Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor (7 page)

Longarm guessed his age to be eighteen, nineteen, somewhere in that neighborhood. There were some youngsters who could count themselves grown and responsible at that age, but this one had an air about him that said he still should be in knee pants. He looked, in truth, as if his belfry wasn't quite full, as if somebody had shorted him half a peck when brains were being portioned out. Not that Longarm was in any position to pass judgment on short acquaintance. If that was what this was.

The boy continued to stand there, giving Longarm a vacant, open-mouthed stare.

He was towheaded, with hair like sun-bleached straw that had gotten wet and was commencing to mold. His hair should have been trimmed two, three weeks ago. He had blue eyes that darted nervously, and a twitch or habitual tic that made the left side of his cheek flutter. A few wisps of pale hair dangled from his chin. Longarm guessed this kid hadn't ever had to shave.

The boy wore a tattered bib overall that was near white from age and countless washings, and was worn out at the knees where several patches had been applied long ago and now needed to be done again. Underneath the bib was a pink pullover shirt that might once have been red. It too was ancient and worn thin. He was barefoot, the bottom ends of his pant legs stopping four or five inches short of his grimy ankles and filth-encrusted feet. He was bareheaded.

The oddest thing about him, though, was neither his appearance nor his attire. A body might see that in any young half-wit.

The thing that captured Longarm's attention most was the gun the boy clung to. It was an old Remington revolver, a brass-framed model, so it almost had to be of the old cap-and-ball design from back before Remington received patent rights to offer cartridge guns. There was no loading lever visible on this one, so Longarm assumed it had been converted for cartridge use at some time in the past, most likely to the once-popular .44-rimfire cartridge that worked so nicely in the old Army .44-caliber loose-powder shooters. From the distance, which Longarm judged to be eight or ten yards, he couldn't tell any more than that.

Even from so far away, though, Longarm could see that the boy clutched his gun with a grip so tight it made his knuckles white.

The boy was breathing hard, and sweat plastered strands of hair across his forehead.

“Is there something you want, son?” Longarm tried again. “Anything I can do for you?”

“I want . . . I want....” The voice was practically a croak. The boy licked his lips and tried again. “I'm supposed . . . in the back... can't.” He shook his head wildly from side to side and spoke again. “Can't do that, can't.”

“Can't what, son?”

“Not right. From the back. Can't.”

“Can't do what from the back, son?”

“Can't . . . shoot.”

“Shoot someone in the back? No, that wouldn't be right. Look, can you tell me what's wrong? I'm an officer of the law. A peace officer. Maybe I can help you.”

“Can't . . .” The boy's face twisted and twitched, and there was a brightness in his eyes that hinted of welling tears that he refused to let fall. “Can't. Not in back.”

“No, of course you can't,” Longarm agreed calmly, puffing on his cheroot. “Tell me what's troubling you, son. I'll help any way I can. Will you do that for me?”

“You aren't....”

“Aren't what, son?”

“Mean. I mean, not alla time you aren't. Are you?”

Longarm smiled. “I hope not. Let me help you now, will you please?”

“Gotta . . . shoot.”

“Who, son? Who's done something so terrible that you think you have to shoot them? Tell me, please. I'll help you. I promise.”

The boy started to cry. “Got to ... got to do it.”

“We'll take care of it together, son. Whatever it is, tell me about it. Me and you together, we'll take care of it.”

The boy sobbed, his chest rising and falling at a furious rate as he gulped for air and cried the breath back out of him again. His neck was red with strong emotion, and Longarm doubted he could see worth a damn with all those tears pouring out of his eyes.

“Oh, Jesus! Jesus Lord!” the boy gasped in what was obviously a genuine plea from the depths of his heart. “I'm sorry, mister. I got to.”

He raised the big Remington—damn thing looked several times larger from the front end than it had from a side view—and shakily aimed it square at Longarm's chest.

“No, let's ta—”

The Remington roared, and a gout of white smoke blossomed at the muzzle.

