Longarm #431 (11 page)

Longarm was busy that afternoon. He was still torn, however. He wanted Al Gray and Gray's rifleman partner, the one who had shot him and freed Gray. He wanted those two bad. But at the same time he had his duty to perform, and the Tatums were wanted on federal charges.

He would just have to take whichever he could get.

And toward that end, he had some shopping to do.

There was no gunsmith in Crowell City, but Anderson's Hardware had a firearms section in the back. Longarm was more than satisfied with his familiar, double-action Colt .45. It felt like an old friend in his hand, but the cylinder held only six shots.

If he came up against the Tatums this evening, he figured there was a better than even chance that those three brothers—and any gang members and hangers-on who happened to be with them—would resist being taken into custody. He wanted more firepower than the .45 would provide.

He bought a single-action Colt in the same .45 caliber as his tried-and-true model. The grips and the balance felt good in his hand, and it would give him another six rounds if he needed them. That revolver he stuck inside his waistband in the small of his back.

Much more importantly in the event there was trouble—and there very likely would be—he bought a break-top 12-gauge Stevens & Co. double-barrel shotgun. The gun was used but seemed to be in decent shape. The hammers came back with a smooth action, and the triggers pulled nicely as well. The bluing was worn away on both barrels, but he did not care about that.

The shotgun was a bargain at seven dollars and the revolver priced fairly at twenty-five. He bought ammunition for both, no. 2 goose shot for the shotgun and standard .45s for his revolvers. Longarm made sure to get a receipt to turn in to Henry when he got back to Denver.

Assuming he did get back to Denver.

From Anderson's he walked over to Dub Hilliard's smithy.

“Can you do a rush job for me this afternoon?” he asked the blacksmith. “I'll pay you well.”

“Depends on what the job is,” the wiry blacksmith said.

Longarm handed him the shotgun. “I need this cut down to, oh, eight inch or so barrels and braze or solder the rib between them. Can you do that for me before supper time?”

“I can,” Hilliard said. “Hell, I can do it for you while you wait. It won't take but a few minutes.” The man picked up a hacksaw and held out his hand for the gun.

Twenty minutes later Longarm had his sawed-off. Hilliard had done a good job of it, even taking a rat-tail file and smoothing the inside of the barrels where he had cut them.

“It's shiny, but you don't give me enough time to blue those spots,” the smith apologized.

“It's just fine by me, and anybody lookin' at it from that end won't be complaining about the appearance,” Longarm said.

He left the gun in his room and went down the hall to check on Melody—she was not in—then downstairs to eat.

He had some time to kill before his meeting with Wilson Hughes and, hopefully, with the Tatum brothers.

In the meantime he wondered if he could find Hortense for a little afternoon relaxation.

Longarm responded to a light tapping on his hotel room door. He stepped to the side of the doorway and drew his Colt. It was not that he expected trouble but . . . just in case.

“Who is it?”

“It's me. Hortense.”

Longarm slid the bolt back and opened the door. Hortense nervously eyed the revolver in his hand, then she said, “We need to talk. Can I come in?”

“O' course. Truth is, I was thinkin' about you earlier. Thinkin' about maybe asking you for a little afternoon delight.”

“That would be fine, Mr. Long. You know I'll do anything you want. But first you have to listen to me for a minute,” the girl said.

Longarm shut and locked the door behind her and motioned toward the bed. “Sit down an' tell me what brought you here.”

“I don't mean to bother you but . . . a girl in my position hears things. If you know what I mean. And you are a nice man. You were good to me. You bought food for my kids. You didn't have to pay me that much, but you did, out of the kindness of your heart you did.”

Longarm retrieved a cheroot—the damn extra revolver dug hard into the small of his back—struck a match, and lighted it. Hortense surprised him by taking the slender cigar from him and starting to smoke it, so he pulled out another and lighted that one. He reminded himself to go buy more and hoped he could find a brand that he liked.

“The thing is,” Hortense rambled on, “I heard you are being set up to be shot down.”

Longarm's eyebrows went up at that information. Were the Tatums already aware that he was in town here and would be coming for them? Wilson Hughes could not have warned them. Hughes did not know that Longarm was a deputy marshal. The man would shit himself if he did find out.
When
he found out.

“She's an awful good shot, you know,” Hortense was saying.

“She?” Longarm blurted.

“Yes. She used to be a sharpshooter in one of those traveling medicine shows before she hooked up with him. Now he robs some and pimps for her some and I don't know what all else.”

“Now wait a minute,” Longarm said. He did not know of any woman attached to the Tatum brothers, and they certainly were not in the business of pimping. “Who the hell are we talkin' about?”

Hortense gave him a look of disgust, as if saying he should pay attention. And perhaps he should at that. “Mr. Gray and Miss Melody, of course,” the little whore said.

