Longarm and the Wolf Women Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Sudden Chaos

  As the five gents sprang to their feet, clawing iron, Longarm slammed his shot glass down on the bar and reached for the Winchester. He rammed a shell into the breech. “Hold on—federal law!”

  The words had about as much effect on the hard cases as spit would have on a prairie twister.

  They were all shouting now, drawing iron, aiming at the back of the room, where the black-haired gent was flopping around on the floor like a landed fish and the marshal was giving the table a final toss to his left.

  A bull-necked, red-haired gent seemed to have the drop on the local badge-toter. Longarm snapped his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired . . .

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun Meet J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—man-hunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LONGARM AND THE WOLF WOMEN

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / April 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-515-14284-6

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Chapter 1

  “What kind of woman would use her body to lure a man to his death?” asked the Diamondback grocer, Mike Baron.

  He squatted beside a small coffee fire with two of his fellow townsmen and the young deputy U.S. marshal, Johnny Parsons. The men made up a posse tracking savage killers. “I mean, that just ain’t right,” Baron continued. “It’s takin’ . . . takin’ . . .”

  Baron cast his eyes about the coffee fire before him, as though searching for the right words.

  “Unfair advantage?” the chubby Dutch harness maker, Jan Behunek, finished for him as he touched a smoldering stick to a freshly rolled cigarette.

  “Yeah, that’s what it is.” Baron nodded vigorously. “It ain’t right for a woman to hold a man’s natural desires against him. No, sir. Those women need to be locked up for a good long time!”

  “Hang ’em, I say,” said Ned Miller, the livery barn owner and oldest member of the posse. “Right along with their old man. Just as soon as we catch ’em. What’s good enough for the sire is good enough for his fillies!”

  Miller turned to the red-haired, pug-nosed federal lawman, Johnny Parsons, who’d been sent to the little town of Diamondback in northern Colorado to corral the kill-crazy mountain man, Magnus Magnusson, and the mountain man’s equally crazy, albeit beautiful, daughters. They’d been on the threesome’s trail for two days, following the Diamondback River through the long, serpentine gorge of Diamondback Canyon.

  Parsons had secured the help of the three men because they’d found the bodies of the three soldiers Magnusson had slain last week, when they were heading back to Diamondback after a hunting trip, and could lead Parsons through the maze-like canyon to the site of the killings. One of the soldiers had lived a few hours after the townsmen found him, and had told a frightening story.

  Now, just after noon of a warm spring day in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, they’d stopped to boil coffee and to water their horses in the Diamondback River.

  “What do you say, Deputy?” Miller asked. “You don’t see any point in wastin’ time haulin’ that tribe in for a court trial, do you? They’re cold-blooded killers! We seen what they done with our own eyes!”

  Deputy U.S. Marshal Parsons held one of his matching, pearl-gripped .45s to his left ear as he slowly turned the cylinder, listening intently to each click. When he’d heard each of the six, satisfactory clicks, he lowered the revolver, twirled the gun in his right hand, and ran his left forefinger through his thin, red mustache, as if making sure it was still there.

  “It don’t matter, Mr. Miller.” The young lawman looked across the fire at the livery owner, his one slightly crossed eye spoiling the authoritative stare he always strained for. “The
law says we bring that gentleman and his two daughters to justice, and that’s exactly what I aim to do. My boss, Marshal Billy Vail, wouldn’t have it any other way, and being I’m a by-the-book lawman myself—and the most decorated deputy in Marshal Vail’s stable—I wouldn’t, either.”

  Behunek cast the young lawman a dubious look. “Most decorated badge-toter in Vail’s stable, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about that one they call Longarm?” said Baron, staring skeptically at the young man over the rim of his speckled blue cup. “I thought he was the most decorated.”

  “Nah, he’s just the biggest braggart,” scoffed Parsons, giving his six-shooter another twirl, then dropping it smoothly into the hand-tooled holster on his right hip. “Old and washed up, if you ask me. Like an old dog. More interested in gettin’ his ashes hauled than fightin’ criminals anymore. That’s why Marshal Vail sent me up here, ’stead of him.”

