Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (4 page)

The second shot Blackman snapped off hit Skunk Hornbuckle smack between the eyes like a closed fist. The slug knocked the odiferous outlaw's head backward as if the angel of death had reached down from heaven and slapped him speechless.

Longarm glanced over just in time to see Skunk's dead muscles spasm in a useless effort to jerk the smelly killer back into an upright position. A stream of hot, purple blood spewed from the poor goober's shattered forehead in a stream the size of a grown man's finger and showered Longarm in the process. Then, Hornbuckle suddenly went as limp as a squeezed-out bartender's rag and dropped to the earth like a hundred-pound bag of bird shot.

Longarm, Marshal Court, and both of the astonished deputies came back to themselves like men brought out of a deep trance and proceeded to return fire as fast as they could lever shells through their rifles. But Calico Jack kept coming, and he laid down a relentless wall of air-splitting lead.

Jack's near-misses kicked dirt into Longarm's eyes, scared the hell out of the two Hadleyville deputies, and forced Longarm to spin on his heel and head back for cover behind one of the rocks. Before he could make it all the way to complete safety, a blue whistler from Blackman's amazingly accurate weapon burned a path above his ear and knocked him flat on his back.

The rest of the posse yelped and scattered like scared dogs. Marshal Court ran like hell, took a flying leap, and landed behind several stacked saddles piled near the campfire. He scrambled around on his belly, laid his weapon's barrel on a saddle for support, and took trembling aim.

Longarm swam back to the surface of his muddled senses, rose to one elbow, and fingered the bloody trench over his ear. Dizzy and tangle-headed, his bug-eyed gaze landed on the open muzzle of Calico Jack Blackman's still-smoking rifle. The killer grinned like a thing insane, took two steps that put him within spitting distance of his tormentor, then stopped and laughed out loud. He appeared mighty pleased with himself, and was happier than a gopher in soft dirt.

“Well, Marshal Custis ‘By God' Long,” the grinning outlaw spat, “you might wanna say a prayer, or two, maybe even three. Your immortal soul's in jeopardy, cocksucker. Way I've got this whole shootin' match figured, it's a good deal past your time to shake hands with Jesus, you law-bringin' son of a bitch.”

Blackman flashed another cheery, yellow-toothed grin, then leveled the rifle up. He even took aim at Longarm's chest before Marshal Harley Court put one in the maniacal killer's fogged-up thinker box. The .45-caliber slug went in above Calico Jack's right eye and pushed most of his brains out the back of his thick skull.

Court's miraculous shot straightened Blackman up on the run-down heels of his worn-out boots. Surprised, fluttering eyes rolled up into their sockets. Then he went to ground like a sack full of dirty laundry and almost landed across Longarm's legs.

Court stormed up to Longarm's side and helped his bleeding counterpart scramble to his feet. For several seconds, both men stared down at the lifeless corpse. “Shit almighty,” Court whispered, “he didn't even twitch.”

Longarm pulled out a bandanna, pressed it to his wound, then turned and gazed at his savior in wonder. “You've never killed a man like this before, have you, Harley?”

Court appeared unable to move. “No, sir. I've shot one or two in the service of my job, but I ain't never kilt none. Had hoped I'd never have to do such a horrible thing. But I sure as hell kilt this'un though.”

Longarm slapped the unsettled Hadleyville lawman on the back. “Yes, indeed. You most certainly did, Harley. And you saved the hell out of my bacon in the process.”

In Denver, two weeks later, U.S. Marshal Billy Vail stared across the paper-littered top of his overburdened desk. A thick cloud of pungent cigar smoke hovered above his head. He gazed at Longarm through steepled fingers, nodded, then said, “That may well be the damnedest tale you've ever brought back from the field, Custis. My God, you've been party to some garter snappers in the past, but the oddity of the combined, bloody demise of Calico Jack and Skunk Hornbuckle will likely go down as one of the most amazing gun battles in the collective history of the West. Bet the papers back East have a field day with this one.”

Slumped in Vail's guest chair and looking completely wrung out, Longarm snatched a well-chewed nickel cheroot from between chapped lips and shook it at his boss as though the cigar weighed fifty pounds. “Ah hell, Billy. Wasn't all that much to the dance. Not really. If you've seen one boulder the size of a boxcar fall off a cliff and destroy a house, hell, you've seen 'em all. Hornbuckle and Calico Jack gettin' dead in the process ain't nothin' more'n a bonus, far as I can tell.”

“Come now, Custis. Cherry-cheeked Hadleyville deputy marshal dynamites a gigantic boulder onto the unsuspecting head of a desperado like Calico Jack. Then, ole Jack miraculously manages to survive the entire explosive doo-dah, stumble down the hill, rifle in hand, and kill the blue-eyed hell out of Skunk Hornbuckle. Small-town marshal kills Calico Jack. Sounds like the kind of tale legends are made of to me.”