“I . . . Oh! Uh, tell me more about this, will ya?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Hortense said. “Marshal Hughes will come and tell you where you can find Mr. Gray. Except somewhere along the road, Miss Melody will be waiting to shoot you down.” Hortense's brow furrowed. “I don't understand this, but she said something about you changing hats.”

“Mel . . . say, how d' you know all this?” Longarm demanded.

“I eavesdrop sometimes.” She giggled. “I eavesdrop a lot, actually. I heard Miss Melody talking to Marshal Hughes. To get him to do it, like. She, uh, she promised she'd give him a really good fuck if he does it. You wouldn't understand, but that is a powerful payment. None of the girls like to fuck Marshal Hughes, you see. He doesn't wash his cock, and it stinks. Absolutely nobody will suck him off, either. Especially that.” Hortense shuddered, apparently just from thinking about it.

“Have you ever had to fuck him?” Longarm asked.

Hortense peered down toward her shoes. “Yes, sir,” she said in a very small voice. “I had to give it to him or go to jail. Whoring is against the law here, though you wouldn't know it from the way folks act. Anyway, that is what the marshal does when he really wants some pussy. He grabs a girl and hauls her over to the jail. If she wants to get loose, she has to drop her knickers for him.

“I had to, you see, because my kids needed me. Otherwise I would have sat in their damn jail and let the town pay to feed me. But I didn't have that option, so I gave him the quickest fuck I could.” She smiled up at him, her eyelashes long and curly against the pallor of her cheek. “Us girls know how to bring a man off fast if we want to or go the other direction and let him string it out. That would be like if we like a fellow. Or if we're enjoying it ourselves, which to tell you the truth doesn't happen very much.”

“You're a nice girl, Hortense. Thank you for telling me all this,” Longarm said. He slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a hug.

“Mr. Long.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Would you, I mean . . . well, I like you just fine. And it would please me if we could get naked and, um, do stuff.” She smiled. “Not for pay, you understand, but just because you're a boy and I'm a girl and . . . I like you.”

Longarm smiled down at her. “As 't happens, I like you just fine, too, Hortense.”

He stood and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Hortense was soft in his arms and gentle. Longarm lay on his back and tried not to move while the girl nuzzled him and sighed.

She knelt over him and licked his nipples, first one and then the other. Her tongue roved lightly over his belly. Up and down the length of his cock. Down onto his balls and behind them to the sensitive flesh there.

“Roll over,” she said.

“On my stomach?”

“Yes, of course on your stomach.”

“What d' you . . . ?”

“Just do it,” Hortense said.

With a shrug and a sigh, Longarm did as the girl asked.

He felt her leave the bed and turned his head to look. She had gone to the washstand beside the dressing table and was sloshing a washcloth in it. She seemed to be soaping the cloth.

When she returned to the bed she began washing Longarm's ass.

“That water is cold, y'know,” he said.

“Are you complaining?”

“No. Just thought I'd mention it,” he said with a grin.

“This won't take long.”

“Good.”

She washed him rather thoroughly, returned the washcloth to the washstand and fetched a towel, which she used to carefully dry Longarm's butt.

“I don't understand this,” he said.

“Just mentioning again?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Surely you've had anilingus before this?” Hortense said.

“I wouldn't know if I've had it or not since I don't know what it is,” he admitted.

The girl laughed. And proceeded to lick his asshole.

“Damn if that don't feel awful good,” Longarm said.

She lifted her head long enough to say, “It's supposed to, silly. Now let me get back to what I was doing.”

She did. And it did indeed feel good. Different. But good. By the time Hortense sat up, Longarm's cock was about to explode.

He rolled over and smiled. “Now,” he said, “it's my turn.”

Longarm treated himself to a thick steak sizzling in its own juices and a slab of apple pie for dessert. Then he went up to his room and retrieved the shotgun. Made sure it was loaded and checked the cylinders of both Colts, including the new one stuffed into the small of his back.

He always carried a few extra .45 cartridges, but now he took four shiny brass 12-gauge shotshells out of the box and dropped them into his coat pocket, too.

Then he went downstairs and walked over to the town marshal's office.

“You're early,” Hughes said.

“Yeah,” Longarm said, smiling. “I'm eager.” He also wanted to avoid a setup like Melody and Gray seemed to be planning for the coming morning.

“Do you have my hundred?” Hughes asked.

“Right here.” Longarm reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of currency. He peeled off two fifties and placed them on the marshal's desk. “Paper be all right?”

“Fine,” Hughes said. “Just fine.” The bills disappeared into the man's pocket in the blink of an eye.

Hughes stood and reached for his hat. “Ready?”

“Been ready,” Longarm said.

The marshal led Longarm down Crowell City's main street and left three blocks to the edge of town, where he opened the gate of a tall, neatly tended house.

“In here?” Longarm asked.

