Longarm and the Dime Novelist (13 page)

Longarm was a bit annoyed with the livery in Fallon because the horse that they'd hitched up to the buggy was ancient. It was a thin, sorrel gelding that stumbled constantly in harness and walked at a pace that any desert tortoise could have exceeded.

“Yah!” Longarm growled, snapping the lines across the animal's bony back. “Come on, old fella, we'd like to get to the ranch before sunset.”

“Don't hit him,” Delia said, placing her hand over Longarm's. “The old guy is doing the best he can.”

“You're right,” Longarm agreed, feeling guilty about his impatience with the horse that was obviously long past the age of retirement. “But I'll tell you this, Delia, if the shooting starts and we have to make a sudden run for it, we sure as hell don't want to jump into this buggy and try to escape with this horse pulling us.”

“I can't really imagine you retreating.”

They were on a grade and the sorrel was straining. Longarm pulled on the lines and the gelding stopped, rib cage rapidly expanding and contracting. “Let's give him a moment to catch his breath.”

“I'm going to walk to the top of the hill so that will make it a little easier.”

“I might as well do the same,” Longarm decided. “Besides, I'd like you to test that Colt revolver and derringer. We damn sure want to make sure that they are reliable. And I'll just fire the shotgun a couple times. We need to do that before we come to the ranch gate.”

Longarm set the brake though it surely wasn't necessary. The sorrel's head dropped almost to the ground and it stood spraddle-legged sucking wind.

“Here,” Longarm said, making sure the Colt and derringer were loaded.

“What should I aim at?”

Longarm studied the ground out ahead of them. “See that juniper. Aim for its trunk.”

“It's pretty far. You must think I'm an awfully good shot.”

“I don't know what kind of a shot you are,” Longarm replied. “But move in close for the derringer and let's see if you can hit the tree from around fifteen or twenty feet.”

Longarm stood back. Delia moved toward the tree, the double-barreled derringer in her hand. She raised the little gun, aimed, and fired. Longarm saw wood splinter off the juniper. “Nice shot. Do it again.”

Delia fired the derringer a second time and hit the tree squarely.

“Now back up and try the revolver. Here, I'll reload the derringer for you.”

“I did pretty good, didn't I,” Delia said, looking pleased. “I'd never shot a derringer before.”

“You have to get close to make them effective,” Longarm said. “But the revolver is accurate for at least fifty feet. Lift the gun and cock back the hammer. Take a steady aim, then squeeze the trigger.”

“I know all that. I have been taught how to shoot before.”

“Then let's see you do it.”

To Longarm's surprise, Delia didn't hesitate but brought the gun up with both hands, took a moment to aim, and fired. Longarm saw bark splinter off the juniper.

“Not bad. But do it again.”

Delia fired twice more, missing once but hitting the tree dead center with her last bullet. “So,” she asked, “how about that?”

“Much better than I'd hoped,” he admitted. “There are a lot of cowboys who can't shoot that straight.”

“I like shooting. Could I try the double-barreled shotgun now?”

“You bought it.” He handed the shotgun to Delia. “There's going to be a strong kick so snug it tight against your left shoulder.”

“Like this?”

“Exactly. And remember, this is a scattergun and all you have to do is to point it at that juniper and fire.”

Delia took a deep breath. “Here goes!”

She pulled
both
triggers and the explosion was so huge that even the sorrel jumped and the juniper shivered as a huge, round patch of its foliage disappeared. Delia staggered backward and would have fallen if Longarm had not caught her in his arms.

“Oh my gawd!” Delia cried. “That was awful!”

“If you think it was awful for you, imagine how our poor juniper must be feeling by now.”

Delia shoved the shotgun at Longarm. “You use it and I'll stick to the Colt revolver and two-shot derringer.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but it's going to play hell on my already sore shoulder.”

“Let's just hope it doesn't come to that,” Delia said.

“Amen.” Longarm reloaded the shotgun and smiled at the horse. “You finally look like you're awake. We're going to lead you up to the top of this hill just to make things a mite easier.”

