Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (15 page)

He tipped his hat toward Johnny Short, who by then was on the far side of the room, and again to Bert, then headed out to see what he could see.

What he wanted to see was an answer to the murder of Sheriff John Tyler and Julio Altameira.

“Oh, shit,” Longarm mumbled under his breath. It was barely dawn and the Mexicans were gathering in front of the courthouse. They looked like it would take little provocation to turn them into a mob. All of them were armed. There seemed to be an awful lot of them. Apparently they had turned their goats over to the protective care of their herding dogs while all the humans headed for town to seek redress for the murder of Julio Altameira.

Longarm grabbed the attention of a pair of boys on their way to school—at least they were carrying book bags—and motioned them to him.

“How'd you fellows like to earn a dime apiece?”

The taller and presumably older of the two eyed him with suspicion, while the little guy, nine or ten years old, lit up with eagerness.

“What do we got to do, Marshal?” the young one asked.

“I want you to run over to the livery and tell Mr. DeCaro that I need him here in front of the courthouse.” He reached into his pocket and brought out some change, looked at it and announced, “I don't have two dimes, so how's about I give the two o' you a quarter. You can figure out how to split it later. But first you go get Mr. DeCaro.”

Now it was the older boy who looked happy about the deal. Longarm suspected he would give his brother the short end of the stick when they got change for their quarter.

“That's a deal, Marshal,” the older one said.

Longarm handed over the quarter, and the two boys raced away in the direction of the livery.

He started toward the Mexicans, only to be brought up short by the sight of fifteen or twenty Basques coming down the street, Eli Cruikshank leading the way. They too were armed. Much better armed than the Mexicans in fact. Their rifles were far more modern than the outmoded shotguns and single-shot weapons of the Mexicans.

Longarm changed direction and met the Basques head-on.

“I don't need this shit today, Eli. Turn your boys around and head 'em back to the sheep camps.”

“We've been accused . . .”

“You've been accused of nothing,” Longarm said sharply. “Not a damn thing. I'm in the middle of investigating what happened, and at least at this point it don't have anything to do with you or your Basques. If I find out different, you'll be one of the first to know. In the meantime I want you to take your people right back out of town. I got troubles enough without you putting your oar in the water.”

Cruikshank turned and spoke to the Basques, several of whom responded with gestures that spoke clearly enough that they did not like what Eli was telling them. Longarm did not need to know their language to understand that much.

The Basques glared at Longarm. He glared right back at them. Be damned if he was going to be intimidated by them. He was the law here and they would by damn abide by what he said.

Eli spoke to them again, and they seemed to relax at least a little bit. Then Eli turned to Longarm and said, “I told them they have to go back to camp but that you'll be sending those cocksuckers,” he inclined his head toward the Mexicans milling around in front of the courthouse, “back to their camps too.” Cruikshank's eyes narrowed slightly when he said, “Isn't that right, Marshal?”

“It's right,” Longarm said. “I'll be dispersing them quick as I get DeCaro here so's I got somebody to translate for me.”

“I speak Spanish,” Eli said.

Longarm grinned. “I'll bet you do, neighbor, but damned if I'm gonna trust you to do my talking. No offense, mind you.”

“None taken.”

“Good. Now turn your boys around and get them well outa town before I send the Mexicans packing in that same direction. I wouldn't want you all to bump into each other on your way home.”

Cruikshank paused for a moment, then turned and spoke to the Basques. Somewhat reluctantly—but obediently, that was the important thing—they complied with the order to disperse.

Longarm breathed a little easier once it was the backsides of the Basques that he was seeing going down the street.

The Basques had barely cleared the block when Anthony DeCaro came hustling down the street looking like he was not yet fully awake.

“Sorry to take so long, Longarm. I had a mare go colicky last night and spent most of the night walking her.”

“Did she make it?”

“I think so. Might be a little soon to tell.”

While they spoke, they walked in the direction of the crowd of goatherds. Taking up a position between the Mexicans and the front of the courthouse steps, Longarm said, “Tell them their presence here ain't necessary. Tell them I'm lookin' for whoever it was that gunned down their friend Altameira. Tell them that person will face the full weight of the law when I do catch up with him. Which I will for damn certain sure. Tell them to go back to their camps and leave me to get on with what I got to do. Tell them it only makes things harder if I got to be worrying about them when I oughta be going about getting my work done.”

Anthony gave the group a longish spiel in Spanish. Longer, Longarm thought, than a simple translation would have required, but that was all right. Just so it got the message across.

Several of the goatherds had questions. DeCaro was able to answer most of them, but once he turned to Longarm and said, “They want to know if Julio will receive Yankee justice even though he was nothing but a greaser to you . . . to us, I should say . . . to us gringos.”

“Tell them I guaran-damn-tee it,” Longarm said.

Anthony spoke some more, and slowly the anger on the faces of the Mexicans seemed to recede. They held their shotguns lower, letting the weapons dangle from one hand instead of carrying them high with both hands. That was a good sign, Longarm thought.

“They'll go,” Anthony said, “but they have some shopping to do in town, so they won't be leaving just yet. If, uh, if that is all right with you.”

“Sure. Just so's they don't cause no trouble. Fact is, it's probably a good thing to let the Basques get well clear of town before these boys head out.”

Anthony relayed that message in Spanish, and the Mexicans began moving as a body toward the businesses along the main street of Dwyer.

Longarm watched them on their way, the opposite direction from the Basques, then he walked around to the back of the courthouse.

The very messy aftermath of the murders was still there, dark red and lumpy, on the sheriff's office floor. Longarm was pissed off. He hustled back outside and around to the front of the handsome courthouse building, then stormed up the steps and inside.

County clerk Benjamin Laffler physically recoiled when Longarm charged toward him, eyes as cold as a rattlesnake's. “What . . . ?”