“Just knock. They're expecting you.” He laughed. “They're expecting almost anyone. This is a whorehouse. The best we have. Beautiful girls. You'll see.”

“You don't intend t' come in, do you?”

“Why, I had thought so. To introduce you around,” Hughes said. “You boys don't know each other, and . . .”

“And you don't need t' be getting inta my business,” Longarm said. “If it's all the same to you, I'd as leave you stayed out o' this.”

“But I thought . . .”

“You been paid, Wilse. You done your good deed. Now go on back into town. If things go well, me and the Tatums will meet you later. Maybe all of us have a drink together.” Or all meet in the marshal's office so Deputy U.S. Marshal Long could borrow the town's jail overnight. With Hughes in it, too, if he could think of a reason. “But right now,” Longarm said to the crooked marshal, “I'm wantin' to keep our talk private.”

“I . . . um . . . well.” Hughes stammered and paused for a bit, obviously trying to think of a good reason why he should be included in the gang's discussions.

He could not, and in the end he turned and tugged his hat brim low and sulked his way back into town, shoulders slumped and boots shuffling in the dirt.

Longarm looked up at the big house and took a fresh grip on the sawed-off 12 gauge, then checked to make sure the spare pistol in his back was positioned so he could get to it in a hurry.

Then he took a deep breath and marched up the dirt pathway to the porch.

His knock was answered by a dignified woman. He would not say she was elderly, but she certainly was bordering on it. She was dressed as if for a formal ball, with something sparkling woven into her graying hair and a gown, cut very low, that shimmered in the lamplight.

“Ma'am,” he said, bowing slightly and making a leg.

The woman smiled. “Very nice, Mr. Long. Please come inside. Marshal Hughes said you wish to speak with some of my guests. You are entirely welcome to do so. If you require privacy”—she chuckled—“that is one of the things we do best.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he said, handing his pale-gray Stetson to a young girl, either mulatto or Indian, who reached for it.

“One of your gentleman friends is in the parlor. Please join them. Josie will fetch you refreshment if you like. Just tell her what you want,” the madam said.

“You're very kind.” He smiled.

“May we, um, set that aside for safekeeping?” the woman asked, nodding toward his sawed-off.

“Actually, ma'am, I'd rather hang on to it, if you don't mind.”

“And if I do mind?” she asked.

“Then I'd rather hang on to it.”

The madam nodded to the mulatto girl, who bobbed her head and curtsied and hurried away with Longarm's hat.

“The parlor is through that doorway,” the madam said, motioning to indicate a double-wide doorway.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

Longarm stepped through the doorway and was confronted with a solid wall of perfume and powders. The place positively reeked of competing scents. It was filled also with beauty.

Four utterly gorgeous whores were seated on the gilded furnishings.

A gentleman Longarm had seen in the Crowell City bank was at the far end of the room with a stunning blond girl curled up in his lap.

And Warren Tatum was sitting in an overstuffed armchair to the left of the doorway.

Tatum saw Longarm about the same time that Longarm spotted him. “You, you son of a bitch!” he barked, reaching for his pistol.

Longarm tipped his shotgun up and tripped the front trigger. Warren Tatum's chest crumpled in on itself in a red mush. The room was filled with noise and smoke.

There was no need to fire the second barrel.

The girls squealed and screamed and fled from the room in a mad crush of velvet and satin. The banker took a look at Longarm and turned pale. He did not move.

Longarm stepped to the side and pressed against the wall while he broke the action of the scattergun, extracted the spent shell and shoved in a fresh one.

He peered around the edge of the doorway. True to form, the guests had the good sense to get the hell out of there. Probably, he thought, they were less worried about what he might do than they were about being caught up in a public spectacle and their wives finding out where they were spending their evenings.

The girls scattered first. But then they were not encumbered much by clothing. Darn good-looking girls though. Whoever owned this house had quite a stable of fillies.

Two men wearing shirts and underpants and carrying assorted other articles of clothing came next, followed by a large man with flaming red hair and a cigar stuck jauntily between his teeth.

Longarm stepped into view. “Stop right there, Albert,” he snapped.

“Fuck you, Long.” The big man reached for his pistol, but Longarm's 12-gauge was quicker.

Smoke and flame filled the foyer. Albert Tatum's left leg buckled but he was able to remain upright. He dragged his revolver out of the leather and struggled to cock it.

Longarm fired his second barrel. This time the load of heavy shot hit him in the belly and nearly tore the man in two. Albert Tatum tumbled head over heels down the staircase.

“Shit,” Longarm mumbled. “Looks like I gotta dig the last one out.”

He tossed the empty shotgun aside and pulled his spare Colt out of the small of his back, then started warily up the steps.

Kurt Tatum was in one of those rooms on the second floor, and by now he knew something was up.

Longarm held his Colt cocked and ready. He felt a flutter of apprehension in his belly, but this was something that had to be done.