Longarm in devils river, p.1
Longarm In Devils River, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Teaser chapter
Sweet Surrender
Longarm took the stairs two at a time. He spotted the empty, cane-bottomed chair still sitting outside his room as soon as he turned into the hallway. With the Frontier model Colt in hand, he slipped up to the partially open door. From inside he heard, “Come on in, Marshal Long. It’s safe.”
He stepped into the room to find Ardella Lasher, hands raised in surrender, sitting in a chair she’d dragged in from the balcony. Her double-holstered pistol rig, backup gun, and bowie knife all dangled from the knobbed post at the foot of the bed. She had unbuttoned her brocade vest, removed the cowboy cuffs, and kicked off her fancy stitched boots.
“I’m not armed, Marshal. Hope you don’t mind, but it’s a mite more comfortable in here. Nicer chairs,” she said, then flashed a saucy grin.
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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 IN DEVILS RIVER
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / December 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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eISBN : 978-1-440-64043-8
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Chapter 1
Dolphus Lasher didn’t know it, but Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long had been hot on his evil trail all the way from Saragosa to Fort Stockton. Now, after nigh on three days of having his aching behind pounded to shreds in the heat and dust of West Texas, Longarm needed a bath, a hot meal, and the company of a good woman. If memory served, he felt pretty sure he knew exactly where to get all three.
He drew his weary, run-out animal up in front of a neat, well-kept cottage on the eastern edge of the sleepy military town, climbed down, and wrapped the reins around a rough hitch rack standing in the street. The sign, proudly displayed in the only yard he’d seen in all of Fort Stockton that sported actual green grass, indicated that he’d found the residence of Marybeth Fleming: Seamstress, Dressmaker, and Tailor.
He pushed the gate of the white picket fence open and strode up the crushed-stone walkway to a freshly painted, inviting front porch. Swept his hat off and tapped on the frame of a front door painted a deep forest green.
A tempting swing, large enough to seat two or three people, dangled from the ceiling on one end of the porch and swayed back and forth on a barely moving, overheated breeze. Beneath the swing a large, fuzzy yellow dog lay in the sparse shade and flopped its ragged tail in friendly acknowledgment of a welcomed visitor.
After several seconds of no answer at the door, Longarm tapped again. Still no response. He pulled the screen open to give the door a good, heavy-knuckled rap on its thick sheet of glass. It was at that exact moment he noticed a small, handwritten note stuck to the inside of the beveled pane indicating that the lovely Marybeth Fleming was out of town and would not be back for at least a week.
“Shit,” he mumbled, let the screen snap closed, then stuffed the hat back on and headed for the street.
A sliver of broiling-hot, orange-tinted sun sizzled low on the western horizon. He had hoped to spend the night with the redheaded wonder of a woman whose words to him when they’d parted last were, “Don’t be a stranger, Custis. Wherever I am, all you have to do is find me. You’ll always be welcome in my bed.” The smile that accompanied that promise assured his return for seconds, thirds, and maybe even fourths.
Thoroughly disappointed, Longarm stomped back to his mount and urged the beast on into town where he pulled up in front of the Sunset Hotel’s rough entrance. He stepped down from the long-legged gelding, relieved the sagging animal of his possibles bag, his bedroll, his rifle, and his shotgun, then stacked the whole caboodle in a pile on the boardwalk.
A rough-looking, dirty-faced urchin of no more than twelve or thirteen sat on the step just outside the hotel’s open front door. A smoldering, hand-rolled cigarette dangled from the scamp’s sneering lips.
“You wanna make a dollar, boy?” Longarm called out.
The kid eyeballed the tired lawdog like he’d just found something gooey and stinky on the bottom of his worn-out boot. “What I gotta do? They is some things I won’t do, you know. No matter the money, they’s jes’ some things I won’t do.”
“Well, this ought to be right up your alley, then,” Longarm said. “Just take my worn-to-a-frazzle hoss down to the stable yonder and see to it he gets put up for the night, rubbed down, fed, and properly watered. Think you can do that?”