Longarm felt a ball tick the tweed of his coat somewhere low on his left side. Close. The kid couldn't see worth shit because of all his tears, and maybe because of that, he was shooting without really being able to take solid aim.

Longarm had time to think that this might have allowed the damnfool kid to shoot straighter than he probably could have if given time for serious aim.

But damn it . . .

The boy used both hands to drag the hammer of the Remington back for a second shot.

This time Longarm found himself staring straight into the gaping barrel of the old but still all-too-workable gun.

He hated it. God, he hated what he had to do.

But he couldn't stand there and let himself be gunned down by some poor, simpleminded kid who didn't know what the hell he was doing.

It was lousy. But Longarm didn't have a whole hell of a lot of choices. Not when the boy had another four or five rounds left in the cylinder and there was no cover around close by for Longarm to duck behind.

The boy, chest heaving from the effects of his crying, steadied himself to shoot again.

Dammit . . .

Longarm raised his Colt—he didn't so much as recall drawing the thing, but it was already in his hand—and shot deliberately low, hoping to take the kid in the hip and knock him off his feet.

All Longarm wanted to do was disable him, dammit. Make him quit shooting long enough that he could be disarmed. Then, well, then Longarm would try again to help him. He meant that. He had no ill will toward this frightened child who seemed bent on Longarm's demise. But first Longarm had to do something to keep the boy from killing him before that help could be given.

Longarm's slug hit exactly where he wanted it. It struck the kid on his right hip and spun him half around.

The Remington flew out of his grip to clatter harmlessly to the ground.

Longarm jumped forward, kicked the gun out of the boy's reach, and turned back to see what he could do now to straighten out this stupidity.

Somewhere down the street Longarm could hear the buzz of excited conversation and the approach of townspeople. Good, he thought. Among them, dammit, they should be able to help this boy. And find out what had gone wrong inside the poor kid's addled brain to bring this about.

“Damn,” somebody whispered. “I never seen so much blood.”

Longarm glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the boy. He recognized the man who had spoken as another saloon customer from last night, but Longarm did not know him. He did, however, agree with the fellow. He supposed that, technically speaking, he probably had seen more blood than this in the past. But there was an awful lot of the stuff pumping out of the kid right now. The street was puddled thick with it, the blood mixing into the dirt to make a particularly unpleasant sort of dark red mud that had a cloying, coppery stench about it and a look of ugly menace. The bullet from Longarm's gun must have severed a major artery somewhere in the vicinity of the youngster's pelvis.

And because of the placement of the wound there was nowhere to tie off a tourniquet, no way that Longarm knew of to stanch the all-too-vigorous flow of blood.

“Is there a doctor?” Longarm asked. “Does anybody know how to make this bleeding quit?”

No one spoke up. Not that he'd expected any help. Longarm himself had seen more than his fair share of gunshot wounds. This was one he doubted the finest surgeon in the land could repair in time to save the boy's life.

“Anyone?” he repeated. But there was no one.

He looked down at the blond boy. The kid was actually smiling. His lips were moving. Longarm leaned lower and put his ear next to the boy's mouth, so close he could feel the warmth of the kid's breath on his skin.

“... bedtime already, Mama? Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the . . .”

The sounds became too faint to hear, although the lips continued to move for several moments. Then they stopped too. The kid just sort of drifted away from life. He was still smiling at the time.

Longarm felt a relief of sorts. At least the boy hadn't been in pain there at the end.

But the kid's death was so damned . . . useless. So stupid. There hadn't been any reason for it. None.

And although he'd had to do it more often than he'd ever wanted to, Longarm still did not like killing. He especially hated the need for a damned stupid death like this one. A kid, for crying out loud. Hardly more than a boy.

Longarm shook his head and gently pulled the boy's eyes shut before he stood and, shaking his head sadly again, brushed off the knees of his trousers from where he'd been kneeling in the dirt at the dying boy's side.

“What was this all about, Longarm?”

