Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) (2 page)

“If you don't mind, Boss, I'll stay down here and get that stuff from Henry.” He grinned. “Though you know that otherwise I'd be right in that room with you, telling those boys how wrong they are to be chewing on your ass.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Billy grabbed his hat on the way out, leaving Longarm to amble out into the front office, where the marshal's chief clerk was laboring over some paperwork.

“Reckon you know what I'm here for,” he said.

The slender, bespectacled Henry pointed to a sheaf of already prepared vouchers with one hand while with the other he shuffled through a side drawer in search of something else.

Longarm picked up the offered forms, folded them lengthwise, and tucked them into an inside coat pocket. He retrieved his dark brown Stetson from a hat rack and headed out into the city, a tall, weather-beaten man wearing black stovepipe boots, striped corduroy trousers, a brown tweed coat . . . and a very large six-gun in a cross-draw rig at his waist.

Longarm tugged his Ingersoll railroad-grade watch from his vest pocket—the other end of that same watch chain was attached to a custom-made .41-caliber derringer—and checked the time. He had, if memory served, a good five and a half hours before the northbound left for Cheyenne. That should be plenty of time.

He practically skipped down the stone steps of the Federal Building, turned left at the corner near the U.S. Mint, and hailed a cab.

“Where to, mister?” the hack driver asked. His horse tossed its head, throwing a stream of slobber in Longarm's direction. Longarm ducked out of the way, and the wet goo landed on the back of a passing woman's dress. Under other circumstances Longarm might have stopped her and offered to pay for the dress to be cleaned. But, as he was in a bit of a hurry, he ignored the little problem and crawled into the cab, giving the address of his boardinghouse on the other side of Cherry Creek as he did so.

“Yes, sir, right away.”

When the cab pulled up beside the picket fence at the front of the boardinghouse, Longarm bounced out with a wave and a called “Be right back.”

“Hey!” the cabbie protested, but by then Longarm was hurrying up the steps to the porch and inside.

He went upstairs and grabbed his carpetbag—always packed and ready, down to and including a full bottle of Maryland rye whiskey—plus his McClellan saddle, bridle, Winchester, and saddlebags.

“I'll be back,” he called over his shoulder to his long-suffering landlady on his way out.

“Now where?” the cabbie asked, obviously not in such a fine humor about this fare now.

“The Glass Palace,” Longarm said as he climbed inside the cab again.

“Don't even think about walking off like that when we get there,” the hack driver warned.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Longarm assured him, settling back onto the cracked oilcloth upholstery.

The driver snapped his whip above the horse's ears and the cab lurched forward. Twenty minutes later it came to a halt outside Jim Burnette's Glass Palace.

“Dollar twenty,” the cabbie called down from his perch high above the front wheels. It should have been a fifty-cent ride at most and both of them knew it.

“Ain't that a mite high?” Longarm countered.

“That's the fare. Pay it or I'll call a cop.”

“But I
am
a cop,” Longarm said.

“And I'm the queen of fucking England. Now pay the fare, mister.”

“Right.” Longarm dug into his pockets and produced a dollar and a half, which he handed to the fuming cabbie. “Keep the change,” he said as he turned and headed for the alley beside the run-down theater.

The cabbie gaped in disbelief and Longarm snickered quietly to himself. That would teach the SOB to not be so quick to judge, he thought.

He walked through the trash-strewn alley to the stage door, almost all the way back on the left.

He had to set his carpetbag down in order to have a hand free to knock twice, pause, and knock once more. Seconds later the door opened a mere crack and an eyeball peered out at him. A split second after that the door was swung fully open.

“Nice t' see you this afternoon, Marse Long.”

“Nice t' see you too, Cleofus. Is she in?”

“In her dressin' room. Here, let me take them things. They be safe with me.”

“I know they will, Clee.” He passed his burdens across to the porter, stagehand, all-around help inside the theater.

“Should I announce you, Marse Long?”

“No, I'll surprise her if that's all right.”

“It be fine with me. You go on now. You know the way.”

Longarm grinned and poked Cleofus playfully in the ribs. The old black man countered with a make-believe right cross to Longarm's jaw. Cleofus used to be a professional pugilist and likely could still hold his own. He and Longarm were friends of long standing.

He headed around behind the curtained back of the stage, ducked under some guy wires and through some large, painted muslin scenery panels to the three dressing rooms on the far side of the theater.

Longarm went to the farthest of the three and paused there. He was smiling when he pushed the door open without knocking.

There before him, reclining on a red velvet fainting couch, was perhaps the prettiest girl in Denver. Or anyway, in his admittedly prejudiced opinion, the prettiest at this moment.

He tiptoed toward her, unbuttoning on the way.

Marthabelle Whitcomb was resting between shows. She was made up in the broadly vivid and overdone makeup required for the stage, and her hair was hidden behind a wrap of brown butcher paper so it would not be disarranged when she lay back against the upholstery. She was wearing a loose silk chemise, a garter belt, and thigh-high black stockings. And nothing else, as was quite apparent.

Longarm took a moment to simply look at her. Lovely. It seemed a damn shame that such fine bones and pale, wonderful complexion should be hidden beneath layers of rice powder and garish rouge.

Nothing could hide that figure though. Long, slender legs. Narrow waist. Firm swell of breasts surmounted by tiny, rose-hued nipples.

Her bush, blond and luxuriant, peeped out beneath the hem of her chemise.

Silently chortling, Longarm wakened the girl by dipping a fingertip beneath that bush and into the soft, rubbery slit he found there.

Marthabelle's sky blue eyes snapped open. There was a moment of hesitation as she came back from sleep. Then she smiled. “Bastard,” she whispered.

“Bitch,” he responded.

“You stood me up last night.”

