Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (10 page)

“Well, now that might well be a bit strong. Sometimes the particular woman who brings the breeze does make a difference.”

A bloodshot gaze scanned his face. A tiny smile crimped the corner of her mouth. “All a woman's…gotta do…is breathe in the general direction of a man's cock, and he'll follow her anywhere. Crawl around on his hands and knees…howl like a dog…if she asks him to do it.”

Longarm stared at his own feet and nodded. “Well, suppose some of that's true enough. When it comes to good-lookin' women blessed with an easy attitude toward sex, most of us don't exercise much in the way of good judgment.”

A timid smile creased Mattie's swollen lips. “You're a novelty, Marshal.”

“How so?”

“Believe you're the first…I've ever known willing to own up…to his shortcomings.”

With as much tenderness as he could muster, Longarm stroked Mattie's bandaged head. “Best not to use the word
short
with most men, darlin'. Does have a way of deflatin' any feller who's inclined to be deflated. Now tell me, how many times have you done this before?”

Mention of her past misdeeds appeared to rouse her even more. “Hundreds, Custis. Me'n Quincy've made a mountain of money off lesser men than you. Men who wound up with a sore head and an empty wallet.” She squeezed the fingers of his hand. Her eyes watered. “Sometimes…I fucked 'em so they'd be happy…Rare, but it happened. Usually…did just enough to keep 'em busy till the drugs went to work.”

“What about you and me?”

The tiny smile reappeared. “That was a first. Must admit…I became excited far beyond words, once we were alone. Something about you, darlin'. Something I can't explain. You remind me of someone I knew, I think. Loved, or was attracted to and didn't know why at the time. Haven't felt…that way…in years. Guess it all caught up with me…last night.”

She appeared to collapse. Longarm knew he needed to bring the conversation to a quick end. “You know where Quincy is now, Mattie?”

Her eyes closed, and for several seconds Longarm thought perhaps she'd passed out or drifted off to sleep. But then she squeezed his hand again and said, “Can't…say for absolute sure. Doubt he's left town. Quincy likes all the doin's down in the Acre. Loves to…gamble…drink, and whore around. Says he gets tired of fuckin' me. Needs some
strange
every once in a while.”

“Does the son of a bitch have a favorite spot he likes to frequent over all the others?”

Mattie squirmed as though uncomfortable. A pained grimace etched deep lines beneath the flaked blood still pasted on her battered face. “Prefers Mary Porter's. Best-lookin' girls in Texas. Near Josie Belmont's. Jesse Reeves's joint, too. Likes to have drinks at the Two Minnies Saloon. Place with the glass ceilin'…where you can look up at the nekkid girls on the floor above. Puts up at the Drover's Inn sometimes, too.” She turned away and appeared to drop off to sleep again.

Longarm placed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. “Rest now, Mattie darlin'. I'll find the worthless son of a bitch, and when I do, he'll wish his mother'd never squeezed him out.”

Longarm stormed back through Doc Wheeler's office. Didn't stop until he was able to stand on the boardwalk and breathe something other than the dense, choking, miasmic cloud that saturated the local pill wrangler's entire space. As he fired up an aromatic cheroot soaked in Kentucky bourbon, the other men filed out the door and gathered around him in a concerned knot.

Through a blur of fresh, sweet-smelling tobacco smoke, Longarm said, “Way you had her patched up and covered, I'm sure all I could see was just the most superficial part of her injuries. So tell me, Doc, how bad's she really hurt? What's the total of the damage?”

Wheeler squinted, toed at the board under his foot. He pulled his spectacles off and tapped them against the palm of his hand. “Well, Marshal, her left arm is broken, just above the elbow. Looks like the guy who thrashed her did it with his fists. She has at least a couple of broken ribs on the same side. Appears to me her attacker might have knocked the lady down, then kicked hell out of her. Series of unsightly contusions all over her back and legs brought me to that particular diagnosis. And, perhaps worst, she could well be suffering from a serious concussion. Hard to tell right now.”