  “Sounds like you don’t got much respect for ole Longarm,” observed Miller, leaning back against a log, his Spencer carbine across his thighs. “But you sure dress like him. You got the Prince Albert coat and the tobacco-colored hat. Even wear the same kind of mustache, though yours ain’t quite as full as ole Longarm’s.”

  The others chuckled. Parsons’s pale cheeks colored as he pinched his mustache repeatedly between his thumb and index finger. “How the hell would you know if his mustache is any fuller than mine?”

  “He come through Diamondback a few months ago, lookin’ for mail robbers,” said Miller, grinning at the deputy’s obvious indignation.

  “Why, lookee there,” Behunek said, staring at the young lawman’s feet. “I never noticed it before, but he’s even wearin’ low-heeled cavalry boots—just like I seen ole Longarm wear!”

  The others laughed mockingly, throwing their heads back on their shoulders, their guffaws drowning out the murmur of the river south of their coffee fire, beyond a small aspen copse where their horses foraged.

  Parsons glared at each man in turn, his slender jaw set, face nearly the same rust red as his hair and mustache. Slowly, fuming, he gained his feet and set his hands on the pearl grips of his twin .45s.

  “I believe we’ve taken a long enough break, gentleman,” he intoned, nostrils flaring, enunciating each word clearly. “If you think you can haul your lazy asses up, we’d best get moving. I’d like to reach the site of the mountain man’s last killing before sundown.”

  “Hey, look at that,” chuckled Behunek. “He’s a good three, four inches shorter than ole Longarm, too!”

  As the others roared, Parsons turned and began striding swiftly toward the horses. He was only ten yards away when he stopped suddenly, wheeled back toward the group still seated around the fire, and clawed his right pistol from his hip.

  Crouching, he held the pistol just above the tied-down holster, the barrel aimed at the group.

  “Tarnation!” Miller cried, dropping his coffee cup.

  The exclamation hadn’t died on Miller’s lips before Parson’s pistol barked, spouting smoke and fire, the .45 slug ripping Miller’s floppy-brimmed black hat from his head.

  As the hat flew up and back, Parsons’s pistol spoke twice more in quick succession, tearing off Behunek’s plain cream Stetson and then Baron’s ancient, leather-billed Union forage cap. The hats settled in the brush a good ten yards behind the men, like oversized autumn leaves, one after another, a round, ragged hole adorning each.

  The three townsmen stared agape at Parsons, who gave a self-satisfied grin through the wafting powder smoke. He twirled the .45 and dropped it in his holster.

  “Could Longarm do that?”

  Parsons snorted, wheeled, and continued walking toward the horses.

  Behind him, the three bareheaded townsmen shared wary glances.

  An hour later, the four-man posse rounded a snag of boulders strewn about the base of the canyon wall to their right. As they were about to enter a broad meadow stretching between the rocky ridge and the Diamondback River, Deputy Johnny Parsons jerked back on the reins of the long-legged zebra dun he’d acquired from Miller’s livery barn in town.

  The three other men, each sporting a hole in his hat, stopped their own horses behind Parsons.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Miller, still sounding petulant after the hat shooting.

  Staring straight ahead through the sunlit meadow of breeze-ruffled wheatgrass, Parsons held up his black-gloved right hand for silence. After a moment, the breeze picked up, rustling the grass and the leaves of the cottonwoods along the river, bringing a sound across the meadow.

  At first, Parsons thought it was the faint tinkling of wind chimes. Then, gradually, as the breeze pushed against the young lawman’s face, whipping his string tie over his shoulder, each note acquired a human aspect, and he realized it was the sound, muffled by distance and gently obscured by the breeze, of girls laughing and giggling.

  They seemed to be down by the river.

  “Shit,” said Jan Behunek, sitting his mare off Parsons’s dun’s right hip. “It’s those fucking Magnusson bitches!”

  Parsons turned toward him, cocking a brick red brow.

  Mike Baron said, his voice pitched with fear, “Just before he died, that soldier talked of being lured to the river by the sounds of girls’ laughter.”

  “Just a coincidence,” said Ned Miller, chewing the dead quirley in his teeth and staring through the trees along the sun-glistening Diamondback. “Ain’t no way Magnusson and his daughters would still be around here, this close to town. Why, they killed those soldiers only another mile or so upstream!”

