for a while, give you a start. No need for any shooting.”

Clearly, he didn't want any blood getting on the floor. Longarm could understand that. Bloodstains were hell to get out of wood.

“I don't know,” the kid said. “He'll just come after me later. He knows about that bank I robbed up in Kansas.”

The bartender sighed. “Well, now he does anyway.”

“Was it a federally chartered bank or a state-chartered one?” asked Longarm.

“Huh?” said the kid.

“If it was a state-chartered bank, then robbing it was a state crime,” Longarm explained patiently. “I'm a federal lawman. A state crime would be out of my jurisdiction.”

The kid frowned in concentration as he tried to puzzle out what Longarm had just said. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, it was a state bank. Leastways, that was the name of it. First State Bank of Hugoton.”

Longarm had been keeping his hands in plain sight, just so the kid wouldn't get more nervous than he already was. Now he spread the fingers a little and said, “Well, there you go. I got no cause to arrest you. Just don't go back to Kansas.”

“See,” said the bartender, “no need for any shooting. I was right.”

The barrel of the old Dragoon Colt started to dip toward the saloon's sawdust-littered floor. “Yeah, I reckon....” the kid began. Then suddenly, his face twisted, and he jerked the gun up again. “I reckon I'll kill you just to make sure, lawman!”

The young would-be desperado talked too much, a common problem among those his age who wanted to make a name for themselves. By the time the last word was out of his mouth, Longarm had already thrown himself into a rolling dive that carried him behind an empty table. The kid jabbed the gun in his direction and pulled the trigger. Noise and flame and smoke geysered from the barrel of the Dragoon. The heavy lead ball it fired slammed into the top of the table, chewing up a long, ragged splinter.

Longarm palmed his own Colt from the cross-draw rig at his waist and fired twice over the table. The first bullet hit the kid halfway between his belly button and the hollow of his throat, and as he bent over a little in response to the hammer blow of the slug, the second shot tore through his heart. That one drove him back against the bar. He bounced off and fell facedown on the floor. He didn't move after he landed.

“Son of a bitch!” Longarm said fervently.

He hadn't wanted to kill the kid. He had meant every word he'd said about letting the boy put the gun away and move on. But once the shooting started, Longarm's instincts had taken over. Well-trained nerves and muscles had drawn and aimed and fired the two shots, either of which would have been fatal. That was a legacy of the years Longarm had spent as a deputy marshal, years full of armed confrontations in which he'd had no choice but to kill or be killed.

With the smoking Colt still in his hand, Longarm looked around the room. The saloon was long and narrow, ugly on the outside with unpainted walls and a tin roof, and it wasn't much prettier inside. The customers consisted of half-a-dozen cowboys, a couple of men who were probably buffalo hunters who didn't know or didn't care that most of the buffalo were gone, and a pasty-faced gambler in a stained and threadbare frock coat. The bartender probably owned the place too, and the only other person in sight was a soiled dove with a pale, heavily painted face and a flabby body in a too-tight spangled dress. None of them seemed overly concerned about the dead young man lying bleeding on the floor.

“I told him to ride on,” the bartender said with a sigh.

“That you did,” agreed Longarm. He gestured at the body with the gun in his hand. “There going to be any trouble about this?”

“Who from? There's no sheriff hereabouts. I'd say you're the only law within fifty miles, mister. And the kid didn't have any friends or relatives around here either. He just drifted in a couple of days ago, spent all his time either drinking or poking Maggie over there. He seemed to have plenty of money to spend, so I wasn't in any hurry to run him off.”

Longarm nodded, satisfied with the barkeep's answer. He raised his voice a little and asked, “Anybody know the kid's name?”

“He called himself Billy,” offered the whore. “That's all I know.”

Billy, thought Longarm. Probably wasn't his real name. Likely he'd taken it because of that other Billy who was famous here in New Mexico Territory, the one who helped raise hell and shove a chunk under the corner over in Lincoln County. He'd become a hero to every youngster with a gun and a dream of being a big man.

Longarm holstered his Colt. “You can carve that on his marker,” he said, “or just leave it blank if you want.”

“That's assuming that somebody'll pay for the burying,” the bartender pointed out.

Longarm dug in his pocket and brought out a gold piece. He dropped it on the bar disgustedly. “There. That ought to cover it.” He'd turn in an expense voucher for the money when he got back to Denver, and if Billy Vail didn't want to approve it, Longarm supposed he could cover the debt himself. He'd killed the kid, after all.

The bartender scooped up the coin and said, “That's enough, I reckon, with some left over for a drink. What'll you have?”

“I suppose it's too much to hope you've got some Maryland rye back there.”

The bartender shook his head. “We're plumb out. Bar whiskey or beer, that's all.”

The beer was probably watered down within an inch of its life, and the bar whiskey was likely brewed up in a galvanized washtub out back. But since those were his choices, Longarm said, “Whiskey,” and hoped the stuff wouldn't give him the blind staggers.