Longarm took his hat off and slapped it against his leg. Tater Allred gazed into the street like a man hypnotized by the passing of a fancy carriage and team. Marshal Sam Farmer glanced at his deputy, then made a flicking motion with one hand that freed the man to hustle away from the scene and head off to the west, back along Weatherford.

“Reckon she's gonna live, Doc?” Longarm glared at the medicine man, as though daring him to answer the question the wrong way.

“Wish I had a crystal ball, but that's impossible to know, Marshal Long. I wouldn't even venture a guess at this juncture. Man who beat this lady did the most concentrated, thorough job I've ever seen in all my years of practice. He meant for the thumping she got to hurt, and for a long time to come. Whatever her future state of health might hold, I can say she's gonna be very uncomfortable for months to come down the road.”

A steely-eyed gaze turned on Sam Farmer. “Want you to do me a favor, Marshal,” Longarm grunted.

Farmer forced a tight smile. “If I can.”

“Oh, you can. But that's not the problem. Problem is, will you?”

“Well, spit it out, Custis. Whatta you want? Give me a hint.”

All ears and eyes turned Longarm's direction. “Want you to let me handle this mess, Sam. Keep your boys out of it. Sure they've got more'n enough to do anyhow. Tell 'em to give Quincy Ballentine, and any of his henchmen who might be in town, or show up, plenty of room. Want to play out an ample amount of rope for 'em. Then, I'm gonna personally hang 'em.”

Farmer stared into the twin muzzles of a pair of blue-gray eyes for about ten seconds, then blinked. “Alright. I'll give you your head on this. At least for a spell, anyway. But only because you're right in your assessment of our workload.”

A slight smile turned the corners of Longarm's mouth up. “One other favor.”

Marshal Farmer shoved his thumbs into the waist of his pants and reared back on his heels. “Yeah. And just what in the hell would that be?”

“Move her to my room in the El Paso. She'll be safer. I can keep a closer eye on her. Doubt Quincy's smart enough to figure out where we might hide her. Send a nurse along to watch over things in my absence. I'll pay the freight. Then get your people together and tell 'em what we've agreed to do.”

“I can do that. All of it.”

“Wait a minute, Marshal Long,” Doc Wheeler said. “I can't allow you to move my patient. Not right now, anyway. Maybe in two or three days or so, perhaps longer. But right now, such an action is out of the question. She's in a terrible and delicate condition. An inexperienced nurse, because that's all you'll get around here, is out of the question until such time as I can determine just how bad off she really is.”

Longarm ran a hand over the back of his neck as though he had a pain he couldn't quite locate. “Understood, Doc. I'll figure out something else. Might have to put a guard on her for a few days. Because you can bet your stethoscope, Quincy'll try to kill her once he finds out I'm after him and that he didn't manage to do it last night.”

“Anything else?” Farmer said.

Longarm jerked a thumb toward Tater. “Let your men know that Willard Allred will be helping me, and that they should look on him as my personally appointed special deputy in this matter.”

Farmer threw a quick glance in Tater Allred's direction, nodded, then said, “If that's what you want. Sure, I'll take care of it.”

Longarm clapped Fort Worth's chief lawman on the shoulder, then shook his hand. “This dance might get real nasty 'fore it's over and done, Sam. But trust me, whatever happens, there'll be a good reason for all of it.”

A puzzled look flashed across Farmer's face. He slowed the handshake. With some hesitation in his voice, he said, “I totally understand your feelings on this matter, Marshal Long. Got no use for a man who'd do such things to a woman, myself. Unfortunately, similar events take place in the Acre almost weekly. Difficult to impossible to stop 'em. So you do as you see fit, Marshal Long. We'll sort out any repercussions when this dance is all done. How's that sound to you?”

Longarm nodded, then turned and headed for Tater Allred's wagon. Over his shoulder he said, “Just capital, by God, Marshal Farmer. Capital.” Once in the wagon's seat, he called out to Doc Wheeler, “We'll leave Mattie here until you deem it safe to move her, Doc. Make damned sure you take good care of the lady. See to it she gets whatever she requires. I'll stand good for any cost.” He turned to Willard and said, “Let's go to the Elephant. Stand you to another drink. Know for damned sure I could use a glass of Maryland rye right now. Maybe even a double.”

