Longarm #396 : Longarm and the Castle of the Damned (9781101545249) (11 page)

Longarm pondered his theory while the dun traveled on a slack rein.

There was a fly in that ointment, he realized.

If that was all there was to this, why had Moses Arthur claimed to have a problem that would involve federal laws being broken. Prostitution was against no federal law that Longarm knew of. Neither was murder.

Of course there was no way for him to know at this late date just how much Mose Arthur knew of the law. It could well be that the old man knew his granddaughter was hooking in Colorado and so could not be reached by Wyoming law. Maybe that was why he wanted a deputy United States marshal to tackle the matter.

Even assuming that, Longarm thought . . . so what.

He hooked a leg over the saddle horn and let the dun continue on. Longarm pulled a cheroot from his coat—he was beginning to run low on them and needed to buy more as soon as the opportunity arose—and bit the twist off, then carefully licked the tightly rolled wrapper leaf and lighted his smoke.

He did not know what it was, but there was something satisfying about a good cigar. Smoking one seemed to help him to think.

A second fly appeared in his mental ointment as he pondered what little he knew about Justine Crowne and Moses Arthur. If this was only a simple matter of crossing jurisdictions—
when no laws seemed to have been broken anyway
—why were Arthur and the Crownes murdered? And why did someone take a shot at him up near Medicine Bow?

What it came down to, he had to admit, was that there was a hell of a lot at play here that he did not at this point suspect.

Whatever it was justified murder in someone's mind. Three murders that he knew about and possibly more that he did not.

Longarm heard the thunder of hooves and the rattle of trace chains coming up behind. He dropped his leg and found the stirrup again, then reined the dun off the road to make way for the southbound stagecoach.

The driver waved a friendly hello as the light mud wagon clattered past with two passengers on the benches, both of them with handkerchiefs held to their noses to keep the thickly billowing dust out. Neither of the passengers waved, but Longarm could not be sure either of them saw him there beside the road.

“I see what looks to be a creek over there, old son,” Longarm said to the horse, getting a flick of its ears in response. “Let's go see if you're thirsty. Then I'm gonna take me a little nap before we trot on down to that hog ranch an' see what we can see. It might could be that I should have my wits about me when we get there.”

Longarm had spotted the hog ranch a little past noon. It lay a hundred yards or so east of the road, tucked up against a massive rock face. A spacious corral was built on the north side of the saloon, while on the south there was a long, low line of cribs for the whores. From the road he could see two of the soiled doves sitting in the doorways of their cribs waiting for customers.

The place seemed to be popular enough. There were half a dozen horses already standing idle in the corral. Longarm added the dun to that collection.

A well had been drilled between the saloon and the corral. He stopped there to pump some of the cold, clean water. He drank a little first, then splashed his face and neck to rinse off some of the dust of the road. He felt refreshed after he did so.

Longarm slicked his hair back with one hand, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and replaced his hat. He squared his shoulders and headed for the door leading into the saloon.

The place was bigger than it had appeared from the outside. A lack of windows was made up for by the numerous lamps placed on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. But then windows to bring in daylight were not important to a business that would be conducted mostly at night.

A long bar lay on the left or north side of the big room. Tables for drinking—or gambling—were ranked along the south wall. The middle of the place was open, an expanse of plank floor where patrons could dance. At the back there was a foot-high platform with a few chairs on it. That would be for a small band, Longarm assumed, although there were no musicians present at this early hour. Likely they would appear sometime past sundown and play as long as there were customers to keep the money flowing.

At the moment there were two men standing at the bar and four more gathered around a card table, one of them a dude with a yellow brocade vest, string tie, and hair so loaded with oil that it gleamed in the lamplight. That one, he suspected, would be Edgar Spurlock. Longarm ignored Spurlock and approached the bar instead.

Longarm tipped his Stetson back from his forehead and smiled. “Howdy,” he said to the man behind the bar, who was wearing an apron, a spotlessly clean apron, he noticed. “Would it be possible for a gent to get a bite to eat here?”

The bartender came down to Longarm's end of the bar and said, “Friend, you can get most anything a man needs. You say it's food that you're wanting?”

“Food an' prob'ly a little more. I've about rode far enough for one day.” He laughed. “My butt ain't used to this abuse, an' my legs is about to fold up underneath me if I don't light an' rest for a spell.”

“We have a good kitchen out back,” the barman said. “You can get a full dinner for seventy five cents or a bowl of stew and slab of cornbread for a quarter. Either one comes with a beer included.”

Longarm nodded. “I'll have the stew an' I'll take that beer now if you don't mind.”

The bartender drew the beer and set it in front of Longarm, then stepped out of sight into a back room for a moment. When he returned, he said, “Your lunch will be right out. Help yourself to a seat and it will be brought to you.”

“Thanks,” Longarm said, lifting his beak from the foamy suds on his beer. He smacked his lips and said, “This is good.” He saluted the bartender with his upraised mug, then turned and chose a table close to the card players, close enough that he could listen in on their conversation.

The barman must have passed word that there was a fresh fish in the place, for a girl soon appeared in the doorway. She was very young, the freshness of youth buried beneath a thick layer of powder and rouge. She wore a bright yellow dress that fell only to her knees. The bodice was tight and cut low enough to show what little cleavage she had. That was not very much actually, as her tits were little more than bumps under the cloth. Her pale blond hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She had freckles, he noticed. And a bruise on the left side of her face that the makeup could not completely hide.

The girl came swaying over to the table where Longarm sat. “Hi, honey. Do you want company?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a chair close beside Longarm's and dropped onto it. “My name is Honey, honey. What's yours?” She smiled and placed her hand on his forearm.

