Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) (9 page)

The street in front of the barbershop had been empty when Longarm was there before, Belle Fourche not being so large that men could not walk in for their morning shaves. Now there was a buckboard parked there, drawn by a pair of undersized Spanish mules.

Longarm paused to scratch the mules under their jaws—he liked mules and anyway was in no hurry to confront Jeanine Bowen—then squared shoulders and marched inside.

The only person he saw inside was a customer who was already in the chair, lathered and covered with an apron.

“Where’s Dooley?” Longarm asked.

The customer pointed toward the back of the place. “Bix and Miz Dooley are back there with Tom,” the customer said. “The other fellas that was in the shop waiting for the chair took off when she came in. Me, I was already halfway through my shave or I would’ve took off out of here, too.”

Longarm nodded his thanks and went through the doorway into the back room where Tom Bowen’s body
lay on a long table. Bowen was naked. The table was surrounded by a rat’s nest of bottles and tubes, things Longarm recognized as embalming tools without having any understanding whatsoever of how they were employed. Nor did he really want to know. It was one thing to shoot them but quite another to go through this part of the process.

Bowen’s widow was a careworn little wisp of a woman with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was wearing a colorless, shapeless dress. Longarm could not decide if this was her idea of a widow’s weeds or if she simply dressed this way all the time for lack of anything else to wear to town.

“Ma’am,” he said, taking his hat off and holding it in both hands, “I’m awful sorry for your loss. Is there anything…?”

“You are the man who killed him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her face screwed up as if she wanted to cry but did not have enough moisture in her tissues to squeeze any water out. “I cannot blame you, sir. You did what you had to do.”

“Yes, ma’am. But that don’t make the hurting any th’ less. I mean it, ma’am. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

“You should know, Marshal, that the county won’t be paying for the burial,” Dooley said. “I talked to Ed Hochavar this morning. The county supervisors say it isn’t their doing, so they won’t pay. Miz Bowen will have to.”

Longarm took Bix Dooley by the shirtsleeve and pulled him aside. “How much d’you charge for a buryin’?”

“Normally, it is five dollars, but…”

“But nothin’. This buryin’ will be two fifty. I’ll pay it my own self. Do you understand me, mister?”

Dooley looked at Longarm’s stern expression for only a moment. Then the man nodded. “Two fifty it is, Marshal.”

“Thank you.” Longarm returned to the widow and nodded to her. “Like I said, ma’am, I just wanted t’ express my condolences. I am truly sorry. Where will you…will you try an’ stay on where you are?”

“No, I don’t think so. I will take my children and go back home to Indiana. We have people there. They will take us in.” Her voice broke a little but the woman had her pride. She would do what she had to do.

“Yes, ma’am.” Longarm bowed his way backward as far as the door, then spun around and got the hell out of there, the stink of the chemicals closing in around him. The chemicals…or something.

The barber chair was empty when he returned to the front of the shop. The customer was gone, the apron sheet lying rumpled in the chair.

Longarm had a light lunch, then ambled over to the same saloon he had patronized the evening before. Other than the bartender the only man in the place was an out-of-work teamster named Gary McCarthy who liked to play draw poker…and was so bad a player that even at low stakes Longarm ended the afternoon more than seven dollars to the good.

He was almost ashamed of himself for taking advantage of McCarthy. Almost, not quite. If the man was going to play he should accept the result and did without complaint.

Eventually, his stomach rumbling in search of a meal, Longarm stood up, stretched, and excused himself. “Time t’ go have some supper,” he said.

McCarthy nodded and began shuffling the cards again, ready for whoever else came in.

Longarm thought about Angela Morris. He smiled. He could not think of a better thing to do with his winnings than to buy her a supper. Then whatever happened afterward, well, that would be good, too.

He walked over to her store and once inside put the closed sign in the window.

“Angela?” She was not in the small, display area. Must be in the back, he thought.

He started to open the door to the back area where the spare stock—and the rumpled bed—was.

“Don’t,” Angela’s voice came past the crack in the door before he had a chance to get inside. “Don’t…don’t come in.”

She sounded odd. There was something in the tone of her voice that he did not like. Fear? He thought perhaps so.

Longarm pushed the door a little further open.