At the top of the sagebrush-covered hill, they climbed back into the buggy and continued on down the dirt track heading for the Pennington ranch.

 • • • 

“There's the gate!” Longarm exclaimed. “And I can see the house up there in that big stand of cottonwood trees.”

“Do we have any kind of a plan?”

“Nope.” Longarm squinted into a lowering sun. “Just let me do all the talking.”

Delia squeezed his arm. “But I get the strong feeling that you think Emily is being held captive at the Pennington ranch.”

“Could be another blond. Let's just not jump to conclusions.”

“I understand.”

“I just hope she's still alive,” Longarm said quietly. “But I'll tell you this much, we're not leaving without finding out one way or the other.”

 • • • 

The ranch house was big and made out of lumber as were the barns and what was obviously a bunkhouse with four or five cowboys sitting on its steps talking and smoking cigarettes.

Driving into the yard, Longarm positioned the shotgun across his lap in the direction of the cowboys and said in a low voice, “Delia, put your hand in your dress pocket and your thumb over the hammer of that shooter until we find out if there is going to be a fight.”

“I hate to say this,” she whispered, “but I'm beginning to think I should have stayed in town.”

“And miss all this excitement?” Longarm asked. “Now that sure doesn't seem like your style.”

“If we die in a few minutes, my ‘style' isn't going to matter.”

“We're not going to die,” Longarm promised. “If I determine that the game is stacked completely against us, I'll weasel out of this mess and we can come back another time when the odds are more favorable. Trust me, Delia, we didn't come out here to be shot to pieces in a fight we could not win.”

“Real glad to hear that.”

Longarm painfully raised his left arm and waved at the cowboys as they rolled into the yard. The men had come to their feet and were staring not at him but at Delia, who had a frozen smile on her face. There was no doubt that she was scared and it showed yet it was far too late to change things now.

“Howdy, boys!” Longarm called. “Is Mr. Pennington in the big house?”

A tall and wiry cowboy with a black Stetson and a nice gun and holster stepped out in front of the buggy. Speaking around a twisted cigarette, he drawled, “I'm the ramrod here; what's your business?”

“I need to see Mr. Pennington.”

“You didn't answer my question, mister.”

“And you didn't answer mine,” Longarm retorted as he shifted the shotgun so that it was pointing at the man who had made it clear that he was in charge.

The ramrod swallowed hard and looked over his shoulder at the cowboys who were standing aside and well out of the pattern of the shotgun. Not one of them moved in closer to their ramrod. A few tense moments passed as Longarm and thin man tested each other's wills. Finally, the ramrod tossed his cigarette into the dirt. “I'll go tell Mr. Pennington he's got company.”

“Do that,” Longarm said without warmth.

The man sauntered up to the house and disappeared inside. Long minutes passed and the cowboys kept staring at Delia. That was fine with Longarm; he'd rather their minds be fixated on sex rather than shooting.

Ten anxious minutes passed before the foreman emerged on the front porch of the ranch house with what had to be Maxwell Pennington right behind. Longarm studied Pennington, noting the man's disheveled appearance. The mine owner now turned rancher's hair was sticking out in all directions and he had not shaved lately. His eyes looked sunken into his face, giving the man a haunted look but even despite all that, he was strikingly handsome as he tucked his wrinkled white shirt into his pants. Longarm also noted that Maxwell Pennington had taken the time to strap a fancy cartridge belt, hand-tooled holster, and a pearl-handled six-gun to his narrow waist.

As the two men left the porch and started toward them, Longarm noted that Maxwell was not walking straight and it occurred to him that the man was either on his way to getting drunk this early in the evening or might have been smoking opium or some other drug.

“Who the hell are you!” Pennington bellowed while still twenty feet away. “I don't know either of you . . . though I'd like to know you better,” he said, pointing a finger at Delia.

Longarm heard her whisper, “This doesn't look good.”

