Longarm #431 (3 page)

Longarm sat at the café counter sipping coffee until well past daybreak until the proprietor mentioned that the saddle maker should have opened his shop for the day.

“Tell Glenn that I sent you,” he said.

“Glad to,” Longarm told him. “An' you would be . . . ?”

“Buck Walters. Me and my missus run this place.” Walters stuck his hand out to shake, and Longarm gave his name. But not his line of work. “My pleasure, Mr. Walters”—a statement of plain fact. His feet still hurt but not nearly as much as when he came in.

Longarm bobbed his head toward Mrs. Walters and touched his forehead in silent salute, then headed down the street and around a corner to find Glenn Farley's saddle shop.

The shop smelled of leather and neatsfoot oil. Farley, a slender man still young but with a body that was twisted and bent, was leaning over a workbench when Longarm came in.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked.

“Buck Walters said you might be able to do me some good.” Longarm grinned. “I seem to've worn holes in the soles o' my boots. I like the boots, but I could do without the ventilation in 'em.”

Farley nodded. “I can fix that. Do you want new soles or do you want I should do it cheap and just lay a little leather over top?”

“New would be better, I think.”

“Yes, but it would cost a dollar a boot. You could get by for half that if you want,” Farley said.

“Let's do it right then.” Longarm sat on a small bench at the front of the shop and pulled his boots off. The cool air felt good on his feet. He wiggled his toes a bit and handed the boots across to Farley.

“Easy job,” Farley said, looking at the boots. “If you don't want to walk around barefoot, I have some old carpet slippers here you can use while I have your boots on my bench.”

“That's mighty kind o' you. I'll take them and gladly.”

They made the exchange, Farley keeping the boots and Longarm sliding his feet into the oversized but soft and comfortable slippers.

“How long?” he asked.

“They'll be good as new tomorrow afternoon,” Farley said.

Longarm had hoped for the work to be done by afternoon, but he was not complaining. He was happy that he could get the work done at all.

And while he was stuck in Crowell City he could ask around and perhaps get a line on where he might find Alton Gray and the son of a bitch who shot him.

It felt strange to be walking on the town streets wearing carpet slippers instead of his boots. The slippers were soft enough, but the soles were thin and he could feel every pebble and dirt clod that he stepped on.

He found a small hotel that looked clean and went inside. The clerk looked up from a book he was reading and grunted a welcome. “How long will you be here?” he asked.

“Just tonight, I think,” Longarm said.

The clerk eyed him suspiciously. “No luggage?”

Longarm shook his head. “My horse ran off with everything I was carrying.”

“Tough luck.”

“Tell me about it,” Longarm responded. He accepted the key to room number four and went upstairs to take a look at it, then back down to tend to some things while he waited on the boots.

First up was a visit to a barbershop for a shave and a bath.

“Know a man name of Al Gray?” he asked the barber.

“No, sir. No one by that name that I can think of,” the barber said.

Longarm described Gray but got no better result. He thoroughly enjoyed the bath and the shave, though, and felt considerably better when he walked out of the barbershop than he had when he walked in.

From the barber's he walked down the street to a fairly large mercantile where he bought a shirt, drawers, and socks. The ones he was wearing were becoming ripe. It seemed a shame that Nicole had not washed his things when she had them off.

More importantly he bought himself a hat. The store did not have the snuff-brown model that he favored so he made do with a dove-gray Stetson with a stockman crease. The new hat felt a little strange on his head, but he knew he would soon enough get used to it.

He carried his purchases back to the hotel and put them on, dropping his dirty clothes on the floor.

“Do you do laundry?” he asked downstairs.

“No, but we got a girl comes in every afternoon to collect whatever we have going out, brings it back clean and folded the next morning. If you want something ironed that takes another day. You got something going out?”

“Yes, sir. Up in my room.”

“Mind if she goes in there to get it?”

“Not at all. Just give her the key. It's obvious what needs t' be washed.”

“It will be ready for you tomorrow, probably late in the morning,” the hotel clerk said.

“I thank you, sir. Now where can a man find a drink in this town?” Longarm asked.

The gent gave him directions and Longarm, feeling much better than he had just a little while earlier, headed in that direction.

“Rye,” Longarm said. “The best you have on the shelf there, if you please.”

The barman nodded and collected Longarm's quarter without returning any change. He poured a generous measure, though, and the whiskey was excellent. Smooth and pleasant and warm in the belly. Longarm downed the first drink in a hurry, then relaxed a bit and looked around.