The ragged waif cast a second insolent, squint-eyed, judgmental glance Longarm’s direction, then took another puff off his smoke. A hazy, blue-gray ring hovered over his filthy, unshorn head when he said, “Hell, yes, I think I can. Question is whether I want to or not. Not sure I want to even move in this heat for no more’n a fuckin’ dollar.”
“Give you two and that’s it.” Longarm slid the coins from his vest pocket, held them up for the filthy rascal to see, and rubbed them together. The metallic clinking of easy money brought the kid to his feet.
“What’s your name?” Longarm asked.
Without hesitation the unkempt scamp snapped, “Reggie Atwood.”
Longarm thought the mean-mouthed rascal might just lie about his name, so he cocked an ear as though he hadn’t heard correctly. “Say again.”
“Reggie Atwood, goddammit. You fuckin’ deaf or somethin’, mister? Swear to Christ, it’s got to where I have to yell for mosta you old codgers. Here I am, a poor unfortunate child, alone in the w orld, and I’m constantly havin’ to deal with idiots. ’Nuff to make a body wanna eat cow chips.”
In spite of himself, Longarm admired the boy’s arrogant grit, but as the mouthy, miniature rogue reached for the easy loot, Longarm snatched it away, then with a tired smile said, “Don’t screw this up, Reggie. You do and I’ll find you and take this two bucks outta your skinny little ass with my pistol belt. We understand each other?”
Atwood flicked the still-burning butt of his cigarette into the dusty street, spit, then picked a stray piece of tobacco off his lip and rubbed it onto his leg. He toed at the dirt, then said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I ain’t gonna do you wrong, mister. Swear I won’t.”
“That’s Deputy U.S. Marshal, Reggie. Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long. And I’ll throw your bony behind in jail if you jerk me around. Be sharin’ a bunk with somebody like One-Eyed Bucky Matoose, who likes boys. Get the picture?”
Of a sudden the kid’s demeanor went through a dramatic change. “Oh, hell yes, Marshal Long, sir. Wouldn’t think of messin’ you around any a’tall. I’ll see your horse is well taken care of. Yessiree, Bob, sir. Hell, I’ll even sleep with the long-legged son of a bitch. Horse stall’s a damned sight better’n the alley where I usually stay anyhow.”
Longarm dropped the coins into the kid’s filthy palm. “Good boy. Tell the hostler I’ll be around early in the morning for ’im. You remember all that?”
“’Course I can remember all of it. I’m a hungry, homeless orphan, but I ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”
Two hours later, bathed, shaved, and feeling much better, Longarm downed another glass of Maryland rye at the Bugle Call Saloon’s rough bar. Subtle questioning of a variety of tipplers, itinerant gamblers, and run-of-the-mill drunks and layabouts had led him to believe that Dolphus Lasher had already vacated the marginally pleasant climes of Fort Stockton and headed east as fast as good horseflesh could run.
Some of the local rumor carriers held that the murderous skunk had headed for Fort Lancaster and then perhaps south to Del Rio. Others speculated that something nefarious seemed to be afoot with the iniquitous gent, but no one Longarm questioned appeared willing to speculate exactly what Lasher’s wicked plans might entail.
Longarm pushed his empty glass aside, nodded his thanks to the slick-pated drinkslinger behind the bar, and then made his way back out onto the near-deserted boardwalk. The man-killing heat of midday had finally relented somewhat, and the stroll back to the hotel held the possibility of being almost pleasant and invigorating. Daylight would come mighty early the following morning, and the bone-tired lawman needed a good night in a comfortable bed before another chap-flapping effort to run Lasher to ground.
Longarm might’ve looked years younger than any man his age, but the previous several days of punishment in the saddle had left him hobbling around like someone had stood over his bed with a shovel and beat the unmerciful hell out of him. Nothing like a thorough ass pounding to get you in touch with portions of your spine that you didn’t know existed.
He stoked a nickel cheroot to life and ambled back along the boardwalk toward the hotel. As he stepped off the walkway between the Bugle Call Saloon and a busy café, Longarm heard the distinctive sound of a palm being forcefully applied to someone’s face. The resounding smack was followed by a woman’s yelp and pleadings to stop. Longarm halted in the dark near the saloon’s corner and cocked an inquisitive ear toward the action in the inky alley.
