Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) (6 page)

“Sit wherever you like,” a tall, cadaverously thin man greeted him. The fellow was wearing an apron and held a towel in one hand and a printed menu in the other.

Longarm chose a table that put his back to the wall and gave him a view of the front door. He was not expecting trouble. But then trouble comes at its own pace, whether a man is ready for it or not; it is best to stay ready for it, Longarm had found.

“We’re out of the baked chicken,” the waiter said, handing him the menu. “Otherwise you can order whatever you see there.”

Longarm barely glanced at the menu. “Roast buff’lo hump,”
he said, “with the mashed taters an’ gravy. Peas.” He paused. “An’ a big slab o’ apple pie t’ pack it all down.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter retrieved the menu and disappeared into the back of the place. He returned almost instantly with a carafe and poured Longarm a cup of steaming hot coffee. The aroma coming off the cup was tantalizing.

He picked the cup up and was about to dip his mustache into the richly black fluid when a lady on the other side of the room cried out. Longarm looked up in time to see the gentleman with her reach out and grab her by the arm, taking a firm hold and twisting her arm cruelly.

The woman was a plump matron, nicely dressed. Her companion was middle-aged and burly, wearing a tweed suit and string tie. The fellow had red hair and was beginning to go bald, a palm-sized patch of bare skin appearing on the back of his head.

“Please, Daniel,” she pleaded. “Don’t.”

Daniel leaned forward and growled something that Longarm could not hear. Then he slapped the lady. Hard.

Longarm was out of his chair before he consciously realized it. He took three long strides and ended up standing over the pair.

The big man looked up, his face red with fury. “What the fuck do you want, mister? Butt out. This ain’t any of your business.”

“You’re right,” Longarm said.

Then slapped the son of a bitch. Hard.

The man’s head was driven to the side. Hard.

His neck swelled up like a bull buffalo’s and he came out of his chair. Hard.

Longarm’s right fist met the charge. Hard.

The man screamed. More with rage and anger than in pain.

Longarm hit him again, this time in the belly.

The big man doubled over and sagged to a knee. He stayed there for only a moment, then straightened with a roar and again tried to put Longarm down.

His effort was thwarted by a combination of punches as Longarm flashed a combination of lefts and rights that tattooed the man’s nose and jaw, splitting his upper lip and smashing his nose flat.

Blood sprayed onto the white tablecloth and the man staggered. Longarm hit him again. And twice more. He went down again, this time onto both knees. And this time he stayed down, his head drooping, blood dripping from nose and mouth.

“I’ll have…the law…on you…you son of a…bitch,” he breathed, his voice hollow because of the blood that blocked his nose.

“You do that,” Longarm snarled. He turned toward the lady.

Who slapped him across the face. Hard.

“Wha…?”

“Leave my husband alone, you big ape,” she yelled.

The woman threw herself down beside her kneeling, reeling husband and cradled his bloody head in her arms. “What did that man do to you, sweetie?” she crooned. “Are you all right? Don’t worry, dearest. I’ll take care of you. It will be just fine now.” She rocked him back and forth like a little baby.

Longarm shook his head in amazement, then turned and went back to his own table, marveling at human foolishness.

“Are you ready for your supper now, sir?” the waiter asked, unperturbed by the outburst in his dining room.

“I am,” Longarm said as he once again slipped in behind the table and sat surveying the room.

“There, Donald. That’s him.” It was the big man, back again, this time with his face washed clean—come tomorrow morning it would be swollen and discolored—and with another man beside him. He was pointing an accusing finger at Longarm. There was no sign of the abused wife.

The Donald he was speaking to was slender, with graying dark blond hair. Donald wore a broadcloth suit. He did not have a tie but he did wear a revolver holster showing beneath the hem of the suit coat. He also had a round badge pinned prominently on the lapel of the coat.

“The son of a bitch assaulted me, Donald. I’ll press charges, you can be sure of that.” His voice was pitched loud enough to carry throughout the restaurant.

Heads turned. For the second time. The same diners witnessed the fight—what little there was of it—not twenty minutes earlier. Now they looked to see what would happen to the stranger once the law got hold of him.