“Please don’t come inside,” she said, her voice definitely quavering.

“Are you all right?” he called.

“Who is it? Who’s out there?” Angela responded.

“It’s me. Custis Long. From yesterday.”

“Custis, I…I’m not decent.”

“Oh, I’ve seen…” Before he finished the sentence he finished opening the door and began to step inside.

Angela was there all right. So was her husband, Larry Morris, the same asshole Longarm had the run-in with the previous evening.

The man had Angela’s skirt and knickers off. She was wearing only her blouse and shirtwaist. Larry was fully clothed but his fly was unbuttoned and his pecker was out, standing stiff and tall. It was not very big, and under Longarm’s gaze it began to shrivel.

It was obvious that Angela had been crying. Her face was tear-streaked and puffy. Her chest was heaving and there were large, ugly bruises forming on her upper thighs. Morris was either in the process of raping the woman or had already done so.

“Get out,” the man screamed. “You aren’t wanted here.”

“Angela?” Longarm asked. “D’you want him here? Maybe we both o’ us should go.” Longarm smiled, no mirth at all in the expression. “Maybe I should take this son of a bitch in an’ lock him up on a charge of, oh, domestic violence, maybe.”

Longarm took a step forward into the crowded room and Morris screeched, “Don’t. Not a step closer.”

The man produced a knife from somewhere and flicked it open. He grabbed Angela by the hair and yanked her backward. He held the edge of the blade to the side of her throat. Longarm could see her pulse throbbing in the big artery in her very tender flesh.

“Not a step closer or the woman dies,” Morris threatened.

Longarm slowly and deliberately took his .45 out of its leather and cocked it. “Seems t’ me, mister, that you’ve brought a knife to a gunfight. Reckon my revolver trumps your knife.”

“I’m telling you, I’ll kill her,” Morris snarled.

Longarm turned his head, spat, and appeared to ponder that threat for a moment. Then he nodded. “All right. Then what?”

“What?” Morris sounded incredulous.

“I said if you follow through on that an’ murder the lady, then what’s your plan? This here .45 will shoot right through a little lady like Angela. It’ll shoot right inta you. Or you won’t be able t’ hold a dead woman up for very long. Besides, with all that blood flowin’ she’ll get slippery. Hard t’ hold up once she’s all slick-wet with blood. Damn stuff is awful slippery. Did you know that? Then when she drops I’ll have a clean shot at you. I’ll aim for the belly.
Take you days t’ die, prob’ly. By the time you do you’ll be screaming for somebody t’ have the kindness of puttin’ you out of your pain. But nobody will.

“Or you might could kill her an’ then real quick surrender. I’d be duty bound to take you in on a charge o’ murder. If that happens I can pretty much guarantee you’ll hang. Might take a spell for the law t’ get around to it. You’ll set in an eight-by-eight cell for could be half a year before they finally take you out to the gallows an’ put the noose ’round your neck.” He grinned. “Reckon I’d like t’ come back up and watch you swing when it happens.”

“Jesus, mister, I…it ain’t supposed to work like that,” Morris protested.

“What, there’s rules about this sort of thing?” Longarm asked.

“Well, yeah,” Morris said. “I mean, the deal is if you don’t do what I say, I’ll kill Angie here.”

Longarm shrugged. “An’ the rest o’ that deal is, if you do, then I’ll put a bullet through your face an’ another one in your gut.”

“I’ll kill her. I swear I will.”

“You already said that,” Longarm reminded the man. “You said that an’ I said what I said an’ now it’s up to you t’ decide how you want this t’ play out. You go to jail on a charge of domestic violence an’ spend a week in lockup or I shoot you or you hang. But whatever you want t’ do it’s all up to you, mister.”

Morris was sweating now. His knife blade was pressed hard against Angela’s throat. It was a wonder she was not already bleeding.

“Make up your mind,” Longarm said.

Then Angela made the decision for them. She fainted dead away and dropped out of Larry’s grip.

Longarm took aim on the center of the man’s forehead and said, “All right. My turn. But it ain’t a threat, it’s a choice. Either turn around an’ put your hands back where I can cuff them, or I shoot you down where you stand.”

