Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (14 page)

Brakett rose on unsteady legs. He picked an errant sprig of tobacco from his swollen lower lip, then flicked it onto the bed. Under his breath, as he stumbled through the Preston girls' door, he mumbled, “Yeah, I'm a-goin', you mean-assed son of a bitch.” He fingered at his empty gums again. “Hope Quincy kills you and that other bastard deader'n a pair of rotten stumps.”

In a garbage-littered, aromatic alleyway, across a dusty and rutted Throckmorton Street from Fort Worth's Drover's Inn, Longarm leaned against the board-and-batten wall of a busy Chinese restaurant named Fong's Golden Palace. The ramshackle building was neither golden nor a palace, but that didn't appear to matter much. Hungry customers came and went at a constant and bustling pace. While watching for any indication of possible threat, Longarm absentmindedly flipped open the loading gate on his Frontier model Colt. He half-cocked the pistol and rolled the cylinder, click by click, eyeing each round one at a time.

Overhead, a molten sun boiled away in a crystalline, cloudless sky. Waves of shimmering heat appeared to ooze up from every flat surface available to the eye. Longarm holstered the pistol, pulled his hat off, then wiped his sweaty forehead with an already saturated bandanna. Seemed as though the sun had determined to auger its way through his snuff-colored Stetson and into his skull.

The sweltering deputy marshal shifted a chewed cheroot from one corner of his dry mouth to the other. Almost to himself, he muttered, “Feels like we're sittin' in a fryin' pan. Can't believe it's this hot so early in the year.”

A bit farther down the alley, Willard Allred lay in the bed of his wagon. Long, bony legs dangled over the edge of the lowered tailgate. Badly booted feet dragged the ground. He'd pulled a ragged slouch hat down to cover his face. He raised the bottom half of the hat, then said, “Aw hell, it ain't hot, Marshal Long. Not yet. Cain't be more'n ninety. Jus'
seems
like a hunnert an' ten.”

“Damnation, Willard, been here since daylight and ain't seen nothin'. Enough to make a man think there ain't much of anybody even a-stayin' at the Drover's. Ain't near the traffic around this part of town, is there? Don't even compare with the constant, seething mob trampin' up and down the streets on the north end of town near the White Elephant.”

“Not much to attract folks down this way, Marshal. Town kinda plays out. Ain't nothin'a few blocks west of here but the real wild, wild West. Men like Ballentine like it that way. Why most of 'em find rooms in places like the Drover's.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

“You know, we could be here all day. Hell, you know as well as I do, Silas Brakett's a known liar, cheat, thief, and scoundrel. Son of a bitch just might've sent us out on a wild-goose chase. Wouldn't surprise me a bit to discover he's sprawled out at a table in the Matador Saloon down in Waco, a-laughin' his stupid, worthless ass off.”

Longarm snatched the mangled cheroot from his mouth, then spit. “You've givin' the man far more credit for smarts than he's got comin', Willard. Bet if you could put Brakett's brain in a grasshopper, the poor beast would hop backward.”

“So, you still believe 'im?”

“He didn't have any good reason to lie. Didn't have any cause to even tell me about this business. Way I got it figured, he thought partin' with the information might get him a reprieve from my hot-mouthed admonishment to get the hell outta town.”

“Reckon him and Cobb actually left, Marshal?”

“They damn well better have. I'm not given to makin' idle threats.”

Allred sat up, then stuffed the tattered hat back on his sweaty head. “Never figured you wuz, Marshal. But two-tailed skunks like Cobb and Brakett sometimes hold to a strange sense of loyalty. Met more'n my share of 'em kinda boys whilst in that Yankee prison durin' the war. Learned pert quick it warn't a good idea to trust anythin' such bastards said and very little of what they did. Men like Brakett'll say anythang to get out of a pinch, then stab you in the back first chance what comes around.”

Longarm ambled back to the wagon, climbed up on the tailgate, and flopped down beside Allred. For the next several hours they sat, smoked, napped, talked, and even ate some of the exotic and strange food Willard got at Fong's.

Half a dozen different kinds of exotic delicacies came wrapped in bits of brown paper. Longarm bit into one of the mysterious treats, chewed it up, swallowed, then said, “What the hell'd you call this thing?”