Longarm leaned on the White Elephant's polished mahogany bar. An overwhelming weariness pervaded his being. He poured a shot of amber-colored bourbon, then shoved it toward Willard Allred. Allred snatched up the glass, downed the liquor in one quick gulp, and, grinning, pushed the tiny beaker back with a single finger.

“Special deputy. Ain't that somethin'. Been a spell since anyone bothered to express the slightest kind of faith in me, Marshal Long,” Allred said. “Want you to know I'll do my best in whatever endeavor you choose to have me take on.” He picked up his refilled glass, saluted, then downed the second shot as quickly as the first. “First time I've felt like a man in a spell and, I gotta tell you, it feels damned good.”

On the third round, both men gave their waiting glasses of nose paint a brief rest. They leaned against the bar and gazed into the White Elephant's enormous silvered mirror. Longarm watched the beautiful hostess reflected in the mirror as she guided guests into the dining room for a late breakfast or an early lunch.

“Tater, I'd never seen Quincy Ballentine before I whacked him the other night. Heard enough of him, but we'd never met face-to-face. Funny thing is, all the stories about the man, as I'm familiar with, didn't involve anything like the sorry bastard being a pimp and confidence artist. Kinda scum who'd use a good-lookin' woman to steal from unsuspecting men with big eyes and a hard-on.”

Allred grinned. “Well, as my ole pappy used to say, skunks is skunks. And them as is skunks will do anything to get their hands on a little money. Wouldn't put it past ole Quincy to rob the offerin' plate at a church, given the chance.

“Well, that don't make him much different than a good many around these days.”

“Given the way the truth suffers at the hands of writers these days, just about anybody can get a reputation as a badman. But the real truth bein' what it is, though, ole Quincy ain't never been much more'n a pimp, as far as I've ever known. 'Course he does seem to be able to keep company with some real bad actors, though. Hard to know why or how, but he seems to be able to get dangerous men to do his biddin'. Must have something of the leader in 'im as most of us can't see.”

Longarm leaned closer to his new deputy. “Think you can find the son of a bitch? He doesn't know we're connected, at least not yet, anyway. As a consequence, I think you can move around down in the Acre and find out a good deal more, and a lot quicker, than I probably could.”

Allred nodded, scratched his stubble-covered chin, looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “The Acre ain't real big, you know. But they's lots of places to hide. Town's like a rat's warren. Might take a day or two, but I'll find him, if'n he's still around.”

“Oh, I doubt he's bothered to leave. I'm of the firm opinion that he figures to have killed Mattie. Doesn't know yet that she's still alive, and I want to keep it that way till we can find him.”

Allred stared into the full glass of liquor on the bar. He twirled the drink around in a tiny circle of liquid puddled beneath it. “Man travels in some pretty rough company, Marshal Long.”

“Call me Custis, or better yet, my friends call me Longarm.”

“Longarm?”

“Yep. If you're the type who's one of those folks that society needs to jack up the jail and put you under it, the long arm of the law's gonna snatch your ass up and make you pay. I'm that long arm of the law.”

“Ah, well, Longarm, not for dead certain sure, but they's men in the Acre that a lotta folks claim are close associates of ole Quincy's. So far, the whole bunch has kept pretty low to the ground. If'n anyone knows where he is, it'll be one of them ole boys as he keeps company with.”

Longarm held up his glass, then clicked it against Allred's. Another shot went down, and the fourth one got poured.

“Who and how many, Tater?”

“Well, one of them as I know of is that one-eyed humpback, Silas Brakett. Ole Silas is bad enough, but then there's that back-shootin' weasel from Georgia, Dead Eyed Zeke Cobb. But by far the worst of 'em might be Tanner Hackberry.”

Longarm's eyes snapped shut. His chin dropped down till it touched his chest. He shook his head, glanced back at Allred, then said, “Jesus, you're sure about that? You're sure Tanner Hackberry's in town?”