Larry Morris meekly turned around and tossed his now-useless knife onto the bed.

Town Marshal John Bennett closed the cell door with a loud clang, turned the key to securely lock Larry Morris on the other side of the bars, and took the key ring with him into the other room. “You’ll need to sign a complaint,” he told Longarm. Bennett pulled his top desk drawer open and dropped the keys into it.

“If you don’t mind, Marshal,” Bennett said, “I’ll prepare the complaint in the morning. It’s getting a little late and my old lady has supper on the stove for me. Would that be all right?”

“Fine,” Longarm said. “I can’t leave until the next southbound stage comes through, so I reckon I’ll still be here in the morning. I’ll come by right after breakfast if that works good for you.”

Bennett nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you then.” He started for the door.

Longarm paused, curious. “You don’t have a night deputy?”

“No, sir, I don’t. No room for it in the town budget.”

“What d’you do if you have problems at night?” Longarm asked.

Bennett grinned. “I tend to them in the morning.”

“Of course,” Longarm said. “Fine, then. Good night, John. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Longarm returned to Angela’s shop. The closed sign was in place, but he tapped on the door until she finally came to see who it was. She was fully dressed now but had changed her blouse in addition to retrieving her skirt.

“Custis. What…?”

“I came t’ see are you all right.”

“I am. Really.”

“If you say so, but I thought you might like a store-bought meal this evenin’. That’s what I come by to ask you t’ begin with.” He grinned. “I got some poker winnin’s burning a hole in my pocket, an’ I can’t think of anyone I’d ruther squander them on than you.”

“Custis, that is so nice of you.”

“Does that mean you’ll dine with me?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Then you pick where y’ want to eat. Pick the nicest place in town,” he said.

“There aren’t so awfully many to choose from.”

“Still,” he said, “you pick out the nicest there is. That’s where we’ll go.”

Angela giggled. “The town will be scandalized, me going out with a gentleman who is not my husband.”

“I thought you said he’s your ex-husband.”

“I may have exaggerated a little. Does it matter?”

“Not to me, it don’t,” Longarm said, offering his arm to her.

“Wait a second. I need to get a shawl.”

Angela disappeared into her shop again. Longarm was
left wondering if he would ever meet a woman who could simply walk out with a man without first having to do something—anything—else.

Still, the wait was worth doing. Angela was pleasant company at dinner. And afterward in her bed, too.

The trip down to Lead was unpleasant. A stagecoach was not the most comfortable mode of transportation to begin with and this trip was made even more so by the presence of a drunk who had puked all over himself shortly before boarding the coach. His stench was nearly unbearable, to the point that Longarm chose to leave the padded bench inside and to ride instead perched atop the luggage that was piled on the roof of the vehicle.

If nothing else it made him damned glad to reach Lead. And Lead, Dakota Territory, was such a drab and ugly destination that it took a powerful discomfort to find Lead as the desirable alternative.

Still, Lead was where at least one of the stolen shipments had been consigned. Longarm climbed down from the roof of the Bastrop stagecoach, groaning and grumbling and thinking the trip might have been easier if he had just thought to throw the stinking passenger out on the road. Let the son of a bitch walk to wherever he was going.

“Here’s your bag, mister,” the jehu said, disengaging
Longarm’s carpetbag from the jumble of bags and boxes and dropping it down to him.

“Thanks, Harry.” Longarm saluted the man with a forefinger to the brim of his Stetson. Then he picked up his bag and carried it inside the Bastrop office for safekeeping until he knew what he would be doing later.

“Where can I find the Golden Star?” he asked the station agent. “I’ll be wanting the company office if it’s different from the mine.”

“The Star has a office in town here. ’Nuther one out at the mine site.”

“In town I’d think,” Longarm said.

The old fellow who was running things for Bastrop grunted and said, “The town place is over top of the hardware. Next street over and a block down. The stairs you want is on the west side of the building.”

Longarm thanked the man, parked his bag beside the door, and left in search of the Golden Star offices. When he got there he found a sign hanging on the doorknob saying the staff had gone to lunch and would be back in half an hour. He had no idea when that sign had been hung. Or if anyone was really watching the clock to get back at any particular time, so he returned to the street and went looking for a lunch of his own.