Longarm glanced at the man who'd spoken. It was Sheriff Brown. “God, Jonas, I wish I knew.” Longarm explained what had happened, why he'd had to shoot. “I shot low deliberately, Jonas. Tried to keep from killing him. It was just lousy luck the big vein was cut so he bled to death. I wish....” He shrugged.

The Hirt County sheriff gave him a sympathetic look.

“I think I know what you mean. I've never had to kill anyone myself. Can't say that I want to.”

“You're fortunate,” Longarm told him.

“I agree. But you say you have no idea why Dinky came at you?”

“Dinky? That was his name?”

“It's what we all called him. Dinklemann was his real name. John Dinklemann? I think John was his real first name. Like I say, everybody called him Dinky. Right from when he was little. You didn't know him?”

“Jonas, I never laid eyes on this boy until a few minutes ago. I don't know of any reason in the world why he came at me like he did. None.”

Brown fingered his chin and shook his head. “Longarm, I've never known poor Dinky there to so much as have a harsh word for anybody. Never known him to get mad, even when he was teased. He was kinda soft in the head, you understand. Not the least bit bright. But he was a good kid. Never any trouble.” Brown raised his voice so those close around could hear. “Does anybody know any reason why Dinky would have tried to kill the marshal here?”

No one answered. The looks on all their faces showed the same depth of incomprehension that Sheriff Brown displayed.

“Sheriff,” one man said, “I never seen Dinky with a gun. Never seen him with money enough to buy one neither. And you know he wouldn't have stole anything. That boy was honest as the day is long. I never heard of him ever taking anything that wasn't give to him fair and square.”

Brown sighed and agreed. He explained to Longarm, “You could say that Dinky was raised by this town.

Everybody liked him, and he sure liked everybody else. Like Harry just said, he was sweet and honest and a good boy. Not smart, but decent despite his blood. His mama was a whore. This was in the early days, back when the cow herds were trailing through. No one knows who his papa might have been. Some Texas cowboy with a loaded gun between his legs, likely. Cloretta Dinklemann had the boy and was taking care of him proper. She died when Dinky was, oh, nine or ten, I'd guess. Since then he's just kind of lived all over. Slept in sheds or on cold nights someone was sure to take him in. He'd do odd jobs, whatever was needed, and the folks here made sure he had a mite to eat and hand-down clothes to wear. We all of us raised him, you might say. Everybody knew him. He was a good boy, Longarm. A good boy.”

“Not so good that he wouldn't try and kill me today,” Longarm insisted.

“I can't explain that,” Brown said. “I surely can't.” He motioned for his young deputy Jeremy to come closer. “Son, I want you to take this gun around town. Talk to everybody here first, then carry it around and show it to everybody you can find. I've never seen Dinky with a gun and I doubt anyone else has either, but I want you to ask them. And if they recognize this gun as belonging to anyone else. There aren't so many of these old models kicking around, especially ones that were converted to take cartridges.”

The sheriff examined the Remington himself before turning it over to Jeremy. He showed Longarm the cylinder. Only four of the six chambers had been loaded. All were rusted, and there were cobwebs in the empty chambers. Brown handed the revolver to his deputy, then pointed to another man standing in the crowd and motioned him over.

“Cy, this is U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long. I know of him, and he's all right.”

“Pleasure t' meet you, Marshal. I'm Cyrus Cantwell.” He extended a hand to shake.

“Cy, you know what's happened here. Do you recognize the gun?”

“No, I don't, Jonas. I'd remember it if I'd ever seen it before.”

Brown told Longarm, “Cy is our gunsmith in town. Also our saddle and harness maker, watch and clock repairer, pretty much anything that can be done with small tools in good hands. Cy also does what little buying or selling of guns that takes place in this end of the county.”

“The conversion is to .44 rimfire,” Longarm said. “Do you stock ammunition for that?”

“Of course,” Cantwell said. “That cartridge fits the old Henry rifles. There are a few of those still around. I have a brand-new one still on my rack, in fact, and two used Henrys that I've taken in trade over the past couple years. I still carry the ammunition.”