Donald approached Longarm warily, one hand already draped over the butt of his Colt, but the gun remaining in the leather.

“I was gonna look you up come mornin’,” Longarm drawled, “but I reckon now is as good a time as any.”

“If you want to press charges…”

“Aw, no need for that,” Longarm said, glancing past Donald to the big man, who now was looking very pleased with himself.

“Mr. Connerly here is—”

“Is an asshole,” Longarm interrupted. “Mind if I reach inta my pocket for something, Donald?”

“Fine, but do it slowly, please.”

Longarm kept his hand well clear of the Colt that rode at his waist, instead dipping his fingers into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieving his wallet. He pulled it out and flipped it open so Donald could see the badge that was pinned inside.

“Oh. You are…”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, out o’ Denver.”

“You’re one of Billy Vail’s deputies? Lord, I’ve known Billy for years and years. Used to know him down in Texas when he was a ranger and I was just starting out with the Austin police department.”

Longarm nodded.

“Custis Long, you said?”

He nodded again.

“You’re the one they call Longarm.”

Another nod.

Donald turned to the aggrieved local citizen. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll take care of this. Go on about your business now. I have it under control.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Go on now.”

The big fellow huffed and rolled his shoulders but he turned away, probably more than happy to let someone else tangle with the situation, and left the restaurant. The
tension that had been in the room since his return evaporated and folks went back to their suppers. Donald reached for the back of the chair opposite Longarm’s and said, “Mind if I sit?”

“Please,” Longarm said. “I’m just fixin’ to have some deep-dish apple pie that if it’s good as it looks, well…” He rolled his eyes and grinned. “Join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Donald said. He turned before he sat and said, “I’ll have coffee, Dennis, and some of that pie.” He pulled the chair out and sat down, reaching a hand across the table to shake with Longarm on his way down. “Pleased to meet you, Long. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“Thanks. And you are…?”

“Donald Hauser. I’m town marshal, chief deputy, and general dogsbody hereabouts.”

“My pleasure, Don. I’ll tell Billy where I seen you.”

“Do that, please. What brings you up this way, Longarm?”

Dennis arrived with two generous slabs of pie, a cup of coffee for Hauser, and a refill for Longarm.

Longarm quickly filled the local man in on his problem, concluding with, “I been hoping you could give me something t’ go on ’bout these holdups. I know most of ’em originated, the coaches that is, down in Cheyenne, but at least some were rolling out o’ Miles City. I’m told a gent name of Hal Tyler with the Bastrop stage line would be able to give me the details up here.”

“Not anymore he can’t,” Hauser said. “Hal quit his job with Bastrop and pulled stakes. Said he was going to try his luck in San Francisco or some such warmer place.”

Longarm laughed. “You ever been to San Fran?”

Hauser shook his head. “No, never.”

“Neither has Tyler.”

“Why would you say that?”

“If he thinks San Francisco is warmer, he hasn’t.”

“Cold place?”

“Terrible. Damn wind there cuts bone deep. It’s a diff’rent sort o’ cold from up here. Anyway I was hopin’ to talk to the man ’bout these robberies.”

“The way I understand it,” Hauser said, “he didn’t know much he could have told you about them. The way it worked, whenever an outfit in Deadwood wanted money shipped to them they wired ahead for it. They had some sort of code worked out between the bank and this mining company so nobody except the folks who needed to know could figure it out. Tyler and me sat down and talked it over plenty, but we neither one of us could see where anyone at this end tipped the robbers to the shipment.”

“Do you know where the money was consigned?” Longarm asked.

“Of course,” Hauser said with a nod. “They were going…let me see if I can remember. One was going to the Lady Blue mine. Another was a shipment to the Deadwood bank…I forget the exact name of it…some sort of transfer between sister banks, as I understand it.”

“Going to different places,” Longarm mused aloud, “with different people involved each time.”

“That would be about right,” Hauser said. “How does that stack up with the Cheyenne experience?”

“Much the same,” Longarm admitted. “It don’t give us much to work from.”

Hauser grunted. “That’s likely the exact same way the robbers want you to see it. Which, come to think of it, raised the question about why you federal boys are looking into it. I thought this was strictly territorial jurisdiction.”

