Longarm 242: Red-light (17 page)

“You won't have to worry about us, Custis,” said Nola. “I think I can promise you that much.”

Longarm sighed heavily. Despite what he had said, he knew that when the time came, he
would
worry about them. He wouldn't be able to help himself. Nola had saved his life, and the other three women had helped nurse him back to health. Now he would not only have to capture or kill Mallory and the rest of the gang, but he would have to keep the women safe, too.

Well, old son,
he told himself,
you knew the job was damned hard work when you first pinned on that badge ...

Jessup punched four tickets and handed them to Nola, who paid him for them. Then he stepped out onto the porch of the station to greet the stage as it pulled up. Longarm glanced through the window and saw that the two men on the driver's box were the same ones who had worked the run from Carson City down to Tonopah when he made that trip. The jehu named George was handling the reins, and the duster-clad youngster called Pryor was sitting beside him, cradling a greener in his lap. Bat Thompson had said they were good men to have around in case of trouble, and Longarm was glad to see them.

Longarm heard Jessup say, according to the plan, “Take 'er on around back to the barn, George. We'll swap teams there. I want to check them thoroughbraces.”

George looked a little puzzled by the request, but he nodded. “Sure, Claude, whatever you say,” he replied as he slapped the reins against the backs of the team and got the horses moving again.

The coach rolled on around the station to the large barn, and Jessup went out the back door. Longarm crossed his arms and regarded Nola and the other women balefully. Angie came over and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Aw, hell, Custis, don't look so mad,” she said. “It'll be all right. You don't have to worry about us. We can take care of ourselves. Ain't that right, girls?”

Rafaela said quietly, “After some of the things we've seen and done, Marshal, going up against some outlaws doesn't seem like a whole hell of a lot.”

“You're not going up against any outlaws,” snapped Longarm. “You're going to keep your heads down and let me handle Mallory and his bunch, just like I said. Hell, there's not really any reason for any of you to go along.”

“We want to be sure you're all right, Custis,” Nola said. “We have quite an investment in you, you know.”

Rafaela said, “You've been eating our food and drinking our coffee and whiskey for over a week, you know.”

“Not to mention anything else you've been getting from Nola,” said Angie with a grin that didn't falter even when Nola scowled at her.

“All right,” Longarm said, not wanting them to start arguing. “I reckon I can understand why you don't want me to get shot up again. Just ... be careful.”

Nola nodded. “We will be, Custis. I promise.”

Jessup came in the back of the station. He was carrying Pryor's duster. He handed the long coat to Longarm as he said to Nola and her companions, “Ladies, you can board the stage as soon as we bring it around to the front of the building again.”

Longarm slipped the duster on over his sheepskin jacket. Bringing it in had been a good idea on Jessup's part. It was unlikely that Mallory had anyone watching the station, but just in case there was a spy, the duster might throw him off. He could easily mistake Longarm for Pryor, since their hats were similar and they were about the same size.

Longarm picked up one of the mailbags while Jessup hefted the other one. With his head down, Longarm walked out the rear door of the station and crossed the short distance to the barn. Jessup walked alongside him, carrying the other bag. As soon as they were inside, safe from any prying eyes, Longarm handed the mailbag up to George, who stowed it in the boot under the driver's box. Then Longarm stripped off the duster and gave it back to the waiting shotgun guard. “Much obliged for the loan,” he said to Pryor.

The young man grinned. “Claude told us all about what's going on here, Marshal. We'll do whatever it takes to put a stop to Mallory's depredations.”

George spat from atop the driver's box, then drawled, “The kid reads. That's why he talks like that.”

“I been known to frequent the Denver library myself,” said Longarm as he returned Pryor's grin. “Especially along toward the end of the month when my money's running low and it ain't payday yet.”

Jessup handed the other mailbag to George, then turned to Longarm. “Best climb inside,” he said. “George'll take the coach back around front and pick up the rest of the passengers.”