He shrugged. “I was busy.” He had been playing cards but knew better than to offer that as an excuse. He was not going to lie to her either, although he could have claimed some urgent mission connected with his work. Marthabelle would have believed him, but Longarm was not fond of lies or of liars. “So I came tonight.”

He bent down to kiss her, but Marthabelle rolled her face to the side. “Don't. You'll muss my makeup and it takes forever to put on.”

“What does all that stuff feel like?”

“Like crap, actually. It's like wearing a mask. Ugh!”

Longarm settled for lifting the hem of her chemise and kissing her nipples, one by one and back again.

“Oh, my. It's a shame we don't have more time. Come to think of it, what time is it?”

Longarm produced his Ingersoll and told her.

“The maid will be here to help me into my costume in twenty-five minutes.”

He grinned. “That's plenty of time.”

“You can't, love. It would ruin my hairdo even if you didn't touch the makeup.”

“Goodness, the things you women go through to make yourselves beautiful for us men. Stand up.”

“What?”

“Up. Get your pretty ass off that couch.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Marthabelle stood, a questioning look lifting her eyebrows and putting a faint crease into the greasepaint and powder on her forehead.

“Now turn around,” Longarm said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face the couch. “Bend.” He gave her a gentle push, bending her over.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“Oh, yes.”

“There isn't time.”

“If you say so.” By then his fingers had slipped between the cheeks of her ass to again find and fondle the opening to her pussy.

Longarm knew the girl. Knew her responses. He laughed. “You're already so wet you're damn near dripping your juices on the floor. It's a wonder it ain't running down your legs. An' right pretty legs they are, if I do say.”

“Custis. No.” But Marthabelle's body betrayed her words as she wriggled her butt and moved back onto his probing touch. “Really, dear. The time.”

“Shh.” His cock was out, standing tall and hard as stone. He pressed a hand between her shoulder blades to push her a little lower. With his other hand he spread the cheeks of her ass, and crouching, he positioned the head of his cock at the entrance to Marthabelle's pussy.

A slow shove, a tiny bit of resistance, and then her body opened itself to him.

Longarm slid full-length into the sweet, wet heat.

Marthabelle moaned softly and pushed back against him so as to take him deeper inside herself. “Oh,” she muttered.

“So big.”

“D'you mind?”

“I love it. You know I do. Hush now, dear. Pay attention to what you are doing.”

Longarm laughed a little. And set about finishing what he had just started.

After all, the maid would be coming in twenty-five minutes. He figured to be coming a little sooner than that.

“What time is the next stage to Dwyer?”

The stage line clerk looked up from his newspaper and said, “Eleven o'clock.” Longarm already had his watch in hand before the clerk added, “Tomorrow.”

“Say what?”

Newspaper still in hand, the clerk said, “We have northbounds rolling out Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, southbounds coming back Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Nothing going nor coming on that route on Sundays. This here being a Tuesday . . .”

“Right. I get the picture. Tomorrow.” Longarm thought for a moment, then asked, “If you have an overnight turnaround for that coach, why d' you start so late in the day? Why not early morning?”

“That's for the mail. Our contract calls for us to carry mail headed that way, and we don't get the pouch until the overnight mail has got here and been sorted. So we wait until we have that ready to go.”

“That explains it, thanks. Can I leave some of my gear here until that coach is ready then?”

“Sure. Just set it inside the cage here. Nobody will bother it.”

“Thanks. I'll be back tomorrow morning.”

The clerk nodded and went back to his reading. Longarm deposited his saddle, saddlebags, and rifle inside the office portion of the stage depot but kept his carpetbag with him while he went in search of a room.

That requirement was satisfied easily enough, and within half an hour he was out on the streets of Cheyenne with a day to kill and no duties to fulfill until he caught that northbound coach in the morning.

He found a saloon that had provided pleasant diversions in the past and dropped in.

The bartender nodded and said, “Rye whiskey, isn't it, friend?”

“You have a good memory,” Longarm said. “Yes, it'll be rye.”

“Bottle or glass.”

“Just a glass.” He dug into his pocket and laid a quarter down. The barman dropped the coin into his apron pocket and slid a bowl of peanuts down the bar to Longarm before pouring a generous measure of excellent rye and placing that next to the peanuts.

Longarm picked up the glass and inhaled the bitingly sharp aroma of the whiskey before tasting it. He nodded to the bartender appreciatively and swallowed a good third of the rye, then reached for a peanut roasted in the shell.

He was on his second whiskey and probably twentieth peanut when he heard a commotion in the street outside. There were shouts, then gunshots. Two in quick succession followed by a brief pause and then a third shot.

“Sounds like trouble,” the bartender said. “I hope they don't bring it in here.”

“Watch this for me, will you?” Longarm said, pushing his still nearly full glass across the bar.

He turned and headed out to see if there was anything that needed his help.

Longarm stepped through the batwings onto a board sidewalk and stopped there. It took no great powers of deduction to see what the shooting had been about. It was no robbery gone bad but appeared to be simply a private matter between two men.

One was down on the ground, his revolver lying in the dirt some feet away, while the victor stood over him with his six-gun still in hand. Both men were in the middle of the street.

Around them time seemed to have stopped. All movement had come to a halt, people standing still and staring.

The two combatants were perhaps thirty feet away from Longarm. The one on the ground struggled to a sitting position and said something to the other. Whatever it was it was too low for Longarm to overhear.

Longarm reached inside his coat for a cheroot, nipped the twist off with his teeth, and spat out the bit of tobacco. He extracted a match from another pocket, snapped it aflame with his thumbnail, and lighted his smoke. He flicked the spent match into the street and was about to return to the drink he had abandoned inside the saloon, figuring the Cheyenne police could handle this. There was no reason for him to become involved.