Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (9 page)

In spite of the fact that he'd closed the curtains the night before, the next morning's blazing Texas sun sliced through the thin panels of material covering the El Paso Hotel's windows. A knife edge of heavenly flame sliced across the carpet, crept up the side of the bed, then slapped Longarm across the face so hard his eyes popped open like the bullet-blasted hasp on a Wells Fargo strongbox.

He grunted, rolled onto his back, then flung an arm over his face in an effort to block out the brain-piercing light. All of a sudden, he realized how quiet the room seemed. He felt around the bed with his free hand, then sat bolt upright. Blazing daylight slapped him again and forced him to squint his way around the haze-filled room. It appeared that Mattie Wayland had vanished, like a wisp of musky smoke.

He leaned over the edge of the bed and searched the floor for her clothing—gone. Shoes—gone. Not a stitch of anything feminine to be seen anywhere. Then the realization of what had happened hit him like an anvil dropped from heaven's front doorstep. He swung his legs off the bed, hopped up, and padded across the room.

A quick trip to the dressing table revealed that she'd emptied his wallet. The cash he'd carried there—gone. Still naked, he stood in the middle of the room, scratched his head, then his crotch. He threw his head back, chuckled, and to no one in particular mumbled, “Shit. God Almighty, Custis. That hot-assed little gal done gone and rolled your silly behind. Now ain't that a fuckin' wonderment.”

By the time he'd got himself fully awake, refreshed, dressed, and ready for the coming day, Longarm had raked over every second of his time with Mattie Wayland the previous night. He stepped onto the El Paso Hotel's shaded, rocking chair–covered veranda, jerked a nickel cheroot from his vest pocket, and lit it.

Within seconds, a grinning Willard Allred hobbled up. He touched the brim of his hat and nodded. “Mornin', Marshal Long. Hope you had a good evenin' and a damn fine night.”

Longarm blew a smoke ring toward heaven, arched an eyebrow in Allred's direction, then said, “Well, my evenin' started out pretty good, Willard. Hell, actually started out great, what with our very cordial drink and all. Unfortunately my first night of rest and recuperation in the Gateway to the West eventually resulted in a set of rather surprising and unpleasant circumstances.”

A puzzled look flitted across Allred's bedraggled face. He scratched a stubble-covered chin that hadn't seen a straight razor in weeks, then said, “Uh, last night didn't work out too well after we parted, I take it.”

Longarm gazed at the street as though he didn't see any of the people, horses, wagons, dogs, or constant movement that raised a thick, hazy curtain of dust between the hotel and the White Elephant Saloon. He puffed at the cheroot. “Well, that's actually a bit of a fuckin' understatement, Willard. Damned good-lookin' little gal I took up with in the Elephant's restaurant went and bilked me outta all the cash I had in my wallet. Fortunately, she was either in too big a hurry or wasn't smart enough to get into the wardrobe and go through my possibles bag. Never carry much real money on my person, 'less it can't be avoided. As a consequence, thank God, she didn't get much.”

A fleeting grin flickered across Allred's face, then quickly disappeared. He pulled at one corner of his moustache, then said, “You gonna sic Marshal Farmer and his bunch of bruisers on 'er? Personally wouldn't advise it, but you go on an' do what you have to do.”

Longarm shook his head, then toed at a nail sticking out of the plank at his feet. “No. Doubt I'll bring Farmer into this mess, Tater. Figure to take care of the whole shootin' match myself. Be willin' to bet she and that skunk I whacked in the Elephant were in cahoots. Guess my actions, when we met, musta been somethin' of a surprise to both of 'em. But by God that didn't stop her from damn near fuckin' my eyeteeth out, then takin' all my walkin'-around money and vanishin' like spit on a Montana railroad depot's stove lid.”

“You the one what took a pistol barrel to Quincy Ballentine's double-thick thinker box last night?”

“Yep. The very one.”

“Ah. And the little gal what fucked you, then robbed you, she was with him at the time?”

“There you go.”