“No,” Longarm whispered back, “it doesn't. Just steady your nerves and be ready for whatever happens next.”

Max Pennington halted beside the old gelding's head and so did his grim-faced ramrod, a man that Longarm decided looked more like a professional gunman rather than a working cowboy.

“State your business!” Max demanded.

Longarm had come to a crossroads and knew he could either show Pennington his federal officer's badge or run a game on Pennington. And given that the man's thinking might already be impaired, he decided to run a game.

“Don't you remember us?” he asked, suddenly smiling. “We met in Reno a few months ago in a saloon . . . I forget which . . . but me and my wife here were getting married and you invited us to come on by for a day or two while honeymooning.”

The man blinked. “I said that?”

“Why yes,” Longarm replied, adding a tone of injury to his voice. “But we were both drinking hard and if you didn't mean it . . .”

“Whoa!” Pennington ran a forearm across his eyes and struggled to gain focus. “If I invited you two to come out here, the least I can do is invite you to come inside and eat and have a drink with me.”

“That would be real nice,” Delia managed to say. “My husband said you were a gentleman and that you'd be glad to see us.”

Pennington shrugged. “Well, sure. What did you say your names were?”

“I'm Custis Long and this is my wife, Delia. We just got hitched in Reno last Saturday.”

The foreman turned to his boss. “Mr. Pennington, are you sure about doing this?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Max pivoted around nearly losing his balance. “Grant, have one of the boys unhitch that old horse before it dies where it stands and give it some grain. I could use some company at my supper table.”

Grant shook his head. “But . . .”

“Damnit, just do it!”

The tall man's face stiffened but he did as he was ordered. Longarm placed his shotgun down on the floor of the buggy and forced a wide smile directed toward Delia. “See, darlin', I told you he'd be glad to see us.”

“Nice place,” Delia managed to say.

“I've got some of the finest cattle you'll ever see and the best water rights in the county,” Max bragged. “But I got even better imported liquor. Come on inside!”

Longarm took Delia's arm and they moved around the foreman and followed Max into the house. Max shouted, “Hey, Sophia, come meet our guests who are staying for supper!”

Longarm felt Delia's grip on his arm go vise tight a moment before a very thin and pale young woman with blond hair and glassy eyes half stumbled and half shuffled down the staircase in a low-cut, tight-fitting red-lace nightgown. The nightgown was ridiculously short, only barely dropping below the girl's crotch and revealing dark purple bruises on the inside of her thighs. Longarm thought she had the longest and skinniest legs he'd ever seen on a woman.

She looked like a walking cadaver, but it just
had
to be Miss Emily Pierce.

Delia audibly gasped at the sight of the once beautiful young woman who stood trembling and staring vacantly down at them from the staircase. Emily worked up a weak smile and then lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

“I'm not feeling so well these days,” she said, voice small and soft. “But I'm always glad to meet friends of Max. Maybe I'll come down later to see you.”

Maxwell Pennington barked a laugh. “Sophia, you need to put on a proper dress, brush your hair and clean up for our guests. I'll have Consuela cook us up something real nice and it'll be good for you to eat.”

“You know I can't keep anything down, Max.” Her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “But . . . but it is so nice of you to come visit.”

And then, without another word Emily turned and struggled back up the stairs.

“What's the matter with her?” Delia asked, voice in a stricken voice. “She looks
very
ill.”

“She's dying,” Max said, blinking and turning away. “It's a cancer and she's taking some strong medicine for the pain. I don't give her more than another week.”

Delia took an involuntary step forward but Longarm caught her hand and stilled her progress, saying, “It's clear that Sophia was once quite beautiful.”

“Yes,” Max said sadly. “We had planned to get married next June and then she began to feel bad. I took her to a specialist and he finally determined that she has a stomach cancer. I'm just doing the best that I can so she's comfortable but I have to admit that it's breaking my heart.”

