Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (14 page)

Longarm's back had been turned at the moment of the gunshot. He was aware of the flash and the general direction but not the exact spot where the shot came from, and his lantern-ruined night vision did nothing to help.

After several long moments he stood upright, his knee joints cracking. He shoved the Colt back into its leather and took a tentative step out of the shallow niche of Bert's doorway.

No one shot at him. Nothing moved except for a cat that ran streaking from an alley mouth across the street in the direction of the courthouse.

Longarm idly hoped the animal was not on its way down to the courthouse basement to feast on John Tyler's spilled brains.

Just in case it or others like it had that in mind, Longarm crossed over to the courthouse and went to the back. He relighted the lantern and took advantage of the match to light a cheroot too, then went inside the sheriff's office.

He set the lantern on Tyler's desk and rummaged in the drawers until he found a little twine. He went outside, pulled the broken door to, and used the twine to secure it closed. The closure would not keep any humans out if they wanted to come see what they could pilfer, but it should keep cats and dogs and rats away. He hoped. The idea of stray animals making a meal off the mess on the sheriff's office floor was unpleasant. Longarm's stomach roiled at the thought, and he sucked hard on his cigar to get a sour taste out of his mouth.

He finished making a circuit of Dwyer's businesses without seeing another soul.

And without being shot at.

“Are you all right?” Helen asked. She was seated at her kitchen table. “If you don't mind me saying so, Custis, you look like hell warmed over.”

“That's reasonable,” he told her, “ 'cause that's just about how I feel right now.”

“What happened out there?”

“Someone shot at me” was all the explanation he gave. The real problem was the image he had in his mind now about rats eating parts of John Tyler. He did not tell Helen about that, though.

“Would you like a drink?” she offered.

Longarm smiled. “I would, but all the saloons in town been shut down by some officious son of a bitch.”

“True,” she said, “but I have a secret stash of rye whiskey. How's about a shot and a beer?”

“Will you join me?” he asked.

Helen laughed. “I don't drink.”

“You're in the business, but . . .”

“I would have some coffee with you,” she said. She took a lamp down off the wall and carried it into the bar, Longarm following at her heels.

“Sit down, dear. I'll bring you something.”

Longarm chose a seat at one of the small tables and idly riffled through a deck of cards he found there, laying out a hand of solitaire. Helen served him the promised shot and brew, then disappeared for a few minutes. When she returned she was carrying a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies.

“Here,” she said. “Just what you need.” She leaned down to kiss him. That kiss led to more. And more led to something much more.

The big woman smiled. “Could we do it in the bed this time, dear? That bar is hard. And cold.”

He kissed her. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you needn't apologize. I know you needed me, and it pleases me very much that I was able to be there when you did.”

“It occurs to me, madam, that you are a very nice woman.” He smiled. “As well as being one damned fine fuck.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” she said with a curtsy.

Longarm laughed and bowed low, then offered his elbow. Acting quite the gentleman, he escorted the lady into her bedroom and watched with pleasure as she took her clothes off. Only when Helen was naked did Longarm strip.

She peered at his erection for a moment. Reached out and touched it. Then, quite ladylike, said, “Now, sir, if you will oblige me,” she looked at him and laughed, “I will fuck your brains out.”

The reference to brains was not something he really wanted to hear just then.

But Helen dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.

Longarm completely forgot about anything beyond the moment.

Longarm woke well before dawn, Helen snug against his side. He eased slowly out of the bed, careful to not disturb her. Last night, between bouts of vigorous lovemaking, she had mentioned that she had not had a day off in years, so his forced closing of the saloons in town had served to give her a vacation, and she intended to make the most of it by sleeping in.

He picked up his clothing and carried it into the kitchen, where he washed with the still slightly warm water in the oven reservoir. He could find nothing more substantial than a handful of bar rags to dry off with, but they served the purpose well enough.

Once dressed, he left through the alley, emerging onto the streets of Dwyer in the soft light of the coming dawn. It was chilly and Longarm shivered, then headed for the only light he could see in the business district.

The shade was up at the café window and he could see someone working in there. It was not the usual fellow, but then patrons would be coming by to eat both early and late. It only made sense for several people to work in shifts.

Longarm tapped on the glass to get the man's attention.

The fellow came to the door and through the glass said, “What do you want?”

“In,” Longarm told him. “I'm hungry.”

“I'm not open yet.”

“Trust me,” Longarm told him. “Yes, you are.” He reached for his wallet to display his badge, but the man said, “I know who you are.”

“Then let me in, will you? Please?”

“Oh, all right, but I got work to do here. I got biscuits to bake.” He turned the lock and slid a bolt back, then opened the door for Longarm to enter.

“You got coffee?”

“Does a dog have ticks? Of course I got coffee.”

“Coffee and some of your biscuits would be good enough for me,” Longarm said.

“All right then, but sit at the counter. I don't have time to be running back and forth to a table.”

“That's fine with me. By the way, I'm Long.” He stuck his hand out to shake.

The café man laughed, then shook.

“Did I say something funny?” Longarm asked.

Shoulders heaving up and down from barely contained laughter the café man managed to say, “Yeah. You did.”

Longarm's eyebrows went up.

“You're Long. I'm Short. Johnny Short.”

Longarm grinned. “I see what you mean. Pleasure t' meet you, Johnny.”

“Likewise. Sit over there and I'll bring you that coffee.” Still chuckling, he added, “Maybe I can find something more than just coffee and biscuits for you too. Ham, maybe a few eggs?”

“Sounds perfect.” Longarm was smiling when he sat down at the counter.