Longarm explained about mail clerk Clarence Osgood and the mail being sent via strongbox.

“Smart thinking,” Hauser agreed, digging into his pie.

Longarm had almost forgotten about dessert. The pie, when he got to it, was as good as anything he had had in a very long while, if ever.

“Where will you go from here?” Hauser asked.

“Deadwood, I reckon. Unless you got a better idea.” He frowned. “I sure don’t.” He finished the last of his pie and held his empty cup high to call for a refill.

“If I could think of anything, I would damn sure tell you,” Hauser said. “But I can’t.”

“Yeah. Me, neither.” He sighed. “But, Lordy, I do hate for a robber gang like that t’ keep getting away with what they been doing.” He smiled. “Maybe if I’m lucky they’ll hit the stage I take down to Deadwood. That will put paid to the sons o’ bitches.”

“I sort of hate to hope that the stage is held up again,” Hauser said with a grin, “but this time I will.” He shoved back from the table and stood. “Thanks for the dessert.”

“Hey, wait. Aren’t you gonna arrest me for assaulting that stupid son of a bitch in here?”

Hauser just laughed and turned away.

“Reckon not,” Longarm mumbled under his breath as he reached for his coffee cup. Damn, but that was a fine meal. And on the heels of an even more fine fuck. He wondered what the lady hotelkeeper would be doing for the rest of the evening, because after that good meal and a little time to recuperate, he was ready to go at her again.

He never got an opportunity to bang the lady hotelkeeper another time. When he got back to the Debois Arms the woman acted like she had never before seen him, much less wallowed around with him making the beast with two backs. If anything she acted cold and aloof from him.

But he did find out from the desk clerk that her name was Pansy Dantzler and she owned not only the Debois but several other businesses in Miles City as well.

Screwing Pansy again being out of the question, Longarm settled for a few shots of rye whiskey at a nearby saloon, then turned in and got a good night’s sleep.

Morning found him unusually well rested—sleep being the aftermath of a good fuck—and searching for the Bastrop office, which he found at the east end of town.

“No, sir, I don’t know much about those robberies,” the current station chief told him. “I was brought in from Lewistown to take over when Hal left. Heard about them, of course. We don’t get so very many robberies now that the boom has died down, so they were the talk of the company when they happened. I wish I could help you.”

“You can,” Longarm told him.

“Anything I can do, just name it.”

“I need transportation down to Deadwood,” Longarm said. “Lead, too, I suppose.”

The man’s expression brightened. “Now that I can do for you. We have a coach leaving this afternoon at two. It goes through Belle Fourche and Lead then back up the gulch to Deadwood.”

“Regular run?” Longarm asked.

The helpful gent nodded. “Twice a week, regular as a clock.”

“Lucky timing,” Longarm said. He grinned and added, “Saves my butt from having to make the ride on a rented horse, an’ you know how bad some o’ them can be. Count me in for a seat on that two o’clock stage, please.”

“It will be my pleasure, Marshal.”

Longarm turned away, then had another thought and turned back. “Will you by any chance be carrying a bank transfer or a payroll for the Lady Blue?”

“Not that I know of,” the station chief said, “but then we never know ahead of time, not until the very last moment.”

“If your bank here does consign a shipment with you today, let me know when I come to board, will you?”

“Count on it, Marshal.”

Longarm went back to the hotel to retrieve the clothes he had worn up from Cheyenne—they had been at the dry cleaners…and damn sure needed cleaning—and pack ready for the next leg of his journey.

While he was in his room packing, Pansy Dantzler showed up, wanting another wrestling match.

“No, thanks,” Longarm told her, offering no explanations to soften the rejection. He got a hell of a kick out of the look on the woman’s face when he turned her
down. Very likely it was an experience she never in her life had before. And it was about damn time that she did, he thought. She was good in bed, there was no doubt about that, but she was full of herself and needed to be taken down a peg.

And anyway he was busy.

He finished packing, carried his carpetbag over to the Bastrop office to be put aboard the two o’clock stage, bought a pint of rye to fortify himself on the road, and went to have some lunch before the trip.