“Please, Riley, don’t hit me no more,” he heard a woman beg. “No need to slap me like that.”
Another ringing rap echoed up from the shadows as Longarm turned and took a stealthy step toward the action. After several seconds in the deeper gloom, his eyes adjusted to the point where he could see the distinct but featureless outlines of a man and a woman.
Taller by a head and a half, an aggressive, angry ruffian had the defenseless female by the throat, pinned against the wall. He was slapping the bejabberous hell out of her. Every time she opened her mouth to object, he brought another staggering rap across her cheek.
“Done tol’ you, LaCinda, you don’t be messin’ with Riley Puckett, ’specially when it comes to his pocketbook. You’re supposed to have your cute little twitchin’ ass out on the street makin’ money for me. Plenty a soldiers in town every night. S’posed to be a-spreadin’ that stuff a yours around. Pull ’em back here in the dark. Give ’em a good suckin’, or whatever. I doan care long as you make me some money.”
Puckett smacked the girl again. Then, in the poorly lit, trash-littered lane, Longarm spotted the glistening blade of a well-honed bowie knife.
“Oh, God, please don’t cut my face, Riley,” the panicked girl pleaded. “Go on ahead and beat on me all you like, just don’t cut me up. Swear ’fore Jesus, I’ll do whatever you want, I promise. Please God, just don’t cut me.”
“That a fact? Well, think I just might have to mark you up a bit to make sure. What the . . . ?”
Like the vengeful fist of a guardian angel reaching down from the golden steps of Heaven’s pearly gates, the barrel of Longarm’s Frontier model Colt caught Riley Puckett just above the left eye when he turned toward the puzzling rustle and rush of air that approached from the darkness.
A strange squeaking sound popped out of Puckett’s mouth as the surprised pimp went to liquid knees, limply flopped to one side, then rolled onto his back. Longarm stepped on the knife, then bent over and snatched it up with his free hand. After holstering his blood-spattered pistol, he patted the moaning woman beater down for more weapons.
Puckett mouthed something that came out sounding like, “Arrghel snoffin’ baffle. Squiggle glop.”
Longarm grinned, hauled the near-unconscious man to his feet, and pushed him up against the wall. He jammed the knife into the plank siding next to Puckett’s head, then delivered two short, bruising uppercuts to the tender, fleshy area just below the grunting man’s ribs. Puckett made an oofing sound and went down like a gunnysack full of anvils. Longarm snatched him back to his feet again.
Barely able to breathe, the huffing pimp gasped, “Who the fuck are you, mister? And why’re you doin’ this?”
Longarm got right in the man’s face. Puckett smelled of stale whiskey, puke, and an opium pipe.
“Just consider me the vengeful hand of all the men in the world who just can’t abide one who’d beat a woman,” Longarm growled. “And, oh, by the way, I’m also doin’ this just for the sheer fuckin’ fun of it. ’Fore I finish, figure I’ll be laughin’ like one a them water-headed loons people up north keep in their basements.”
A roundhouse left delivered to the chin sent a handful of bloody teeth swirling into the thick night air. An overhand right crumpled Puckett’s nose and dropped the man in his tracks like a poleaxed steer in a Chicago slaughterhouse.
Longarm spit on Puckett’s inert body, toed the man in the gut, then turned to the girl. She’d cowered down behind a rubbish-filled barrel and now whimpered as Longarm pulled her erect.
“It’s alright, Miss LaCinda. Come with me. He’s not gonna hurt you or anyone else for some time to come.”
“Please don’t hit me.” The trembling girl placed a hand against Longarm’s chest and tried to push him away.
As gently as he could, Longarm urged the trembling girl toward the street, then said, “Don’t worry, Miss LaCinda, you’re safe with me. No one’s gonna do you any more harm—not tonight, by God.”
He led the frightened unfortunate to a pool of light beneath the nearest streetlamp. In the dim, flickering yellow glow he examined her face for bruises and cuts.
“Well,” he said, “doesn’t appear he did any permanent damage. Couple a days and whatever bruises he might have inflicted should be gone. But just to make sure, why don’t you come with me. I’ve got a room in the Sunset. We’ll give you a better look there.”