It took everything Longarm had inside not to grab Maxwell by the throat and throttle the life out of the man, but he needed proof of prior murders. Needed the proof to be able to swear that Maxwell Pennington either was the killer of Marshal John Pierce and his wife, Agnes, or had someone do the killing that day they'd been ambushed and robbed halfway between Reno and Carson. And there was also the murder of the elder Pennington to clear up, although Longarm was pretty sure that the old mine guard, Pete, had been the actual shooter.

“So,” Max said, taking Delia's arm and forcing her down the hallway toward his library and bar. “Let's see what we have that you would enjoy in my liquor cabinet. A brandy, perhaps?”

“Whiskey,” Delia said in a voice that even Longarm did not recognize.

“Whiskey! You're a woman after my own heart. Tell me, how did I happen not to have seen you in Reno?”

“We haven't been there long.”

“Of course.” Max turned back to face Longarm. “This is a remarkably beautiful woman. You are indeed a lucky, lucky man.”

“I think so.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, perhaps because Maxwell Pennington was waiting to hear more but Longarm would not give him the satisfaction.

“So, Custis, what would you like?”

“I'll also have whiskey.”

“That greatly simplifies things because I'll have it as well.”

Delia found a place to sit as did Longarm. They watched as Maxwell poured generously and then sloshed the whiskey on his floor delivering their drinks. The man grabbed up his own, raised it, and said, “Here's to your long and happy marriage.”

“Thank you,” Longarm said as they drank to the toast.

“Well,” Max said, throwing his head around and grinning like a circus clown, “what do you do for a living, Custis?”

“I look for things.”

“Oh, like what?”

“People, mostly.”

“Can I assume you are speaking of
investors
?”

“Maybe.”

Delia took another deep swallow of the whiskey and said, “You didn't ask but I'm a dime novelist, Mr. Pennington. Have you read any of my novels under my pen name of Dakota Walker?”

Laughter burst from his mouth. Max took a long drink and wiped tears from his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“So you're a dime novelist who calls herself Dakota Walker?”

“That's right.” Her voice grew louder and Longarm could hear the building anger. “And I also look for things, only what I look for are stories to tell, and the best ones are murders and kidnappings and all manner of awful acts by—”

“Delia,” Longarm interrupted. “Perhaps you need to go upstairs and see if Sophia is all right.”

“Ah, she's fine!” Max said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I'd feel better,” Delia managed to say, “if I just looked in on her for a moment.”

“Sophia is probably passed out from the sedation she took just before you arrived. But if she isn't, take her a glass of whiskey. She's grown very fond of the drink since she's been diagnosed with incurable cancer.”

Delia came to her feet and refilled her glass, then hurried toward the staircase. Max shouted after her, “Sophia has hallucinations! Wild ones and you just have to tell her that she's . . . she's confused.”

“I'll do that,” Delia promised, hurrying out of the room.

“So,” Max said, turning his attention back to Longarm, “I sure do admire beautiful women and your wife is . . . well, she's stunning.”

“Thanks.”

“Is she
really
a dime novelist?”

“She really is.”

“And I'll bet she writes some pretty bloody prose and then she makes you read it. Am I right?”

“Yep.”

Max reached for a cigar box. “Want one?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

“Straight from Cuba. The best that money can buy.”

They bit off the tips and passed the cigars under their noses. Max grinned proudly and studiously licked his cigar from end to end. He found a match and lit them up.

“So what are you looking for . . . oh, yeah, you said you hunt for people with money to invest.”

“I did say that.”

“What kind of investment opportunities are you offering?”

Longarm took another sip of his whiskey, looking very relaxed while his mind was churning. He smiled as if he had a great secret.

“Come on!” Max urged. “I happened to have come into some money recently that I'd like to invest. So, if you have something really special, I insist on hearing about it.”

Longarm grinned and took a moment to consider his next words. “Mr. Pennington, I'm afraid that I'd have to take you back to town and show you.”

Max leaned back and snorted with derision. “My, aren't you the man of mystery.”

“Sorry.”