“John,” Longarm said.

“I'm happy to meet you, John. Buy me a drink? I would like that.” She squeezed his arm ever so lightly.

“Sure,” he said. “What would you like?”

“I'm real partial to champagne, John. Would that be all right?”

“Sure thing, Honey.”

The girl waved to the barman, who very quickly brought a dark green bottle of the bubbly along with a pair of glasses. The pop of the cork when he opened it suggested that it was genuine champagne.

“Would you like another beer or will you settle for the wine?” the bartender asked.

“I'll stick with the beer,” Longarm said.

Immediately after the champagne arrived so did his stew and a plate of corn dodgers and a small tub of sweet butter, carried out on a tray borne by a short, stout, swarthy woman. Mexican, Longarm thought, or Indian.

“Are you hungry, Honey?” he asked.

She shook her head and poured herself a foaming glass of the champagne. She quickly drained the first glass and poured another. Steeling herself with spirits, he figured. Preparing for a chore she would rather not do?

She drank that one down too and poured a third glass.

While Honey was busy with her fancy wine, Longarm dug into the stew. He did not know what the meat was, but the stew was good, thick with potatoes and carrots and swimming in rich gravy. The corn dodgers were excellent also, light and sweet. He slathered the butter on good and thick and thoroughly enjoyed his meal.

The barman replaced the beer mugs, a fresh one arriving as soon as one was emptied. Probably Honey was giving the bartender signals, but Longarm did not notice how.

The girl had worked her way through most of the bottle of champagne by the time Longarm was done eating.

She took his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. She smelled of lilac water and sweat. She lifted her face to him and smiled sweetly. “Would you like to go to my room, John? I can make a man
very
happy.”

Her hand was on his leg, creeping ever higher toward the bulge that appeared in his britches.

She put her hand on his cock and lightly squeezed. “Very happy,” she repeated.

“Let's go,” he said, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet.

Honey's crib was the third door from the road end of the line. The door was secured only by a small block of wood rotating on a single nail. It would keep the door from blowing open in a breeze but would not bar anyone from coming in if they really wanted to. Likely that was deliberate, Longarm thought, in case the management—whoever the hell that might be—had to come to the rescue of one of the whores.

The crib was small, probably six feet across by eight feet deep. The entire back end was a platform the size of the double-wide mattress that lay on it. Underneath the platform was a long drawer, probably where Honey kept her clothing. The bottom third of the mattress was covered with oilcloth. That would be for the “gentlemen” who did not bother to remove their boots. The other two thirds were covered with a threadbare trade blanket. A scrawny pillow was propped against the wall at that end.

The rest of the furnishings consisted of a three-legged stool and half a dozen coat hooks screwed into the left-hand wall. A lamp was mounted on the right-hand wall.

Honey left the door open to admit some light while she struck a match and lighted the lamp, then she pushed the door shut and turned the wooden latch to hold it closed.

She stepped close to Longarm and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The girl presented a problem for him. He did not really want to fuck her. She looked just too damned young, and deputy United States marshals were not supposed to involve themselves in that sort of thing.

On the other hand he did not think it a very good idea for him to announce himself. Not just yet. Not if he wanted to learn more about Justine Crowne and why her entire family was murdered.

It seemed now he either had to admit to being a deputy or climb onto that platform with the more than willing little whore.

Longarm settled for a smile. And a kiss.

The girl tasted of champagne and peanuts. At least that is what he
hoped
he was tasting in her mouth.

He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a wall hook and then did the same with his gunbelt. By then Honey had his shirt and vest open. She removed his Ingersoll from the watch pocket and stuffed it into the pocket on the other side of the vest, so the watch chain would not interfere; then she pushed both his vest and his shirt off his shoulders.

Longarm opened the buttons on his trousers and sat on the side of the bed while Honey knelt and pulled off his boots before she tugged his pants down.

While Longarm got out of his own balbriggans, Honey very quickly shed her dress. That took only seconds. But then she would have had quite a lot of practice at getting in and out of her clothing.

Her body was slender to the point of being skinny, if a little wide in the hips. Her legs were toothpick thin. Her tits were barely large enough to be considered tits. Her nipples, however, were dark and prominent and rubbery. Her pubic hair was a mass of blond curls. Which answered the question of whether or not she was a natural blond. All in all she was not a bad-looking girl and would have been almost pretty without all that makeup.

She still looked awfully damned young though. She removed whatever it was that had been holding her hair back and, with a shake of her head, let a tawny mane fall loose. She did not look quite so young when she did that.

“You lie down, honey,” she said, “and let me give you some pleasure.”

Longarm stretched out on his back while Honey straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips. She leaned forward and began to lick his nipples, the sensation shooting all the way down into his dick, which by then was standing at rigid attention.

“D'you mind if I ask you something, Honey?” he asked.

The girl looked up and frowned, “You aren't going to ask me how a nice girl like me got into a business like this, are you?” He got the impression she had heard that too many times already and did not like it.

“Uh, no,” he said. “What I'm wantin' to know is if your real name might be Justine. A fella I know told me to look for a girl name of Justine if I ever got down this way.” He smiled and touched her cheek. “If that gives offense, well, I'm sorry. I'm just curious, that's all.”

“Oh. Sorry, honey. I've just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, about your question, no, my name isn't Justine and I don't know anyone here whose name is. There was a girl by that name that came here a few weeks ago, but she isn't one of us girls. She was just passing through. All right? Can we get back to business now?”

Business. The word sort of took the edge off things. Still, Honey wasn't a bad-looking girl and Longarm's interest revived when she bent to run her tongue up and down his cock.