“Uh, that'uns a fried egg roll. Tasty, ain't it?”

“Ain't half bad. Wonder how well they'd travel in a saddlebag.”

Willard shook his head. “Not too good. 'Bout ten minutes, at best. Get to stinkin' pert quick-like. Gotta eat 'em soon's you get 'em. I've noticed as how they have a tendency to go kinda mushy once they cool off.”

Longarm sucked a flavorsome finger, then said, “You eat here often?”

“Yeah, it's cheap for what you get. I like it. 'Sides, Mr. Fong's a damned nice feller. Always glad to see me. Treats me a lot nicer'n some restaurant owners here in town. 'Sides that, he makes the best Chinky food in this part of Texas.”

Willard wadded the empty paper wrappings from their meal into a tight lump, then pitched it over his shoulder. He glanced into the street. A party of horsemen slowly ambled toward the Drover's. “Look there, Marshal. Ain't that Quincy yonder? Sure looks like 'im to me.”

Longarm hopped off the wagon bed and, with Willard right behind, heeled it to the alley's entrance, stopped at the corner, then intently gazed across the street. He watched as Ballentine reined up in front of the hotel and climbed off a long-legged bay mare. A pair of young, confused-looking, cherry-cheeked females riding double on a line-backed dun moved in beside Ballentine. The man made quite a display of gallantly helping each girl from her mount. Last to arrive at the hitch rail were two heavily armed men Longarm recognized as the Caine brothers.

He tilted his head toward Allred and, in a barely audible voice, said, “Appears as how Quincy's recruited
two
girls to take Mattie's place. Cute little things, aren't they?”

“Mighty young, too. God Almighty, jus' cain't imagine what in the wide world the man must whisper in a unspoiled gal's ear to get 'em to go a-whorin' in a hell-hole like the Acre.”

“Sad circumstance, any way you slice it. Maybe we can correct the situation before their dilemma gets outta hand. By the way, them's the Caine boys a-bringin' up the rear.”

“Which one's which?” Willard whispered in Longarm's ear.

“Doc's the tallest of the pair. Wearin' the flat-brimmed Boss of the Plains hat and sportin' the silver-plated Colt stuck in his belt backward—Hickok style. Features himself quite the gunhand, from what I've heard. Little brother Ezra's the runty one. Looks almost like a miniature version of Doc, don't he? But we mustn't underestimate the rat-faced little weasel. Way I've heard it, he might well be more dangerous than Doc. Some say Ezra has near a dozen notches carved into the grips of his pistols.”

“We gonna brace 'em now, Marshal? Take Quincy in tow, drag him into an alley, and thump his ass good for what he went and done to Miss Wayland?”

“No, not yet.” Longarm ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin, then scratched a spot on the side of his jaw. He watched as Ballentine's tiny band disappeared inside the Drover's Inn. “Too dangerous for the women, Willard. Wouldn't want to confront the skunk and maybe start up a gunpowder dance that might end with a wall of lead in the air that gets one of 'em hurt, or worse.”

“Well, how we gonna handle the situation?”

“There's chairs on either side of the hotel's front door. See 'em?”

“Yeah, I see 'em.”

“Think we'll just stroll on over, take a seat on the boardwalk, and wait for Quincy and his friends to come back outside. Be willin' to wager we won't be a-seein' the girls on the street with any of 'em boys again. We'll keep our hats pulled down and our collars turned up. They won't even notice us. And since Quincy don't know you, that'll give us somethin' of an advantage. Hell, we might get lucky. Maybe Quincy'll come back outside alone.”

Allred spit, levered a fresh shell into the chamber of his rifle, then eased the hammer down. “Gonna confront 'em soon's they hit the porch again?”

Longarm moved into the street with Willard at his heel. “If they do come out, wait till they get into the street. Tell you what, just take a seat and follow my lead. Don't do anything till you see me give you the sign. Got that?”

“Every word.”

Nigh on an hour later, Longarm squirmed in the uncomfortable cane-bottomed chair next to the Drover's Inn's front entrance and glanced over at Allred. The old soldier's chin rested on his chest, and he appeared to have fallen asleep.
Can't blame him,
Longarm thought,
didn't expect this to take so long
. He fished another cheroot from his vest pocket and jammed it into his mouth. As he scratched a match to life, cupped his hands around the flame, and leaned over to light the smoke, Doc Caine and brother Ezra stepped onto the boardwalk, then swaggered into the street. Allred snapped to attention, but Longarm quickly waved for him to stay put.