Twenty minutes later, with most of a fine breakfast warming Longarm's belly from the inside out, a tiny bell over the door tinkled and two men dressed for hard travel came in. They chose seats at the counter one stool down from Longarm.

“Good morning. You gents are up early,” he said.

“Yeah, dammit. We expected to get here yesterday. Wired the customer that we would be. But we busted a wheel. Ran over a damn rock and busted it clean. Then we had a bitch of a time trying to get the wagon jacked up so we could get that one off and a new one on. Haven't had a chance to get hardly any sleep as we're already late on this delivery.”

“You're freighters?” Longarm asked.

“Yep. We're making a special haul up from Cheyenne. Rush order and heavy as hell.” He looked around as if he could visualize the grasslands of McConnell County through the walls of the little café. “Damned if I understand why, though. I mean, what's so special about the hunting up here that anyone would want all this shit?”

“What shit do you mean?” Longarm asked, taking a swallow of coffee.

“Cartridges,” the freighter said. “Cases of .45-60 cartridges and shotgun shells, and those sons of bitches weigh a ton. We got a whole wagonload of them. And now we get here and the consignee isn't open. What can we do? We left the wagon at the loading dock and walked our mules over to the livery. Now we're hungry as bears and about as ornery.”

“Can't say as I blame you,” Longarm said. He leaned forward and looked at the other of the two, most likely the swamper, while the talkative gent would be the driver. That other one had not said a word. He was certainly interested in the coffee Johnny Short set in front of him though.

“Can we have another of those?” the driver asked, motioning toward Longarm's plate.

“Coming right up,” Johnny told him.

The driver sighed, leaned back a little, stretched with his arms over his head. He looked back at Longarm and said, “You would think somebody was fixing to go to war up here with all that ammunition on hand.”

“Yeah,” Longarm mused. “Wouldn't you.” He quickly finished his breakfast and dropped a quarter on the counter, casting a wary eye and wondering who they were selling all that ammo to. “Thanks, Johnny.” To the freighters he said, “Take it easy, fellas. I hope the rest o' your day goes better for you.”

On his way out Longarm met the barber, Bert, who was just coming into the café.

“Good morning, Johnny,” Bert said, taking his cap off and draping it onto a peg on the coat rack by the door. “And good morning to you, Marshal.”

“Mornin',” Longarm agreed. “Have you finished with the bodies yet?” There was no need to specify exactly which bodies he meant. There would not be so very many of them at any one time in a town the size of Dwyer. At least he hoped there would not be a surplus of them anytime in the near future.

“Oh, yes.” Bert sat at a table and motioned to the chair opposite his. “Join me?”

“I just finished my breakfast,” Longarm said.

“Then have some coffee with me. I hate to eat alone.”

“All right.” He turned back toward the counter and said, “Johnny, I have a change o' plans here, so don't toss my coffee cup into the dish pail just yet.”

“You want a refill I take it?”

“I do indeed. But only 'cause you make such good coffee,” he said with a smile.

“Hell, for that this refill will be free.”

Longarm laughed. “All your refills are free.”

“Yes, and this one is too.”

“And I'll have my usual,” Bert said, using his foot to push a chair away from the table for Longarm.

Longarm noticed that a flood of soft light coming in through the windows showed that it was coming dawn. Out on the street people were beginning to stir, starting their daily routines. More townspeople began to drift into the café.

Johnny brought two cups of coffee and a bowl of porridge for Bert, along with a can of condensed milk and a bowl of sugar. The morning cook went back behind the counter and removed another pan of biscuits from the oven, shoved a fresh pan in to bake, and started cracking eggs into a huge frying pan. His day was well under way now.

“Anything unusual about those bodies?” Longarm asked.

“Sure. They're dead.”

“I meant . . .”

“I know what you meant, Marshal. I was just funning a little. If it matters to you, I'd say they were both shot with the same gun. It was a pistol and somewhat unusual in this day and age. They were shot with round ball, not modern cartridge.”

“Round shot could be from a shotgun,” Longarm said.

Bert nodded. “You'd think so. Double-ought is about the same size as a .36 Navy. But these had to come from a cap-and-ball revolver. Anything fired from a shotgun would've done even more damage than what there was.”

“Jesus,” Longarm said, shuddering at the memory of what John Tyler's corpse had looked like. “You mean it could've got worse?”

“Believe me. It would have been even worse from a shotgun. There wouldn't have been much of anything left of the back of Tyler's skull. And the Mexican . . . what was his name?”

“Altameira. Julio Altameira.”

“You'll have to write that down for me so I can put it on his marker. Anyway, this Altameira was locked in his cell. The shooter couldn't have been more than eight feet from him. He was hit four times, the shots spaced fairly close together but not like they would have been from a shotgun. A shotgun fired that close up would have hit almost like solid shot. Damn near like a cannonball. I recovered all the bullets from the body and went back later to look inside the cell. Looked on the wall for bullet strikes. On the floor to make sure none were lost there. There were only the four balls, and they all found their mark.”

Longarm nodded. “And a shotgun would've left . . . what does a twelve-gauge shell carry? Nine balls that size, isn't it?”

“Right. And there were only four. So the weapon had to be a pistol.”

“Bert, you would make one hell of a fine detective, d' you know that?”

The barber beamed at the compliment.

“More coffee, gentlemen?” Johnny asked on his rounds among the now busy tables. He was carrying the pot with him and filling cups and taking orders as he went.

“Not for me, thanks,” Longarm said, “and I'd best get out o' here to make room for your customers.” He laughed. “I don't think just everybody likes to set with the law so early in the morning.” To Bert he said, “Thanks for that information. It could be important.”

“If there is anything I can do . . .”

“I'll ask. And thank you for that too.”