“Seen 'im. Seen 'im my very own self. Had a fare from the depot what wanted to go to the Red Light Saloon and Dance Hall down on Rusk. Rough joint not far from the Emerald—place we passed on the way in yesterday.”

“Yeah, remember that'n. Didn't look much like an emerald to me.”

“Anyhow, stopped outside and walked my fare into the saloon. Introduced him to the drink slinger there, friend of mine—Buster Coody. Buster fixed the feller up with a buck-toothed whore of my acquaintance, widely sought out for her ability to suck the silver plate off a pistol barrel.”

Longarm chuckled. “Sweet Jesus. Wouldn't mind meetin' her myself.”

“Yeah, well, I wuz a-standin' at the bar when I spotted this big ole boy who'd staked out one whole end of the counter down next to the entrance of the dance hall. Mean-lookin' son of a bitch. Kinda cold-eyed scum that just oozes trouble. Whispered at Buster and asked who he wuz. Buster says, ‘Tanner Hackberry. Best stay away from him.' Seemed like mighty good advice at the time.”

“God Almighty, that's the truth, Willard. Hackberry's the kind that'll give small children nightmares for the rest of their tender lives. He's a man killer of the first water.”

“Heard tell as how he once cut off a man's sack—made himself a purse. Wore it around his neck a-danglin' from a piece of braided horsehide. Gives me the willies just thinkin' 'bout it.”

“You think Ballentine might be hangin' around the Red Light with Hackberry and the others?”

Allred eased his glass back over for a refill. Once the glass was full again, he said, “Ain't certain. But it's a good place for all of 'em to lay low while in town, that's for damned sure. One of the roughest places around these days.”

“These days?”

“Yeah, Waco Tap used to be the wildest joint in town. When it burnt slap to the ground, the crowd that raised hell over there moved down to the Red Light and the Gilded Lily. Over the past two years or so, that's made the Red Light a damned tough joint to find yourself in once it gets dark. Likewise for the Lily.”

“You have any problem hanging around there and keepin' your eyes open?”

“Nope. Bartenders look out for me, kinda like a pet dog with a bad leg.”

Longarm slapped the old soldier on the back. “Well then, get on down there and keep an eye out for Quincy or Hackberry or either of them other bastards. Let me know, double quick, if any of 'em shows up. I'm going upstairs. Think I'll spend the evenin' playing poker. Tomorrow you can find me in the El Paso's lobby at the table closest to their bar's batwing doors.”

Allred threw down his final shot of bourbon, nodded, came to military attention, did a smartly executed about-face, then headed out the Elephant's front door.

At ten o'clock the following morning, Longarm staked a claim on an overstuffed chair in the El Paso's lobby near the entrance to the hotel's popular saloon. He flopped into the wonderfully comfortable overstuffed seat and, for a while, attempted to scan a copy of the
Fort Worth Daily Democrat
someone had abandoned on a nearby table.

A raging headache, a holdover from the previous evening's protracted poker game, pushed any plans he harbored for an eye-opening glass of rye to a back burner. Instead, he occasionally sipped at his steaming cup of coffee, which a friendly waiter had brought over from the restaurant. The syrupy liquid had been cooked to the consistency of something akin to roofing tar. Longarm sipped, rubbed his temples, and prayed for an end to the darting pain that tortured the inside of his skull.

Eventually, he gave up on the newspaper, leaned back in the chair, placed his hat over his face, and drifted off into a much-needed nap. Gunshots, from somewhere outside the El Paso's door, jerked him out of his pleasantly soothing snooze.

Longarm reacted exactly as any conscientious lawman should. On his feet in an instant, he slapped on his hat and headed toward the action.

He made it to the front door just in time to be pushed aside by a wave of nattering women who elbowed their way past, then headed for the check-in desk and immediately went to chewing the ear of the surprised clerk.

Longarm stopped in the doorway, then stole a quick glance up and down the street. The normally busy thoroughfare seemed to have cleared of most people, but a woman and small child appeared rooted to a spot in the middle of the street less that fifty feet from where he stood. Movement a block away, near the corner of Third and Rusk, drew his attention to at least two men who darted for any available shelter and continued to fire at one another. For several seconds, the blasting got right intense.

