Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (13 page)

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “I expect you're right about that.” What the hell else could he say? The simple truth was that he agreed with her. He had come here to help. Now Sheriff Tyler was murdered and a helpless prisoner along with him. And Custis Long had done not a damn thing to prevent the murders.

Nell Tyler came up behind the woman, and Longarm figured he would be in for more well-earned condemnation from the young widow. Instead Nell very softly and with steely conviction said, “Find whoever did this, Marshal Long. Find them and kill the sons of bitches. Kill them all.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, not knowing what else he could say under the circumstances. “I'll do all I can.”

“Don't bring them to trial, Marshal. Shoot them down like the dogs they are,” Nell said.

“Yes, ma' am.”

By tomorrow, he figured, Nell would regret her outburst. By then she would surely change her mind about wanting an eye for an eye. In the meantime it did no harm to agree with her.

The woman who'd accused him of failing Tyler put an arm around Nell's shoulders and, with two other ladies helping, led her back into the parlor, where they pressed a teacup into one hand and a cookie into the other.

Longarm tugged his Stetson back into place, picked up his carpetbag, and got the hell out of there. He liked the ladies just fine one at a time, but fluttering, chirping bunches of them tended to make him nervous.

 

He found the alley behind Helen Birch's saloon, went inside, and put his things in her tiny bedroom. If she did not want them there, well, he could find somewhere else to sleep. In the sheriff's office if necessary, even though the place reeked of the heavy, copper stink of blood.

He went back through the alley and around to the front of the saloon—it wouldn't do Helen's reputation any favors for her patrons to see him coming out of the big woman's private quarters—and reentered from the street.

With both Doris's and Rosie's places shuttered and silent for the time being, Helen was doing a heavy trade. The place was jam-packed with local men and even a few rather nervous-looking whores. Longarm guessed Helen did not approve of them, since she did not normally allow any of the working girls to ply their trade in her place.

He pushed his way through the crowd and got Helen's attention.

“Hello, Marshal. We've heard what happened to Sheriff Tyler and that prisoner you had in there. I'm sorry to hear it. John Tyler was a good man.”

“That he was, Helen, thanks.” He hesitated for a moment then said, “You ain't gonna like what I have t' tell you now.”

“More shootings?” she asked quickly.

“No, nothin' like that, but I'm afraid I got to shut you down too. I don't want folks, any folks, getting liquored up right now. This could turn ugly, and I don't want that. So shut 'er down now, please.”

Helen became silent. She spent a moment in thought, probably thinking about defying him. After all, she was doing a great deal of business now that she was the only saloon in town, at least the only open one. She pondered the order and then she nodded. “All right. Under the circumstances that is a reasonable request.”

The woman walked to the center of her bar and in a booming voice called out, “That is it, gentlemen. And, um, ladies. We have been ordered to close, so everyone finish your drinks and leave now.”

“What if we don't want to do that?” a male voice called out from somewhere in the crowd.

“Then you will be arrested,” Longarm responded.

“Just asking,” the same voice said, in not nearly so belligerent a tone this time.

The patrons very quickly tossed back whatever drinks they had remaining and made for the door. Within minutes the saloon was empty save for Helen and Longarm.

“I, uh, was kinda hoping you'd take in a boarder for the next few days,” Longarm said. “I put my things in the back there.”

Helen said nothing. But she locked the front door, turned the CLOSED sign, and pulled the blinds.

Then she smiled. “Would you like a drink, Custis?”

“Yes. And more'n that afterward.” He reached for her and she came into his arms.

Neither one of them remembered the promised drink.

Longarm took her standing up, bent over the whiskey-stained bar in her saloon. He took her without kissing or foreplay, just lifting her dress and shoving his suddenly insistent cock into her from behind.

Helen seemed to understand his urgency. Longarm did not really understand it himself.

Death could do that, he supposed. Fucking was an affirmation of life, and he was indeed alive, while others, for whatever reason and by whatever hand, were cold and dead.

He drove into Helen as hard and as deep as he could. She shuddered and trembled and within a dozen thrusts began to respond, her pussy clenching around him as she built to one climax after another long before Longarm's explosive gush of cum.

He came in a great outpouring of hot fluids, then his knees went weak and he fell forward onto the woman, giving his weight to Helen to carry.

Longarm stayed like that for long moments, leaning on her as she bent over the bar, until his strength returned and he pushed himself upright.

Once Longarm had withdrawn, the hem of Helen's dress fell and she straightened upright.

She turned and peered into his eyes without comment for what must have been the better part of a full minute. Then she reached up and gently touched his face. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly, gently.

She smiled. “You needed that.”

Longarm nodded. “Aye, I did. I dunno why exactly, but . . . yeah. I did.”

Her smile became wider and she kissed him again. “I'm glad I was here for you.”

Longarm hugged her. “You're a good woman, Helen Birch. A damned good woman.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” she said with another smile. “Now help yourself to a drink while I go make us some supper.”

“Come t' think of it, I'm close on to starvation,” Longarm said, returning the lady's smile. “Then later on we can go in t' that bed o' yours and get naked, do things nice and proper.”

She laughed. “I didn't know there was a ‘proper' way to do that particular thing.”

“You didn't?” he said, pretending her comment shocked him. “Reckon in that case I'll have t' show you how.”

“After we eat.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Now, help yourself to that drink. I'll go make our supper.”

“That was fine,” he lied, pushing his plate away. Helen's supper had not been particularly tasty, but it filled the emptiness in his belly.

“Do you want to, um . . . ?” She seemed suddenly shy.