“Christ's sake, Billy, legends?”

“People write ballads about shit like this, Custis. I can see it now, rinky-dink piano players in whorehouses all over the West will most likely be playing the ‘Ballad of Wild Horse Canyon' 'fore we know it. Your name will be on the lips of every ivory tickler west of the Mississippi.”

“Yeah, well, Billy, here's the kicker to the whole deal: I've been out in the briars and the brambles for nigh on two months. Had to put up with a man—and I use the word
man
with great reluctance—who smelled like a week-dead stack of skunks for most of that time. Got myself shot. Even thought for a second or so that I'd never see the light of the Lord's next day again.”

Longarm dropped the stub of his well-chewed cheroot into the spittoon beside his chair. He pulled another and, with great ceremony, lit it, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, where they blended with the fragrant, gun metal–colored cloud already suspended there. He shook the fresh smoke at Vail. “Said all that, Billy, just so I could remind you that you've been a-promisin' me some time off for a coon's age. And I've decided that I'm gonna take some. At least two weeks, maybe even a bit more. Three or four weeks, if the feelin' suits me.”

Vail's hands dropped to the arms of his overstuffed Moroccan leather chair. “I think that's a fine idea, Custis. Nothing much going on right now that needs your immediate attention. Fact is, criminal activity in our jurisdiction appears to be on a downslope right this very minute. I'm of the opinion that some much-deserved rest and recreation is exactly the ticket.”

“Rest and recreation. Now that sounds mighty sweet. As long as it involves liquor and women.”

“What'd you have in mind for your time off, Custis?”

Longarm arched an eyebrow and cast a squinty-eyed look at his boss. “You're absolutely certain there ain't nothin' in the works that'll put the kibosh on me recreatin' in the company of bawdy women for a spell.”

Vail's moonlike face broke into a wide smile. “Absolutely certain, Custis. Now, I must admit that events have changed some since yesterday afternoon. Otherwise, you'd be on a train headed for Las Cruces right this very minute.”

Longarm groaned. He snatched his hat off and covered his face. His head fell back against the chair's thick, deep padding. Through the felt of his snuff-colored Stetson, he said, “Why'd you have me in mind for a trip to Las Cruces, Billy? What happened in that rat's nest?”

Vail sucked in a puff from his ax handle–sized cigar, then said, “Sure you want to know? Don't have to tell you, since the whole dance worked out to your distinct advantage.”

Longarm jerked the hat away from his face, then dropped it in his lap. “Go on ahead and give me the whole weasel, Billy. Hell, I'm intrigued. Ain't every single day my luck holds long enough for something this good to happen.”

Vail propped one foot on an open desk drawer and pushed himself into a semi-reclined position. “Well, while you were down in Wild Horse Canyon, playin' with dynamite and laughing your ass off at Calico Jack's bizarre demise, an old friend of yours turned up in Las Cruces. Just thought you might like to slip on down that way and surprise him, that's all.”

Through gritted teeth, Longarm snarled, “Get on with it, Billy. Which man-killin', woman-rapin', child-molestin', thievin' horse fucker turned up in Las Cruces? Please, please tell me before I just bust wide open from pent-up curiosity.”

Vail tried to stifle a snorting laugh, but couldn't quite make the trick work. “Well, I'm sure you'll be happy to know that you've been denied an opportunity to kill the hell out of Shelby McMasters.”

Longarm gagged, came nigh on spitting the fresh cheroot into his lap, leaned forward, and coughed like a man about to strangle slap to death. Eventually, he flopped back in his seat and stared into Marshal Billy Vail's grinning face. “Heard you say it, Billy, but I'm not sure what it all meant. Am I to take it as how that walkin' stack of hammered horse shit Shelby McMasters is now amongst the cold, cold dead?”

“You know me, Custis. Meant exactly what I said. Your old pal, a man who could chew off your plug anytime he wanted, bit the big one 'bout a week ago. His sad passing saved you a trip damned near to Mexico, that's for sure.”

“Son of Satan ain't no friend of mine, and you goddamn well know it. Wouldn't let him touch my plug even if I'd just dropped it in the middle of a fresh pile of horse dung. Back-shootin' wretch put a hot, blue whistler in me down in the Guadalupe Mountains several years ago when I tried to run him and Gooch Turner to ground. Hell, you're familiar with the tale, Billy.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, then, what's this shit about his ‘sad passing' you're puttin' on my head. Sounds distinctly like somebody in Las Cruces beat me to the pleasure of rubbin' him out.”

Vail took another big puff off his cigar, waved it around like a sideshow barker, then blew another smoke ring the size of a washtub toward the ceiling. “Knew how bad you wanted to punch ole Shelby's ticket, Custis. Please forgive me for just having a bit of fun at your expense.” He took another drag off his cigar and looked coy.

“You gonna tell me what happened or not? Don't make me git up, come over there, and pop your head like a rendered pimple.”