Stray bullets kicked up dust and dirt clods near the panic-stricken woman's feet. Longarm hit the street running, snatched up the child, grabbed the lady by the hand, and dragged them to a sheltered spot next to the White Elephant.

As he handed the child over, the lady said, “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She hugged the tot to her ample breast. Hot tears flowed down cheeks bereft of color or rouge. “Don't know what came over me. Just couldn't seem to make my feet move. Felt paralyzed. This is just not the kind of thing you expect on this end of town. Very few street shootings up here away from the Acre.”

Longarm's attention shifted from the woman and her child back to the gunfire. None of Marshal Farmer's policemen appeared anywhere in sight. He slipped his Colt Frontier model pistol from its cross-draw holster, snatched off his hat, then peeked up the street toward the noisy disagreement. Men yelled unintelligible threats and curses back and forth at one another, then opened fire again. A horse squealed in pain, reared from the hitch rail, then ran past Longarm's hiding spot and down the street.

He eased onto the boardwalk and took a step toward the action. Over his shoulder, he said, “Stay here, missus. Don't go movin' around in the street until all this indiscriminate shootin' has come to a complete halt.”

The belligerent combatants were so preoccupied with their noisy disagreement that neither of them spotted Longarm as he slipped across Main Street, then along the storefronts and saloons to the middle of Third Street. He landed behind a stack of empty flour barrels piled in front of Harlan's Grocery and Mercantile.

A cowboy, smoking pistol in each hand, stood in the middle of the thoroughfare. With great deliberation, he first fired one pistol, then the other, at a dodging brush popper trying his best to hide behind a water trough on the corner of Rusk Street. Liquid spewed into the street from a number of bullet holes in the wooden horse trough.

After three or four more thunderous reports from the shooters' pistols, Longarm called out, “That's enough boys. You're scarin' the women and children. Not to speak of hittin' horses what don't belong to you.”

The shooter in the street made a wobbling turn toward the new threat. Swaying, he tried to make out who'd interrupted his sport. The drunken leather pounder's Mexican spurs made musical, tinkling sounds that drifted toward Longarm's hidey-hole along with a wisp of gray-white, acrid-smelling gunpowder. Hammered silver rowels the size of ten-dollar gold pieces continued to jingle with the man's every inebriated movement.

“Who the fuck're yew, asshole?” the waddie yelped.

The man behind the water trough came to his knees and yelled, “What the hell's goin' on, Cass? Who is that dumb son of a bitch?”

Over his shoulder, and out the side of his mouth, the cow chaser closest to Longarm said, “Don' know who the witless bastard is, Pike.” He glared at Longarm and snorted, “Gotta lotta nerve a-goin' an' interruptin' our friendly little disagreementin', mister. Best take yer stringy self back on down the street, 'fore we decide to lay an ass-whoopin' chastisement on yew the likes of what most folks 'round here ain't never seed nor thought about.”

Longarm stepped from behind his flour-barrel fortress, badge in hand. He held his silver deputy marshal's star up so the cowboys could see it and said, “I'm the law, you stupid pile of walkin' horseshit. There's been enough of this haphazard gunfire. Gonna say it again—all this lead you're throwin' around is scarin' the hell outta the women, children, and horses, not to mention it's pissin' me off. Now pitch them pistols aside and put your hands in the air. Both of you.”

Pike clambered to his feet, then staggered over to Cass's side. Short, stocky, unshaven, and dressed like a rail-riding bum, he was Cass's exact opposite. The pair, who had just tried to kill each other, turned on Longarm, puffed their chests out, and appeared completely willing to go down shooting.

The man called Cass squinted hard, shot a nervous, twitchy-eyed glance in Pike's direction, then said, “Hell, that ain't no real badge. You ain't no real lawman. Lawmen 'round here wear long coats and slouch hats. All of 'em look the same. Ferret-faced ugly and stupider'n a wagonload of flattened shit. Wear big ole six-pointed gold stars pinned on their coats. Damned good targets.”