  The sounds had faded for a moment. Now, as the wind stirred the grass and leaves once more, they rose again, sounding for all the world like two young girls frolicking along the river . . .

  “Most likely a prospecting family hereabouts,” said Parsons to no one in particular. As he shucked the Winchester from his saddleboot, laying the rifle’s barrel across his pommel, he added, “But we’d best check it out.”

  As he reined the zebra dun off the left side of the trail, he glanced behind at the others. “You men wait here. If I need you, I’ll fire a shot.”

  “Fine by me, Mr. Lawman, sir,” growled Baron, holding the reins of his shying horse taut against his chest.

  Parsons booted the dun toward the river. Three-quarters of the way to the trees along the bank, he checked the horse down, leaped nimbly from the saddle, dropped the reins, and continued into the trees on foot, holding his rifle high across his chest.

  He squatted behind an aspen bole and looked out over the river. The sound of laughter was crisp and clear in the high, dry mountain air. Girls, all right. Two or three having a good old time a little ways downstream. Parsons could make out two heads bobbing in a sunny patch about fifty yards away.

  Behind Parsons, his horse whinnied. The lawman turned to see the horse shying and pulling back against its ground-tied reins.

  Ignoring the jittery horse, Parsons followed the sounds through the trees and crouched once more behind a tree bole atop the shallow cutbank. As he cast his gaze into the river, he froze, one eye narrowing and twitching slightly at the corner.

  Out in the middle of the shallow stream, two girls—one with long, coal black hair, the other a golden blonde—frolicked around a four-foot waterfall. Neither wore a stitch, and their smooth skin, one Indian dark, the other Viking-pale, glistened in the waterfall’s tumbling spray.

  They crawled among the rocks, the water foaming around them. Wrestling like river sprites, they tugged at each other’s arms or feet, plucking at toes and nipples, their full, round breasts bouncing against their chests, their plump asses turning this way and that, like ripe cantaloupes jostling in a wheelbarrow, reflecting the westering sun.

  At once chilly with apprehension and warmed by desire, Parsons crouched, frozen, riveted.

  The Indian-dark girl climbed to the top of the falls and sat down, dangling her long, brown legs over the foaming cascade. The
blonde climbed up to where the dark one sat and, laughing, crawled up between the dark girl’s legs and spread the other’s knees with her hands.

  The dark girl squealed and shook her long, soaked hair back from her face. She wrapped her arms around the blond girl’s waist as the blonde leaned toward her, and they kissed hungrily, the blonde fondling the dark girl’s big, swaying breasts.

  The blonde rose higher, and the dark girl closed her mouth over the blonde’s left, pink nipple, and together they fell back in the river, coupling amid the rocks and sliding water like lovers who hadn’t seen each other in ages.

  “Tarnation!”

  Parsons snapped around, heart pounding, lowering his rifle barrel. Mike Baron stood before him, crouching to see over his shoulder. Miller stood to Baron’s left, Behunek to his right. They all held rifles as they stared, transfixed, through the breeze-swept brush and bobbing branches.

  “That’s them,” Baron exclaimed under his breath and pointing his rifle barrel at the river. “It’s gotta be them.” The old Spencer shook in his hands.

  “I told you three to stay on the trail,” Parsons said.

  Ignoring the young lawman, Behunek hunkered down behind another tree and poked his bullet-torn hat back on his blond head as he stared at the giggling, chattering girls. “Now, wait a minute. I ain’t exactly sure . . .”

  Miller crouched behind Behunek. He, too, cast his gaze at the river, lower jaw falling slack. After a time, he ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Christ, those girls are doin’ downright . . . dirty things to one another . . . but there.”

  “That . . . that ain’t natural,” said Baron, who crept forward to hunker down in the brush before Parsons.

  “I told you men to stay on the trail!” Parsons repeated, keeping his voice down. “If those are the two girls we’re looking for, Magnusson himself is likely hereabouts.”

  The young lawman turned his head slowly, sweeping the trees to both sides, then the meadow behind him and the trail beyond, where the townsmen’s three horses lowered their heads to forage the needle grass.