“Does this investment you are handling involve some kind of an invention that has to be seen and not explained?”

“You're sharp, Mr. Pennington. Very sharp.”

“Well just try to tell me about it.”

“Nope.”

The man's eyes hardened. “You're drinking my whiskey and I'm showing you my hospitality, Custis. You sit there in my chair and tell me you can't even give me a hint of what it is that you represent?”

“That's right.”

“Damn!” Max surged to his feet and emptied his glass. “I think you are either a fraud or you are toying with my curiosity. Either way, I'm not happy about it and I think this little conversation is about to end.”

Longarm also came to his feet. “I regret that you feel that way. However, I have my reasons and if you're not willing to come to Fallon and allow me to show you this amazing invention that I'm offering, that's quite all right.”

He set his glass down and walked out of the library. “Delia! Delia, honey, we need to get going.”

Delia appeared at the top of stairs, her face pinched with worry. “Sophia is deathly ill. She just had a convulsion and needs to see a doctor at once!”

“I'll come up and help bring her down.”

“No!” Max shouted. “She's dying and I don't want her to pass from this world in some small town doctor's back room or in a seedy hotel. She belongs here with me. Right here and I'm not letting her go.”

Longarm had been holding it all inside but now his emotions got the better of him and he took three steps forward and drove his fist into Maxwell Pennington's gut. Drove it in so hard and deep that the man actually lifted off the floor and then collapsed, gagging and gulping for air.

“She's
not
your wife,” Longarm said, kneeling down beside the gasping man. “And she's deathly ill so I'm taking her to a doctor. If you want to come by tomorrow and check on Sophia and see what I have that will make you a fortune for a modest investment, then please do so.”

Maxwell said something unintelligible. Longarm took the stairs at a bound and when he hurried into a bedroom, he saw Sophia stretched out looking more dead than alive. Glancing at Delia, he said, “Grab her a nice dress or two and some clean underwear and let's get her out of here fast!”

Emily weighed almost nothing and Longarm took her quickly down the stairs. Maxwell was heaving on the floor, still unable to get to his feet. Longarm and Delia rushed across the ranch yard and found the buggy and sorrel still hitched.

Longarm lifted Emily up and set her on the seat. Delia jumped up beside her and said, “Here they come!”

Longarm grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and spun around to face Grant and the cowboys. When the cowboys saw him cock back the hammers of the shotgun, they retreated in a hurry, but the ramrod stood his ground.

“Where the hell do you think you're taking her?”

“She's sick. I'm taking her to see a doctor in town.”

Grant looked to the house, clearly not sure what he should do next. “Did Mr. Pennington say that was all right?”

“He's not feeling well, either.”

“Then I can't let you take her.”

Longarm started toward the man, whose face drained of blood. Grant started backpedaling, but Longarm was moving too fast. When he got closer, he brought the butt of the shotgun up and slammed it hard into Grant's pointed, whiskered jaw. The gunman dropped and Longarm kicked him in the ribs, almost certainly cracking a few.

“You cowboys don't want any part of this trouble,” he said. “This girl is near death and I'm getting her to a doctor. Try and stop me and I'll blow your guts across that barn wall.”

The cowboys shook their heads and making it clear they were not about to provoke a fight and face the devastating blast of two shotgun barrels.

Longarm climbed into the buggy and grabbed up the whip. He laid it down hard on the sorrel's bony back and the buggy lurched forward, slewing around in the dirt and then heading back toward Fallon.

“Holy gawd!” Delia swore, hugging Emily tightly. “How did we do that!”

“We did what we had to do.” He glanced sideways at Emily. “Do you think she's going to make it to town?”

“I don't know,” Delia choked, brushing strands of Emily's dirty hair from her face. “I'm not a religious person, but right now I'm praying like a preacher.”

“Can't hurt,” Longarm said, realizing he still had a Cuban cigar clenched between his back teeth. He spit it out and the old sorrel gelding,
now heading for its barn, showed surprising vigor.