Doc Caine clapped an arm over his brother's shoulders. From behind the pair, Longarm heard the man say, “Stick with Quincy, Ezra, and we'll always be knee-deep in the best pussy in Texas. Man sure knows how to pick 'em, don't he?”

The shorter of the two dangerous ruffians threw his head back and let out an odd, snorting, insane laugh. “'At 'ere lil' black-haired thang came nigh on rippin' my whanger right off. Fought like a branded tiger. Gal damn near wore me out, I'll tell ya.”

The clueless pair's conversation soon turned into a jumble of unintelligible phrases as they got farther from the hotel's front entrance. Longarm and Willard continued to watch until the unsuspecting men strutted down Eighth Street and turned into the Empress Saloon.

Willard glanced over at Longarm and hissed, “Quincy's alone now, Marshal. Let's go on in an' take 'im. Drag his sorry ass out into the alley and beat the runny shit out of 'im. Make 'im wish he'd never laid a finger on that little gal up in the doc's office. Get this whole dance all the hell over with.”

In a flash Longarm was on his feet. Willard followed as they made their way into the drab, shabby lobby and up to the primitive desk. A single hallway at the far end of the desk led to the tiny hostel's rooms. A skinny, greasy-haired, hawk-nosed clerk recoiled when Longarm reached across the desk and twirled the registration ledger around so he could read it.

Allred tapped the desk's rough-cut top with the barrel of his Winchester. “Which room is Quincy Ballentine in, Vern?”

The clerk's head snapped back as though he'd been slapped. With feigned righteousness he said, “What the hell business is that of yours, Tater? Don't remember sendin' for you and your fuckin' wagon.”

Longarm's finger stopped on a line in the ledger. He glanced up at the clerk. His normally friendly blue-gray eyes zeroed in like the twin muzzles of Colt .45s. “Rooms number four and five, according to your book. That right—Vern?”

“Who the hell are you?” the clerk snorted back.

“He's a deputy U.S. marshal, Vern. Answer the man,” Allred growled.

Poor Vern looked confused. He fidgeted with the book as though halfheartedly trying to pull it out of Longarm's grasp. “Well, okay, okay. Yeah. Mr. Ballentine rented two rooms. Brought some girls in here 'bout an hour ago. Country girls, from the look of their dress. Had some other fellers with him, but they left.”

Longarm leaned over the desk top until his hat brim almost touched the clerk's nose. “Which room is Ballentine in right now, Vern?”

“Far as I'm aware, number four. Has one of them girls in there with him. Think the other'n is alone in room five. She just got finished servicin' them two friends of Mr. Ballentine's 'fore they left.”

“How would you know that, Vern?” Allred asked.

The clerk swelled up like an insulted toad. “Walls are so thin in this place, ain't much of anythin' goes on here I don't know about. Hell, Marshal, that gal was squealin' like a stuck pig the whole time. Wonder folks passin' on the street didn't hear it.”

Longarm slipped his pistol from its cross-draw holster. “Which side of the hall is number four on, Vern?”

“Right. Second door down on the right. Number five is catty-cornered across the hall on the left.”

Longarm crept away from the desk and into the narrow, stuffy passageway. Willard followed so close he could feel the man's ragged breath on his neck. From behind them, Longarm heard the clerk call out, “For the love of Christ, try not to break anything. Owner'll blame me for it if'n you do. Make me pay.”

At the second door on the right, Longarm waved Willard to a halt. He snatched his hat off and placed an ear against the battered plank portal. He shook his head, then stuffed the hat back on. He motioned Willard around him, then whispered, “We'll hit the door at the same time. Should be quite a surprise when we bust in.”

Willard's eyes got big. “Try the knob,” he hissed. “Worked before.”

Longarm twisted the knob, but the door wouldn't give. He motioned Willard to the far wall, silently counted to three with his fingers, then both men shouldered the door at the same time. The frame groaned, then split with a thunderous cracking noise. Rendered wood burst into a shower of splinters that shot from around the bolt of the cheap lock. The door flew open and bounced off the interior wall like a pistol shot.