Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (12 page)

“Lead the way, Marshal. I'm right behind you.”

Cobb's drunken state appeared to require most of his concentration. He took no notice of anyone, shouldered his way past several cowboys, then staggered by the far corner of the bar. Had his back turned when Longarm stepped forward, brought the ten-gauge Greener up, and swung it like a club. The weapon's heavy barrel came down atop Cobb's tall-crowned Texas hat and knocked the man forward by two stumbling steps.

To Longarm's utter surprise, Cobb stayed erect. The outlaw turned, felt the crushed crown of his hat, and said, “What the fuck…” Then growled like an angry bear and went for the pistol laid across his belly.

Longarm swatted at Cobb's gun hand with the shotgun's stock. He knocked the pistol to one side. The weapon went off with a thunderous explosion. The shot blew a hole in the poker table, scattering chips, cards, and wood splinters into the air like blowing leaves.

Willard Allred darted past Longarm, brought his Yellow Boy Winchester's barrel around, and whacked their prey across the back of the neck. Cobb's only good eye flipped up into the back of his skull. For a second, he swayed like a tree in a stiff wind, then went to ground like a sack full of horseshoes dropped from a plow-pusher's hayloft.

Longarm grabbed one arm, Willard the other. In a matter of seconds, Dead Eyed Zeke Cobb lay stretched out in the stinking garbage-and filth-littered alleyway behind the Gilded Lily. “Well, Tater, man's head must be harder'n the hubs of hell. Thought I whacked him pretty good. Barrel of my Greener didn't even seem to have any effect a'tall.”

Allred gazed down into Cobb's face. “Big ole hat of his cushioned the blow, Marshal Long. Learned when I was in prison, you gotta hit a man wearin' a hat that big 'cross the back of the neck. Blow'll put 'im down in a heartbeat.”

Louis Boucher burst through the Lily's back door and eased up to Cobb's prone figure. He stood over the outlaw and twisted his bar rag into a knot. “Dead?”

Longarm leaned against a stack of empty freight crates. “Nope. Still very much alive, Louis.” He propped the shotgun against his leg, pulled out a fresh cheroot, and lit it. As he shook the match out, he said, “We'll wait till he comes around, talk to him a spell, then fetch his sorry ass down to Sam Farmer's jail. Lock him away for a spell.”

A puzzled look flashed across Boucher's pinched face. “You gonna question him out here in the alley?”

“That's the plan,” Longarm said.

The Gilded Lily's bartender pointed to a spot deeper into the alleyway. “Can you take 'im back yonder behind them boxes and barrels and stuff? That way any of our customers as comes out here to relieve themselves won't see what's goin' on.”

“Understand completely, Louis,” Longarm said. “We'll move him out of the way. Wouldn't want to offend any drunk forced to take a piss out here while we're beatin' the hell out of ole Dead Eyed Zeke.”

Longarm propped Zeke Cobb against the bottom barrel in a stack of empties that had once held whiskey shipped across the Atlantic from Scotland. He squatted in front of the unconscious brigand, then slapped him across the mouth several times.

Willard Allred stood to one side near Cobb's feet. He held Longarm's shotgun leveled at the outlaw's guts and appeared anxious to use it.

“Come on, you son of a bitch. Wake up. Got some important questions for you.” Longarm slapped the man again. Harder. Then again. Harder still. He grabbed the front of Cobb's coat with both hands, shook him, then slapped him a third time, then a fourth.

Cobb groaned. His eyes fluttered open. Shaking hands darted out in front of his face to fend off the blows. “Stop a-slappin' on me, you stupid bastard. Christ Almighty, I'm awake. Swear to Jesus. Can hear every word you're a-sayin'. What the fuck you want?”

Longarm stood, flicked a chewed cheroot away, then fished a fresh one from his vest pocket. He shoved the square-cut cigar into his mouth, then rolled it to one corner with his tongue. “I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, Zeke. This here's my specially appointed deputy Willard Allred. Sit up and pay attention. We've got questions you need to answer.”

Cobb cut a nervous glance from Longarm to Allred. He shook a finger at Willard. “I've seen you afore. Hire out a run-down piece of a wagon. Seen you a-cartin' folks 'round town. Sure as hell didn't know you was no lawman.”

Longarm snapped, “Look at me, Zeke. Try to get focused. We'll start with an easy one. Where's your boss, Quincy Ballentine?”

“Who?”