Longarm shook his head as he reached up to open the door of the coach. “Nope. Just drive on and leave 'em here. They won't like it when they find out they've been left behind—”

“We certainly wouldn't,” Nola's voice said from the door of the barn. “That's why we decided to come on out here and board the stage.”

The four men looked around in surprise and watched the women daintily walk along the broad aisle that ran down the center of the barn. Longarm grimaced. He had hoped to slip that trick past Nola, but he realized now that he had underestimated her. A gal in her line of work had to be used to men lying to her, so she would be naturally suspicious of everything.

“I still say it's a damned bad idea—” he began.

“Not as bad as letting you go off on your own and get shot up by a bunch of outlaws,” Nola said stubbornly as she reached his side. She held out a gloved hand. “Now, if you would be so kind as to assist me, Marshal ...”

Longarm sighed and took her hand. He helped her into the coach and would have assisted the other women as well, but he saw that young Pryor had already snatched off his hat and had taken Angie's hand. She was cooing and making eyes at him as he led her around to the door on the other side of the coach. Rafaela and Mickey followed.

Jessup shook hands with Longarm and said, “Good luck, Marshal,” just as Charlie Dodson had done a couple of hours earlier.

And just as he had done then, Longarm thought that he was going to need it.

Now, more than ever.

Under other circumstances, it would have been mighty pleasant to sit inside a stagecoach with four beautiful ladies and rock along a mountain road on a crisp, clear day like this. The clouds had finally blown away, and this Nevada high country was as beautiful as Longarm had ever seen it.

Of course, he couldn't really see much of it, because he was sitting on the floor of the coach between the two seats, his hat off and his back propped against one of the doors. That way, if Mallory or anybody else was studying the coach through a telescope or field glasses, they wouldn't be able to see him.

“How are you feeling, Custis?” asked Nola as the coach swayed gently on its thoroughbraces.

“Fine,” he replied. “I'm bandaged up so tight nothing can happen to that wound.” He nodded to Rafaela. “You did a good job. All of you have. No man could ever ask for better nurses than I've had this past week—or prettier ones, neither.” He grinned at Angie.

“Oh, go on with you,” she said. “Nola and Mickey and Rafaela are lots prettier than me. I'm like a big ol' plow horse, and they're quarter horses.”

Nola patted her hand. “You're a very pretty girl, Angie. You ought to know that by now, the way those miners clamor over you and practically come to blows.”

“Shoot, most of those miners would hump a mountain lion if it'd stay still—”

A thump on the coach roof brought a sudden end to the banter. George called back, “We're comin' up on a bad spot. The road goes through a draw up ahead. It's narrow, and there's plenty of cover on both slopes.”

Longarm remembered the place from his ride up to Galena City. The road was narrow to start with, but even more constricted in the approaching draw. The place was tailor-made for an ambush, all right.

He drew his Winchester closer beside him on the floor of the coach and then reached for the pouch full of dynamite. With a grim-faced glance around at the four women, he said, “You ladies be ready for trouble now. If there's any shooting, I want you down on this floor. I'll be up and out of the way by then.”

“You're calling the shots, Custis,” said Nola.

Something about her voice bothered him, but when he glanced at her again, she wore a serious, concerned look on her face. She didn't look like she was up to anything.

But she was a woman, Longarm reminded himself, and trying to figure out a woman was like trying to read Sanskrit or one of those other dead languages—most fellas didn't have a clue how to go about it.

It was too late to worry now. Instead, he slipped several of the sticks of dynamite out of the bag and gripped them in his left hand. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a cheroot and a lucifer. He put the cheroot in his mouth and then turned his head so that he could hold it well away from the dynamite as he lit it. He flicked the lucifer into life and held the flame to the end of the tube of tobacco, sucking in until he had a brightly glowing coal on the end of the cheroot. He pinched out the lucifer and dropped it on the floor of the coach. A long drag on the cheroot helped settle his nerves a little.

That didn't last long, because a moment later the coach rattled into the draw, and a second after that the whipcrack of a rifle shot shattered the peaceful stillness of the afternoon.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled George, and Longarm wondered if the driver was hit. George sounded more angry than he did hurt, however, as he continued to curse. The coach lurched heavily and came to an abrupt stop.