He was one of only three customers in the place. It was dark and smelled of spirits and cigar smoke. There was a billiards table in the back and two tables where a man might lay out a game of cards. A tall, narrow table off to the side suggested there might be someone dealing faro but not at this forenoon hour.

One of the other early drinkers took a look, then a second. And then he laughed.

“Mister, if you aren't the miserablest-looking fucker I seen this whole day long,” he said loudly.

Longarm took a small sip of his whiskey and ignored the fellow.

“Mister, I'm talkin' to you.”

Another sip. “This is good whiskey,” he said to the bartender.

“Pay attention when I talk to you, mister,” the loudmouth at the bar insisted.

Longarm finally looked at him. “When you have something t' say that I want t' hear mayhap I'll give you that attention. For right now, I just want to enjoy my drink in peace.”

“I'll tell you something you ought to hear. I think you're a pussy, that's what I think. One of those girly boys that likes to suck cock and have it up your ass, coming in here wearing slippers and smelling like a French whore.”

That, Longarm realized, was about the concoction the barber smeared on him after his shave. It did smell a little high. Not bad. But there was a lot of smell to it.

Longarm took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could continue to ignore the son of a bitch. Or he could kill him.

He knew which of those he would prefer. But someone might actually miss him.

Instead Longarm smiled and nodded for the bartender to give the fellow another.

Then he walked over to the belligerent man and coldcocked him with a sudden right cross.

Longarm looked down at the unconscious man lying at his feet, looked at the fellow's drinking partner, and said, “I've had a hard night, mister, an' I'm not feeling myself at the moment. Tell him that when he wakes up, will you?”

Then Longarm turned and walked out in search of a saloon where a man could drink in peace.

He had lunch at Buck Walters's café. It was just as satisfying as the breakfast had been. Then he idled along the street, peering into windows and poking among aisles of goods.

As the day progressed the presence of townspeople increased until Crowell City was actually busy. Not busy the way Denver can be but busy enough for a small mining town tucked away amid the peaks and the canyons of the backcountry.

Longarm avoided the saloon where he had that bit of trouble earlier in the day. By five o'clock in the afternoon he was about on his last legs. He was tired after walking all night and getting more and more cranky as time wore on.

Finally he had had enough. He turned and headed back toward his hotel, figuring to turn in for an early night and not even bother with supper.

“You, you son of a bitch,” he heard from behind his back.

“You sucker punched me, damn you,” the man with the loud mouth accused. “You couldn't o' done any such of a thing if I'd been expecting it.”

Longarm had really had quite enough of the man. He stopped, spun around, and headed back toward the fellow, who was now flanked by two rather large friends. All three of them looked like they had spent the day pouring shots down their throats.

“All right,” Longarm snarled. “Now what? You want to tangle? You'd best think twice about it 'cause I am
not
in a very good mood for your kind of bullshit right now.”

“You won't do anything this time, asshole,” the fellow said. “This time I'm looking straight at you. I know your kind. You are yellow through and through, cocksucker.”

Longarm hauled off and coldcocked him once again with a sudden right hand that came out of nowhere and wound up about three inches the other side of the belligerent's jaw.

For the second time that day the man went down, out cold and crumpling to the ground.

Longarm looked at his two companions. “Are you here t' carry the body home? Or do you want t' try me?”

“Mister, we got n . . . n . . . nothing against you. Timothy thought . . . he said . . . well, never mind what he said. Reckon we'll pick him up and cart him off now.”

The place they carted Timothy off to, Longarm noticed, was the same saloon they had been drinking in all day long.

With a snort of disgust, Longarm resumed his walk back to the hotel where he had a soft bed just waiting for him to occupy it.

Longarm woke up groggy, his eyelids glued shut and his head aching. There was daylight streaming through the hotel room window. He sat up on the side of the bed and pondered would it be worthwhile to go downstairs for supper.

Then he noticed the direction the sunlight came from and took out his Ingersoll. The reliable, railroad-grade pocket watch—it was a wonder Nic hadn't stolen that from him; but then she probably had not had a chance to get around to it when he came to—informed him that it was 10:27. And with sunshine showing outside the window, that pretty much had to be the time of morning. He had slept the clock around and then some.

After all that sleep he would have expected to feel fully rested and eager to go. As it was, he felt pretty much like shit.

He stood up and groaned a little. His feet were hurting more than ever, and all he had to put on them were the new socks and borrowed carpet slippers.

“Lordy!” he mumbled as he stood, knee joints cracking, and stumbled over to the washstand.