Longarm kicked Cobb in the side—just hard enough to get the man's painful, undivided attention. “Best start answerin' my questions, Cobb. I ain't inclined to spend a lot of my time messin' around with trash like you. Now put that lubricated-with-shit thinker mechanism of yours to work. Make it spit me out an answer I can use.”

Cobb shook his head as though trying to remove water from his ears, or cobwebs from his brain. He grunted, then said, “Shit. Done went and forgot. Tell me again. What was the question?”

Longarm kicked him again. The air rushed from Cobb's lungs. He doubled over and grabbed himself around the middle with both arms. What little a person could see of his face turned scarlet with pain.

“Damn, but you are one stupid son of a bitch, Zeke. My leg's gettin' tired. But I'm here to tell you, this process is gonna get one helluva lot more brutal if you don't come up with a real good answer, and damned quick.”

Cobb's only good eye darted from one of his tormentors' faces to the other, as though he expected to find some small degree of sympathy. “You cain't do this, goddammit. This ain't no civilized kinda treatment. Cain't just go a-kickin' the hell out of a man like this. What the hell kinda marshals are you? Jesus, beatin' on a man like this ain't lawful. 'Sides that, it just ain't right.”

Longarm snatched the cheroot out of his mouth, bent down with the cigar between his fingers, then shook it in Cobb's face. “Well, when we get through here, we'll run you up to the north end of town. You can stand beside Matilda Wayland's bed. If she's conscious and her ears ain't swollen so bad she can't hear, you can tell her all about how it's just not
lawful
to go and treat bad-assed bastards like you with anything but kid gloves.”

Willard stepped around to Cobb's opposite side and kicked him from a new direction. The milky-eyed villain yelped like a surprised dog. He grabbed his gut again and squealed, “Fuckin' shit. Okay. Okay. Whatta ya wanna know? Jus' ask me again. Swear I'll tell whatever I can, if'n I know.”

Longarm squatted and got as close to the man as he dared. His face twisted into a grimace, then he said, “Jesus, Cobb, you smell like a wet cow flop. Don't you ever even wipe your nasty ass?”

Cobb looked puzzled. “That one of them questions you want answered?”

“Jesus,” Longarm spat. “Where's Quincy Ballentine, you idiot?”

Cobb groaned. “Swear 'fore Jesus, Marshal, I don't know.”

Longarm glanced up at Allred. A flicked finger was all it took. Another kick landed in the same spot as the one before it, only harder the second time. Cobb rolled onto his side and drew up into a tight, coughing knot in an effort to protect himself. He whimpered, snorted into his stinking, piss-saturated dirt, then rolled onto his stomach with his face inside his hat.

Longarm could barely hear Cobb when he said, “Sweet Merciful Mother of God. Damnation. I'm a-tellin' you true, so far as I'm aware of it. You can kick me all you want, I guess, but I cain't tell you where Quincy is, right now. Man cain't tell what he don't know. Only person as might possibly be able to point you in the right direction is Silas.”

“Silas Brakett?” Allred shot back.

Cobb rolled onto his back. He scrambled to his knees, then crawled to the barrel and leaned against it. His head came up just enough to be better heard. “Who the fuck else, you ugly piece of rebel trash! I don't travel with no Silas Jones, or Silas Smith, or Silas Williams. Christ, please save me from Southern stupidity. Ain't never knowed a lawman, or a reb, yet what possessed any more brains than a rabid possum. All you Southern ones is even stupider.”

“Well, that's just all fine and dandy, Zeke,” Longarm snorted. “But where in the blue-eyed hell's Silas? You gonna tell us, or do we have to get real serious about kickin' the dog shit outta you? Bet if we both really concentrate on the effort at the same time, we could literally stomp the hell outta you in a matter of a few minutes. Both us ole
Southern
boys just might take all our former frustrations over losin' the
Big War
out on your sorry ass.”

“Look, I'm a-tellin' you, ain't no need to go kickin' on me, or whackin' me in the head again, or anything else like that. 'Cause no matter how much you do it, ain't gonna get you any different answer. I don't know where Quincy is.”

Willard grinned. “Think you forgot the most recent question, asshole. We believe you about Quincy. Where's Silas?”

Cobb wagged his head like a tired dog. “Last I heard he wuz shacked up in Lou Brown's parlor house. Lou's got a pair of straw-haired twins a-workin' for her that Silas favors. He tole me them girls has that same kind of hair on they pussies. Says them girls got the softest hair on they crotches he done ever felt in his entire life. Like pettin' a cat. Must really be somethin' to see up close, I suppose. Honest to God, Marshal, that's all I know. Cain't help you no more'n that.”