“Yes, I do, but not now,” he told her. “I got to make the rounds of town. See to it that things are quiet. I'll come back after I see to things, but I got to do that first.”

“All right. Whatever you need to do,” she said.

Longarm stood and stretched. He reached for his hat and put on the coat he had shed before eating. “Do you have a lantern I could borrow? A bull's-eye if you have one o' those.”

“I have a regular lantern. Will that do?”

“Sure.”

“Wait here.” Helen went into the saloon and returned moments later carrying a rather battered lantern. She filled it from a can of coal oil, lifted the globe, and lighted it for him.

“Thanks.” He kissed her and went out the back door carrying the lantern low with his left hand.

He went first to the courthouse and around back to the sheriff's office. The door still gaped slightly open, and no one had yet come to start cleaning up the mess inside. A thief could have a fine time in there, stealing the county's shotguns and rifles. There was nothing he could do about the door, but he did go in—carefully because of all the blood and gore that remained on the floor—and moved the valuable firearms into a cell, which he locked, putting the key into his pocket.

From the courthouse he walked over to the Tyler house and around back to the little barn. There he fed and watered DeCaro's dun horse and Tyler's mare as well. He doubted anyone would think about the horses. The house showed lights from the windows, and there was still a crowd of ladies inside trying to comfort Nell. He could see them through the open windows and hear snippets of conversation. John Tyler's death seemed to have turned into a social function for the churches in Dwyer.

It had been a long time since Longarm had served as a town lawman, but he remembered how. He went downtown and walked the business district, checking to see that doors were locked and that no one was lurking in the alleys.

He passed through the alleys as well, Helen's lantern showing the way.

As he came out of a narrow opening between Sam Johnson's mercantile and a leather-working shop, he almost bumped into Eli Cruikshank.

Longarm was keyed up and came close to drawing down on the lanky Texan.

“Whoa,” Cruikshank said, throwing his hands up and taking a step back. “I didn't mean to startle you, Marshal. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I guess I'm a mite touchy tonight,” Longarm confessed.

“It's no wonder, the sheriff being murdered and all,” Cruikshank said. “That's why I was looking for you, actually.”

“You know something about it?”

Cruikshank lowered his hands and said, “Not really. Which is what I want you to know. The Mexican was murdered right along with the sheriff the way I heard it. Is that right?”

Longarm nodded.

“So the first thing you would've had in mind, I'm sure, is that I did it,” Cruikshank said. “That one stands to reason. I would think so too in your place, but what I want you to know is that I didn't do it. I'll kill a man, sure, but I'll keep it within the law and I'll own up to it afterward. And I did not kill Sheriff Tyler nor that Mexican.”

“Where were you early this morning, Eli?” Longarm asked.

“In camp with the Basques and their flocks. About a half mile up from where we were when you were out there.”

“You have witnesses who will confirm what you say?”

Cruikshank nodded. “I do, Marshal.” Then he smiled a little and shrugged. “Of course they'd lie for me about that. Which you likely know already.”

“Puts me in an awkward spot, don't it,” Longarm said.

“Yeah. I guess it does,” Cruikshank agreed. “So are you going to take me in?” He grinned and added, “Or try to?”

“If I have reason to take you in, Eli, why, I reckon I will do that. The thing is, at the moment I don't have any proof that you are the one responsible for those murders.”

“Don't have and you won't have, Marshal, for I didn't do them,” Cruikshank said.

“I hope you're telling me the truth, Eli. Assuming that you are innocent, do you have any idea who might've done them?”

The Texas gunman shook his head. “I'd help you if I could, but I don't have no idea about it. The news reached the Basque camp about midday, which is the first I heard of it. I know it was none of our bunch though. I can give you my word on that.”

“You trust all of those fellas?” Longarm asked.

Cruikshank grinned again. “Not really, but I know them well enough by now to be sure that if any of them
did
do those shootings, they would've bragged about it around the fire afterward. There was a lot of talk about the Mexican today, but it was all about what they
wanted
to do to him, nothing about what they
had
done to him. If you see the difference.”

“I hope that's straight talk, Eli.”

“You have my word on it, Marshal.”

“That's good enough, Eli. For now.” Longarm turned and walked on, making his rounds of the sleepy town of Dwyer.

Sleepy, hell!

Longarm had not gone half a block before a flash of gunpowder flared behind him. A bullet sizzled past his left ear and hit the siding of Bert's barbershop with a solid thump.

At almost the same instant Longarm spun, crouching, his Colt in his hand.

He could see . . . not a damn thing.

The street was dark and silent. Longarm thought he heard distant footsteps, but he was not sure about that, and his night vision was poor thanks to the bright light of the lantern he was carrying.

He quickly backed into the doorway of the barbershop, lifted the lantern bail, and blew out the flame. The sudden darkness blinded him all the further.

“Son of a
bitch
,” he mumbled.

The shooter had to know exactly where he was, but Longarm had no clue as to where the shooter had been. And might still be.

That was the problem. The cocksucker might still be there—somewhere—waiting for Longarm to make a target of himself again. The receding footsteps he thought he'd heard might well have been an illusion or they could have been the sound of someone quite sensibly running the hell away from trouble.

Longarm blinked rapidly, trying to force his night vision to return. The effort did nothing of the kind. It did not help a thing. Probably did not hurt either, but that was no consolation. He needed to be able to see.
Right damned now!

The .45 in his hand felt solid and reassuring.

But he needed some-damned-where to point it.

Longarm felt suddenly vulnerable and exposed.

The shooter had probably gone. Probably took his shot and then ran.

But the important part there was that word “probably.” The son of a bitch could still be there. Somewhere.