A splash of water on his face and chest helped. So did a long drink out of the pitcher. He still felt like someone had slipped in during the night and stuffed his mouth with cotton. But there was less of it now. He took another drink, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it into the enamelware basin.

Finally he checked his pockets—a habit—and looked to see that all was right with his .45 before he stepped out into the hallway.

“Good morning, Mr. Long,” the desk clerk called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Good morning.”

“There is a gentleman who has been waiting for you,” the clerk added, inclining his head toward the velveteen furniture at the side of the lobby. “He has been there for quite some time now. Very patient, he is.”

“Thanks.” Longarm yawned and ambled in the direction the clerk indicated.

“Oh, shit!” he barked when he saw who the visitor was. And what he held in his hands.

It was that son of a bitch Timothy from the day before. And he was holding a shotgun.

He and Timothy locked eyes at just about the same moment.

Timothy reached for the hammer of his double-barrel, fumbled his thumb over it, cursed, and got the hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger.

Timothy's bad luck was that, as fast as he was to cock the shotgun, Longarm's Colt was faster.

Longarm's .45 erupted with smoke and fire, its roar seeming louder than ever inside the close confinement of the hotel lobby, and a 230-grain solid lead bullet slammed into his upper chest, just about over the point where his heart should lie.

The man was probably as good as dead right there, but Longarm did not take a chance. He fired again, this time his bullet striking Timothy square in the face.

“Jesus,” the hotel clerk shouted, clapping his hands over his ears.

“If you can get him here, it probably would be a good thing,” Longarm said as he shucked his empty cartridge cases and dropped fresh ones into the cylinder.

“What? What's that you said?” the clerk asked, working his jaw in an effort to unclog his ears.

“Never mind,” Longarm said. “Reckon it's too late anyhow. Now,” he said, smiling, “where's the best place t' get a meal in this town?”

Longarm was busy surrounding a plate of steak smothered in gravy when a pudgy fellow wearing a derby and a nickel-plated revolver slid onto the stool next to his.

“I'm not interrupting your meal, am I?” the gentleman asked.

“Not yet,” Longarm said around a mouthful of leathery beef. “D'you intend to?”

“Sorry, but I may have to.” He stuck a hand out to shake, so Longarm laid down his fork and shook with the man.

“My name is Wilson Hughes. I'm town marshal for Crowell City. Your name is Long?”

“That's right,” Longarm said, thinking more about his steak than about Wilson Hughes.

“You're the man who shot and killed Timothy Wright.”

“If that was the man's name that I shot this morning, then yes, I'm the one as did that. Did anyone happen t' mention to you that your man Wright laid in wait an' tried t' kill me? It was purely self-defense. I didn't see that I had a choice,” Longarm said.

“Then that will all come out at the inquest,” Hughes said, smiling.

“Inquest?”

“Oh, yes. We will have to have an inquest into the death of Mr. Wright,” Hughes said.

“I was plannin' on leaving t'morrow morning,” Longarm said.

“Yes, after your boots are repaired,” Hughes said.

“You seem t' be mighty well informed.”

“I try to be.” The marshal plucked a pickled pepper off the side of Longarm's plate and popped it into his mouth. “Until the inquest you will have to wait in our town jail.” He smacked his lips and took Longarm's last pepper then smiled. “You could, of course, post a surety bond instead.”

“An' that bond would be paid to . . . ?”

The man's smile became wider. “Why, to me actually.”

“How much are we talkin' about?” Longarm asked.

“A pittance,” Hughes said. “Twenty dollars.”

Longarm nodded his understanding. And he did, in fact, understand now. Twenty dollars was not a bond, it was a bribe. The money would go straight into Hughes's pocket. “I think we understand each other,” he said.

“Then you will want to post bond?” Hughes asked.

“Oh, yes. Let me finish my lunch here an' I'll pay. Where will you be?”

“I have an office over at town hall,” Hughes said. “It is just around the corner and one block down. There's a sign outside.”

Longarm nodded and picked up his fork again. He used his knife to saw off another chunk of beef and shoveled it into his mouth. Hughes took the hint and left.

Twenty dollars, Longarm was thinking. Not only was Wilson Hughes a bastard, the man was a cheap bastard.

But his steak and gravy were good, and a bowl of apple cobbler was waiting when he was done with his steak and fried potatoes.

Life could have been worse. Much worse, he thought as he reached the back of his neck and picked at the scab that had formed there.

In fact, he could have had no life left at all.