“Don't give me no ‘what' bullshit,” Longarm snapped. “You know damn good and well what has me riled.”

“It is early in the morning and . . .”

“I don't care if it's the middle of the damn night. Now you either get a clean-up crew down there in that office to put things right or you'll grab a mop and go down to do it yourself, I don't much care which. But right now I'm gonna make the rounds around this town. When I get done with that, that office
better
be suitable for folks to come in and out of. Do you understand me, Laffler? Do you?”

Without waiting for an answer, Longarm spun on his heels and left the clerk's office, still fuming to the point it was a wonder there wasn't steam coming out of his ears.

He walked around to a side street and down it for a few paces, to the mouth of the alley that led to the back of Helen Birch's saloon.

There was no sign of the Mexicans, who seemed to have disappeared off the streets of Dwyer, and the Basques were well on their way back to their sheep camps.

Trouble seemed to have been averted.

For now.

He let himself into the back of Helen's place and tiptoed into the kitchen, where as quietly as he could he added some chunks of coal to the stove and moved the coffeepot to the front to heat.

“Good morning.”

He turned to see Helen standing in the doorway to her tiny bedroom. Her hair was tousled, her face was blotchy with patches of red where she had been lying on a pillow, and she was bare-ass naked.

Longarm smiled. “Damn, you look good this morning.”

“Liar,” she said.

“Want me t' prove it?” he challenged.

“All right, tough guy. See if you can prove it.”

Longarm crossed the room to stand in front of her. He took Helen into his arms and kissed her, long and deeply. She had morning breath and must have been eating garlic not too long ago. And he thought she tasted just fine.

He bent, put an arm behind her knees, and picked her up—no small task with a woman Helen's size—then carried her right back into the bedroom she had just emerged from and plopped her down onto the bed.

Without comment he stripped his clothes off, his erection standing tall even before he got his pants off, and lay on top of her.

Helen opened herself to him, thrusting upward with her hips to meet Longarm's downward strokes, taking him deep and giving him the warmth and comfort of her body.

Soon her breathing quickened and she began to whimper with her own pleasure, while giving even better than she got.

Longarm came in an explosion of sensation. Helen reached her own climax seconds after him. Her arms tightened around him and she gasped for breath.

He lifted his head so that he could look into her face. “Well?” he demanded.

Helen smiled. She whispered, “You proved it, tough guy.”

“The coffee should be hot by now,” he responded.

Helen laughed and pushed him off of her. “Let's start the day, shall we?”

“Hell, I thought we just did,” Longarm told her.

Longarm made a circuit around the businesses of Dwyer, then walked back to the courthouse, intending to inspect the sheriff's office and primed to rip Benjamin Laffler a fresh asshole if there was not at least a cleaning crew hard at work in the basement. He was stopped in mid-grumble by a gent wearing sleeve garters and an eyeshade.

“Might I have a word with you, Marshal?”

“Sure thing,” Longarm said. “I don't mind talkin'.”

“My name is Jensen Dibble. I am one of the county supervisors of McConnell County.” He made the announcement but did not offer a hand to shake.

“Reckon you know who I am,” Longarm said. “What is it that's got your stomach acids rumbling, Mr. Dibble?”

“You already know that the well-being of our county and this town are very much the same thing.” He said that as if he expected Longarm to deny knowing any such thing.

“Uh-huh.” Longarm reached inside his coat, brought out a cheroot, and lighted it. He was running low on the slender cigars. Perhaps Sam Johnson had some in his store. If not, well, another cigar would do. If he really had to, he could make do with cut tobacco and some cigarette papers.

“The sheep- and goatherders represent a major portion of the trade conducted in Dwyer, Marshal, and the businesses they conduct that trade with represent our tax base. In short, both the town and the county depend on the business those people bring in.”

“Thank you for givin' me that lesson in local doin's, Mr. Dibble, but what the fuck does it have to do with anything ?”

“You closed down the saloons,” Dibble said, his tone of voice suggesting it was an accusation.

“Yeah, I did that all right.”

“Without prior authorization, I might add.”

Longarm snorted. “If I'd asked permission, them saloons would still be open, and both the Basques and the Mexicans would be getting drunk about now. Drunk leads to trouble, mister. Drunk leads to shooting. I don't want no shooting. I'm tryin' to
stop
a war, not pile fuel on the fire.”

Dibble ignored Longarm's comments. “You've run those Basque gentlemen out of town.”

“Uh-huh. I damn sure did that too.” The smoke from Longarm's cigar found its way into Dibble's face. Dibble angrily waved it away, and Longarm said, “Sorry 'bout that,” his tone making it very clear that he was not in the least bit sorry. He exhaled again and more cigar smoke headed Dibble's way.

“We . . . that is the county supervisors and the town council . . . we want you to allow the saloons to reopen. We want you to encourage those people to spend time in the town, not quarantined out in their sheep camps somewhere.”

Longarm smiled broadly and said, “Why, Mr. Dibble, I think that is a splendid notion, and I'll take it up with the county sheriff quick as I can.”

Dibble scowled. “You know as well as I do that the sheriff has been murdered. That means you seem to be our acting sheriff.”

“Why yes, I expect that it does at that,” Longarm said, as if the idea had not occurred to him before that moment. “Tell you what then. If you got a complaint about me, you can take it up with U.S. marshal William Vail down in Denver. You want for me to give you his address so's you can reach him there? I'm sure he'd be glad for an excuse to chew my ass. Might even decide to recall me. Fetch me back down there to tell me what a poor job I been doing up here. Meantime you all can pick yourselves a new sheriff to protect this town when the shootin' starts. Which I figure it likely will after one good afternoon and early evening with them saloons open for business.”