“Alright, alright. Here's what I know: Sheriff down that a way sent word as how he had Shelby locked in one of his cells. Rather curtly worded wire I received informed me that he wanted me to send someone to escort the prisoner to Denver for trial, and to be damned quick about it.”

“Sent me after him and Shelby might not've made it to Denver alive.”

“'Course, I wired back and informed Las Cruces's head lawdog that I had just the man for the job—meaning none other than you. Also mentioned that he'd have to wait until you returned from your most recent assignment. And, to finally answer your original question, yes, appears you missed your chance to kill Shelby back in the Guadalupes, lo those many years ago, when he shot you out of the saddle and left you to die.”

Longarm hurled his dead cheroot into the spittoon at his feet. “Shit. Woulda give a month's pay to get my hands on that skunk. You gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to go all the way to Las Cruces to find out?”

“Tragic story, Custis. Really tragic. Tale could squeeze tears out of a glass eye. Gonna break your heart when you hear it. Kind of tale must cause veteran angels to get misty eyed.”

“Reckon I'll hear it 'fore I'm too old to care? Gettin' older by the second, Billy. Agin' faster'n last spring's roses. Way you're a-goin' right now, I'll be in a home for belly-scratchin' old idgits 'fore you get to tellin' it.”

Vail's smile grew more sinister. He took on the appearance of the cat that ate the canary. “Well, now, near as I've been able to determine, from a number of exchanged telegrams, the story goes something like this. Seems Shelby enjoyed the affections of a lewd woman. Evidently, local constabulary made the mistake of allowing her to visit him right regular in his cell. Postulated theory, from the sheriff down that way, goes that she must've agreed to smuggle a pistol into the outhouse for him.”

“Oh, that's original. Seems like I've heard somethin' like that one before. Didn't that buck-toothed rodent down Lincoln County way use that ruse once or twice?”

Vail ignored Longarm's reference to Henry McCarty and kept hacking at his story. “Deputy in charge of the jail walked ole Shelby out to do his business yesterday, but from all indications, he couldn't find the secreted weapon.”

“What the hell does that mean—all indications?”

The grinning cat look spread over Vail's face again. He leaned back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling as though seeking divine guidance. “Well, ole Shelby must've been leaning over into the shitter, feeling around under the seat, and somehow slipped.”

Longarm's eyes widened. “Don't tell me. He fell in?”

“Head first.”

“Sweet Jesus. Is that even possible?”

“Possible or not, that's exactly what appears to have happened. Deputy claims as how he didn't hear a thing.”

“Lord Almighty.”

“Can you imagine the thrashing around he must've done? Anyway, apparently McMasters got stuck.”

“You don't mean it? Honest to God, the man went head first into the shitter?”

“Deputy finally went to rapping on the door after a prolonged silence of about ten or fifteen minutes. Had to break the door down to get in.”

“And Shelby?”

Billy Vail slapped the top of his desk with an open palm and burst out laughing. “Drowned. Way I heard the tale, only part of 'im pokin' out of that two-holer were the soles of his boots.”

Took a second or two, but the wonderfully rounded, cosmic beauty of the thing finally settled in. Longarm slapped his knee, bent over, and laughed till he hurt. Billy Vail joined in. Every time Longarm tried to get control of himself and sit up, another round of raucous guffaws hit both men.

Henry, Vail's concerned clerk, poked his head in the door, glanced around the room, and vanished as quickly as he'd appeared.

Through tears, Longarm moaned, “That's an elaborate joke, right, Billy? You're just kiddin'? McMasters is still alive and you just did this to put me in a good mood. That's the deal, ain't it?”

Vail wiped his eyes and held up his palm as though being sworn for court testimony. “God's truth, Custis. I swear it on my mother's sainted white head.”

Longarm hopped out of his chair, slapped his hat on, and started for the door.

“Where you going, Custis?” Vail yelped at his deputy's back.

Longarm grabbed the knob to the U.S. marshal's office door and snatched it open. “Fort Worth,” he said. “Siren call of Hell's Half Acre is ringing in my ears. A place where the women are willin' and the liquor flows like clear mountain streams. Right pleasant train ride this time of year. You have any need to get in touch with me, Billy, I'll be stayin' at the El Paso Hotel on Third Street.”

“I know that hotel, Custis. One of the nicest in Fort Worth, if memory serves.”

“Damn right. Fine lodgings are directly across the street from Luke Short's White Elephant Saloon. I intend to spend a good deal of my time playing poker, sampling fine rye whiskey, and making friends with any available female in that stellar establishment. Truth be told, though, I'd rather not hear from you, or your clerk, for a spell.”

The door slammed shut. Marshal Billy Vail stared at it for a second, took another puff from his cigar, then watched another smoke ring float to the ceiling. He chuckled. “Enjoy yourself, Custis. You deserve it,” he said to the empty office.