Longarm glanced at Allred. “You familiar with the place, Willard?”

“Sure. Lou owned the old Waco Tap Saloon 'fore it burnt slap to the ground. She moved into a good-sized place at about Eighth and Calhoun, not far from the still-smokin' Tap's ashes, and opened a rip-snorter of a whorehouse almost as rough as her saloon.”

“Most parlor houses tend to attract a better-heeled crowd, Willard.”

“Yeah, well, Lou's joint ain't what anybody'd call an honest-to-God, real fancy dancy parlor house. That's for damned sure. Joint's rough as a petrified corn cob. Has a big ole room up front that's large enough for cowboys to visit with the girls, or dance, if'n they've a mind.”

“So, it's a
combination
dance hall and brothel.”

Willard propped the heavy shotgun across his arm. “Kinda. More like a gussied-up hog ranch, if'n you ask me. But the place does have its positives. Lou keeps a three-piece band—pianner, trumpet, and banjo—for the dancin' at night. Whole backside of the place is chopped up into eight or ten private rooms where the working girls can conduct their
business
.”

“Busy?”

“Oh, yeah. 'Course, I don't think there's more'n five or six girls workin' at any one time. Cowboys what show up at Lou's place got plenty of choices about where they wanna flop and what they can get for their money.”

“Sounds like a great joint,” Longarm snorted.

“It's the roughest bagnio in Hell's Half Acre, Marshal Long. Hear tell as how more cowboys've lit a shuck for the Pearly Gates in Lou Brown's joint than in any other bordello in the Acre. A man can get dead mighty quick over there. No tellin' what we might come up against in her place. Not the least of a man's worries is Lou. Hear tell that big ole gal's dispatched at least three fellers her very own self.”

Longarm turned his attention back to Cobb. “Does Silas have a favorite girl at Brown's that he especially likes, Zeke?”

Cobb rubbed his ribs. “Done tole you 'bout them twins.”

“I know, but is there anyone else?”

“Oh. They's a big-tittied gal called Nellie Belle Squires, as I jus' come to remember. He done tole me as how that woman can fuck like an Arizona mountain lion with its ass on fire. 'Course I wouldn't be a-knowing nothin' 'bout fuckin' no wild animals, but if anyone would do such an unnatural act, it'd be Silas.”

Head cocked to one side, Willard said, “How's that, Zeke?”

“Well, reb, rumors have it as how Silas wuz raised by wolves. Then they's the story goin''round as how he got cotched a-fuckin' a goat when he wuz a-growin' up on the farm. Know he's real touchy if'n you mention anythang like that. And, as my ole white-haired granddaddy liked to say, the man's lock nut 'pears to have been cross threaded right smart.” Cobb crawled to his knees, came painfully to his feet, then leaned against the barrel like he might fall down again. “His head's a damn site smaller'n his hat—'cause of a serious lack of brains, you know.”

“He's crazy?” Longarm snorted.

“Well, let's just say he's about a number three grain scoop short on anything like smarts. Hear tell a horse kicked him in the head when he wuz a nubbin. Might explain a nasty scar on his forehead just above the eye. But don't underestimate 'im. Son of a bitch scares the bejabbers outta me.”

The news of Silas Brakett's scary lunacy came as something of a surprise to both Longarm and Willard Allred. Brakett carried a hard-earned reputation as a badman, but neither of the lawmen had ever heard of any insanity.

“Nothin' worse'n tryin' to corral a lunatic,” Longarm muttered. “Go get the wagon, Tater. Bring it 'round front of the Lily. I'll meet you there.”

Willard started away, then turned back. “What you gonna be doin'?”

“Need to speak with Zeke in private for a minute. Don't worry, I'll be right along.”

Longarm watched Allred until he disappeared around the corner of the saloon's front facade, then got right up in Cobb's face. “Here's the deal, Zeke. You're gonna get on your horse and get the hell outta Fort Worth soon's I'm gone. Don't even look back. Ride hard till you're in Austin, or go to El Paso. Hell, go to Amarillo if'n you've a mind. Whatever you do, don't let me see your face again while I'm here.”

Cobb's faced reddened. “By God, you got no paper on me. Cain't go a-runnin' me outta town like a fuckin' animal. I ain't done a single thing what would warrant you a-treatin' me like this.”

Their hat brims touched when Longarm snarled, “Don't let me see your face again, you stupid son of a bitch. I'll come shootin' next time we meet on the streets of Hell's Half Acre. As God is my witness, I swear it.”