The words had barely escaped Tater Allred's lips when one of Marshal Farmer's Fort Worth policemen—a man Longarm recognized from his visit to the jail the day before—strolled up and tipped his black slouch hat. “Mornin' gents.” He immediately focused on Longarm, then said, “The marshal sent me to fetch you over to ole Doc Wheeler's office.”

“Fetch me over?”

“Yep. Said for me to tell you that he needs to talk with you. Kinda urgent-like.”

Longarm flicked an inch of gray ash from his panatela, then turned to Allred. “You know where this Doc Wheeler's office is, Tater?”

“Sure. Everybody in town knows Doc. He's got a storefront operation up on the corner of Rusk Street and Weatherford—door or two down from the Texas Express Company. Real easy ride from here. Couldn't be more'n three or four blocks altogether.”

Longarm swung his attention back to Farmer's deputy. “Your boss say what he wants?”

The deputy dipped his head and looked sneaky. “Well, Marshal, sir, to be truthful, I do know why he had me come for you. But he said I was not to tell. Only to say it were urgent and he's sure you'll be interested in what he's got to show you.”

Longarm thumped the unfinished stub of his cheroot into the street. “Where's your wagon, Tater?”

“Over yonder 'cross the street, Marshal Long. See it. She's parked in front of the Empress Saloon.”

Longarm plowed through the flow of traffic along Main Street. Allred and Farmer's deputy followed like small boats in the wake of a larger, more threatening ship. Longarm hopped onto the seat of the wagon, then made a motion like a cavalry officer ordering a charge as Allred climbed up beside him. “Hop on, Deputy,” Longarm said. “Can't wait to see what this early morning summons is all about.”

The short trip up Main, then east on an even busier and dustier Weatherford Street, took less than five minutes. At the corner of Rusk, Longarm jumped off the wagon before it came to a complete stop. A painted sign with gold lettering over the door welcomed visitors to the office of Doctor John Wheeler. Longarm burst through the doorway like a man on a mission.

Marshal Sam Farmer and a wizened, pinch-faced gent wearing a worn look, wire-rimmed goggles, and a frayed three-piece suit, white shirt, and string tie sat at a scar-covered desk just inside the door. Both men nursed cups of strong-smelling coffee, while hand-rolled cigarettes between their fingers wafted threads of smoke toward the ceiling.

Overloaded and overflowing glass-front lawyer's bookcases stood against almost every inch of viewable wall space. Many of the shelves contained assortments of patent medicines in a wide variety of brightly colored glass bottles that sported even more colorful and picturesque labels.

Tables, shoved into the corners, contained carefully laid-out displays of polished steel medical instruments that resembled the horrifying tools of medieval torture. The cramped room reeked with the combined odors of carbolic, alcohol, and an additional nose-twitching stench Longarm couldn't quite place—something between human feces and the fetid reek of puke.

Directly behind the weathered desk, two closed doors led into what Longarm surmised had to be examination rooms, which could be closed off to render a bit of privacy, if needed.

Farmer stood and made the necessary introductions. As Tater Allred and the Fort Worth deputy crowded inside, Farmer said, “Doc's got a badly injured patient in the room yonder who asked to see you, Marshal.”

“Me? Asked to see me? You're sure?”

“Yep. Lady said I was to send for Marshal Custis Long, stayin' at the El Paso Hotel. Even knew your room number. She's laid out in the stall on the left.”

“‘She'? You said ‘she,' right?”

“Yep. One of my deputies found her, 'bout daylight. Somebody'd dumped her like a pile of trash in the alley between the Theatre Comique and the Centennial Theater.”

“Found her? What exactly does that mean, Sam?”

Farmer looked uncomfortable, then waved at the door again. “'Pears as how the same somebody who dumped her stomped the unmerciful hell outta the poor girl. My deputy musta come on the tragic scene right after the sorry deed happened. Why don't you go on in? I'm sure the lady can clear up all your questions. She's been beat up pretty bad, but she can still talk. Even appears anxious to do so.”

Longarm snatched his hat off, worked his way around Farmer, past the silent, dyspeptic-looking doctor and the desk, then pushed the flimsy door open. He stepped inside a small, stuffy, nigh airless room, then closed the wobbly entry panel behind him as quietly as he could.