“They killed one of the leaders!” That was Pryor, letting Longarm know what had happened. “They're coming down the slopes on both sides of the draw!”

“Damn it!” Longarm had been worried about something like that. It would make things more difficult, since the outlaws would have the coach caught in a crossfire.

Suddenly, Nola thrust her hand out. “Give me some of that dynamite, Custis! I could always throw a rock as good as any boy when I was a little girl.”

Longarm hesitated, then gave Nola the dynamite he had already taken from the bag. Hurriedly, he delved into it again and brought out three more sticks. Outside the coach, men were whooping and shouting and shooting, but Longarm hadn't heard any bullets hit the coach yet. A man's voice yelled, “Drop those guns, boys, and nobody'll get hurt!”

He looked at Nola. She mouthed
Mallory.

Longarm gave her a curt nod, then drew in hard on the cheroot. The tip glowed a bright cherry-red. He held the fuse of one of the sticks of dynamite to the coal, and it sputtered into life. At the same time, Nola leaned over and held the fuse of one of her sticks to the cheroot. That fuse lit an instant after the first one.

“Now!” Longarm growled around the cheroot.

He rose up, twisted, and flung the dynamite out the window on the near side of the coach. Nola threw her stick out the other window. Longarm had cut the fuses almost dangerously short. He caught a glimpse of the greasy red cylinder turning over and over as it flew through the air. Half a dozen men on horseback were clustered on that side of the coach, and a couple of them yelled in alarm.

Then, like twin peals of thunder, both sticks of dynamite blew.

Longarm snatched up the Winchester as two of the outlaws went flying out of their saddles. He didn't know if either of them was Mallory. Time enough to sort that out later. Right now, he was more concerned with corralling the rest of the gang. He stuck the barrel of the rifle through the window in the door and yelled, “Drop your guns! You're under arrest!”

Behind him, surprisingly close, a pistol cracked. “Get 'em, girls!” ordered Nola.

Longarm grated a curse and glanced over his shoulder. Nola, Angie, Rafaela, and Mickey had all hauled guns out of their handbags; they ranged from the small pocket pistol Nola used to an old Dragoon Colt that Angie gripped in both hands as she fired out the window toward the outlaws on the far side of the stagecoach. The noise of guns blasting inside and outside the vehicle was deafening.

A bullet chewed splinters from the door next to Longarm's head, and a couple of the slivers sliced into his cheek and drew his attention back to that side. He opened up with the Winchester. His first shot drove into the chest of one of the outlaws and drove the man backward off his horse like a giant fist.

Longarm jacked the rifle's lever and fired again. He heard the dull boom of Pryor's shotgun and the sharper sound of George's pistol as the two men got into the fight. For a handful of seconds that seemed much longer, guns roared, bullets sang, and the draw was filled with noise and flame and the sharp tang of gun smoke.

Then, with an eerie suddenness like a curtain dropping in a play, the shooting stopped.

Longarm lowered his rifle. All six of the men on his side of the coach were down, but a couple of them were still moving. He heard the door on the other side of the coach open and jerked his head around to see Nola climbing out. “Wait a minute!” he said.

“I think they're all dead,” she said, ignoring his order. The other three women piled out of the coach after her.

Muttering sulfurous curses under his breath, Longarm kicked open the door on his side and dropped to the ground. He kept the muzzle of the Winchester pointing in the general direction of the two outlaws who were definitely still alive. He climbed the pine-dotted slope and checked the other four first, rolling them over with his boot. One of them was alive as well, the breath rasping in the man's throat as he flopped onto his back, arms outflung loosely. There was a bloody streak along the side of his head where a bullet had creased him and knocked him senseless. Longarm moved on to the other two wounded men, kicking their fallen guns well away from their hands before he got too close to them. One of the men was gutshot and probably had only minutes to live. He was writhing in pain but was only semiconscious. The other one had a leg wound and was wide awake—awake enough to cuss a blue streak as Longarm approached him.