Read Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) Online
Authors: Tabor Evans
Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209)
Two Bullets for One Robber…
“You’re under arrest,” Longarm said as he stepped out of the Concord.
The robber jerked—startled, no doubt, although Longarm could not see his facial expression beneath that hood—and brought the muzzle of his revolver around toward Longarm. Any self-respecting robber would have been aiming toward the coach to begin with, of course.
Then he made his second mistake. And by far his worst one. He cocked his piece—it rightly should have been ready to fire to start with—and tried to shoot Custis Long in the face.
Before the man could trigger his Smith & Wesson Schofield, Longarm put a bullet in his chest and another in his belly. The first slug knocked him back a step. The second doubled him over with a cry of pain.
“You didn’t…you didn’t have to…”
By that time Longarm was on the ground in a crouch, looking around for the others.
He saw no one…
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Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him…the Gunsmith.
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Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
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J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
TABOR EVANS
LONGARM
AND THE DEADWOOD
SHOOT-OUT
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THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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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 AND THE DEADWOOD SHOOT-OUT
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Milo Sinovcic.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61920-9
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| ALWAYS LEARNING | PEARSON |
Chapter 1
Custis Long took the stone steps two at a time leading up to the Federal Building on Denver’s Colfax Avenue, a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a study in brown, brown corduroy trousers, brown tweed coat, brown-and-white-checked shirt, and snuff-brown Stetson hat. He had a handlebar mustache, dark eyes flecked with gold, and a craggy face that women quite inexplicably found interesting. He wore a double-action Colt revolver in a black leather cross-draw rig.
He was feeling particularly good this morning. For more than a month he had been trying to convince a maddeningly lovely chorus girl at the Hansborough Theater that she should grant him the pleasure of her company, and finally she had wilted under the pressure of his repeated requests. This weekend after the Saturday night performances he would squire her out to dinner. And perhaps more. It was an understatement to say that he was looking forward to the engagement.
He entered the building and made his way down the corridor to a frosted-glass door marked u.s. marshal.
The tall deputy entered the office suite, greeted Marshal William Vail’s clerk with a cheery “Howdy, Henry,” and hung his flat-crowned brown Stetson on the hat rack beside the door.
“Hello yourself, Longarm,” Henry responded. Henry was a serious sort, slender and bespectacled. “Boss wants to see you,” he said.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Longarm said, reaching up to smooth his hair and twist the ends of his mustache. “I got to get over to the barber shop this morning.”
Henry shrugged as if to say he did now know what Billy Vail wanted. Longarm knew better. There was nothing that went on around this office that Henry was not privy to.
“Is anyone in with him?” Longarm asked.
Henry shook his head. “No, go on in.”
Longarm paused outside Billy Vail’s door and lightly tapped on it.
“Come in.”
Longarm stepped inside. The marshal was seated behind his desk, poring over a stack of the paperwork that made most of his duties administrative ones while his deputies rode out to do the actual work of the office.
Billy Vail’s appearance belied his abilities. He was round-faced, balding with a pink complexion and an innocent mien. He looked almost angelic but before coming to Denver had been a Texas Ranger and a salty one at that. Billy Vail could hold his own with a six-gun or a bad horse and many an outlaw had mistaken him for soft. That was an error they made only once.
Vail looked up from his papers and pushed them to one side. He motioned for Longarm to take a seat in one of the two chairs that faced the marshal’s broad desk.