A low, couchlike affair, draped in brilliantly white sheets, stood against the wall on the far side of the room. It almost appeared to glow in the dim light provided by a single window covered with a black oilcloth shade. Two more steps brought him right up beside the improvised bed, which rested near the foot of a shabby, well-used examining table.

Longarm leaned over and strained for several seconds before he recognized the sleeping woman on the bed. Mattie Wayland's face was a badly abused mess, covered in blue-black bruises and dried blood tinged with a thin layer of an orange-tinted antiseptic—probably iodine, he thought. A split, stitched brow heightened a blackened right eye almost swollen shut. Numerous other ugly contusions decorated her forehead, neck, and ears. The angry, reddish imprints of a man's knuckles glowed from beneath the unsightly patchwork of injuries. Shocked by her appearance, he reached down and touched her hand.

A crashing wave of fury swept through Longarm's entire being. Embarrassed and enraged by the sorry evidence of such inhuman treatment, he glanced away from Mattie's maltreated face. For several seconds he stared at a framed diploma on the wall, which attested to Doctor John Wheeler's graduation from a well-known medical college in New Orleans. He rubbed throbbing temples, then let his gaze come back down to the mass of bruises and cuts that had smiled and called his name in ecstasy only a few hours before.

After he jiggled her blood-flecked fingers a time or two, the battered girl stirred. She worked hard to hold open eyes shot through with spiderwebs of red, then gazed up at her visitor. At first he could barely hear the whispery rasp that clawed its way past split, swollen lips. The words came out slow, hesitant, and gritty with pain. “Custis. I'm so pleased…you came. Realize I had no right to expect such kindness…but I'm glad you're here.”

Longarm kneeled beside the bed. He held Mattie's hand in his, then shook his head in disbelief. In a voice tinged with regret, concern, and carefully controlled anger, he growled, “What happened, darlin'? Who did this to you? Do you know? Can you tell me?”

Labored breathing preceded her tortured reply. “Quincy. Who else? Blamed me…for the…pistol-whippin' you gave…him at the Elephant. Caught me. Outside the hotel. Thought I…was dead—wished for death. Never been hurt like this…before, Custis. Never.”

Longarm used a single finger to push aside a wisp of blood-encrusted hair that dangled from beneath a stained bandage wrapped around her head. “The two of you were workin' together at some kinda bunko cheat on me at the White Elephant, weren't you?”

Mattie's voice seemed to strengthen a bit when she said, “Yes. Figured to…turn your head…steal whatever I could. Hoped to drug you…at the first…opportunity. Laudanum in your liquor. Plan didn't work out the way…Quincy expected.”

In her brutalized condition, Longarm knew the girl would likely have trouble understanding. As slowly as possible, he said, “Quincy was supposed to act shocked and surprised that anyone would come to your aid, then somehow beat a hasty retreat. Leave you to the concerned care of the poor sucker who came to save you from a heartless brute. Was that the way of it? The plan?”

“Yes. But he felt I…overplayed my part…said I'd flirted too much. Played innocent too well. Caused the wrong man's…surprising response. You broke…a couple of his teeth off.”

Longarm chuckled. “Guess the way I bounced my pistol off his cheek probably did come as something of a shock to the stupid cocksucker.”

“Shocked me,” Mattie whispered. Then she appeared to regain some strength. “We've run…the same dodge, at one time or another, in Texas, Kansas…all over. Usually when Quincy's short of money. No one ever…knocked Quincy out…of his chair before. You just didn't give him…time to turn tail. Retreat. 'Course…might have…overplayed his…own part a bit, too.”

“A bit? Hell, girl, he slapped the hell out of you. Twice. Right in public. Must admit, I'm shocked and dismayed by the fact that I could be so easily fooled. Should have known better. But, by God, what he did got under my skin and got him exactly what he deserved.”

Mattie groaned, then snorted. “Vanity makes all you men so unbelievably stupid. You're so easy. So…predictable. Led by your cocks like randy stallions. Takin'…advantage of dumb-assed men, who get a hard-on…every time a breeze blows across their crotches, is the…easiest work an ambitious female can get.”