Longarm and the Wyoming Wildwoman

  LONGARM AND THE WYOMING WILDWOMEN

  By: Tabor Evans

  Synopsis:

  A quiet glass of suds in his favorite saloon seems like heaven to Longarm. But heaven turns to hell when a harmless-looking lady walks in and guns down the drifter sitting next to him, claimin' she's got the authority to execute her own shoot-to-kill brand of justice! Now Longarm has to track down this self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner. Problem is, she ain't the only wild woman on the loose. Each and every lady Longarm meets seems to be just as wild and just as pretty. Pretty deadly that is. 230th novel in the "Longarm" series, 1998.

  CHAPTER 1

  U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long of the Denver District Court kept up on Wanted fliers, and there were not that many wanted men with flaming red hair worn shoulder length. But Rusty Mansfield had no federal warrants out on him as he sashayed in off the sun-baked street out front and Longarm, as he was better known there in the Parthenon Saloon, was salting a boiled egg to wash on down with cool suds after a long midsummer morn on courtroom duty over at the nearby federal building.

  Rusty Mansfield had dared to hire a room at the Tremont House and swagger over to the Parthenon for some of their higher priced chilled beer and better than average free lunch because the murder warrant out on him had been distinctly issued in Wyoming Territory to begin with and, after that, he'd used part of the proceedings from that robbery to buy a whole new seersucker suit and expensive derby. So the man who'd stopped that stage and shot that sort of elderly passenger who'd been slow about producing his damned wealth wasn't much worried about anything but that new barmaid with a mop of red hair to outshout his own as he allowed he'd have bourbon and branch water with his pickled pigs feet on rye.

  The redheaded killer made his own sandwich as the gal behind the mahogany built his drink. When he asked Longarm to pass the mustard, he got it, even though he hadn't said please. Life was too short to argue with women or assholes who tried to get anywhere with the same in places like the Parthenon during the noon rush.

  The asshole smearing mustard on his pickled pigs feet was telling the barmaid she reminded him of a long-lost friendly she-cousin who'd liked to play doctor in the hayloft, back home in 'bama when, from out of the sun-dazzle into the smoke-filled shade stepped what surely had to be somebody's she-cousin. But she didn't look friendly as all eyes in the Parthenon swung her way in bemused admiration.

  For she was sort of country and mighty pretty in her summer frock of floral print calico. A bitty straw boater perched atop her upswept taffy hair. A buscadero gun belt road low around her trim hips. The Navy Colt Conversion that should have been in that underslung holster was in her dainty right hand as she stepped inside in line with Longarm at the free lunch counter to demand, in a high pitched but determined manner, "Which one of you redheaded gentlemen checked into the Tremont House last night as a Mister Thomas Thumb?"

  Longarm had forgotten Pop Wetzel, the swamper, and that stockyard foreman they called Quirt had red hair. The mustard-grubber next to him answered, easily, "I signed in under an assumed name in the hopes I'd meet up with someone like you, pretty lady. My wife can be such an old fuss when I-"

  That was as far as he got. The pretty lady in calico simply swung the muzzle of her.36-caliber Colt up until it was pointing point-blank at the front of Rusty Mansfield's new ruffled shirt and let him have it, close enough to set said shirt on fire.

  Nobody landed on his back as limp as a fresh-dropped cow pat if there was a lick of life left in him. But as he sprawled at their feet on fire the pretty lady was thumbing the hammer of her single-action.36 as if she thought he needed more killing.

  So Longarm's big left fist swooped down to grip the cylinder of her six-gun and keep it from turning as he poured his beer over the flaming shirt of the dead man, soothing, "You won and there's no need to make a worse mess, ma'am."

  She tried in vain to wrest her six-gun from his grip before she stamped a high-buttoned foot and protested, "Give me back my gun if you know what's good for you, cowboy! For I'd be Deputy Sheriff Ida Weaver of Keller's Crossing in Wyoming Territory and that villain down yonder was wanted dead or alive!"

  Longarm grimaced down at the smoldering remains oozing piss and blood into the sawdust spread for just such spills and decided, "I saw you kill him. We can worry about abuse of authority after you show me your badge and warrant, ma'am. I ain't just acting nosy. I am the senior lawman present, and I'll just hand this.36 across the bar for safekeeping whilst I show you my own badge and warrant."

  As he gave the gun to the redheaded barmaid and reached under his frock coat, the deadly little thing who claimed to be Deputy Ida Weaver muttered awful things about Longarm's manners as she dug into the sporran-like leather purse attached to the other side of her low-slung gun belt.

  He'd just examined her mail-order badge and arrest warrant when the blue-clad form of the burly Sergeant Nolan, Denver P.D., charged in with his own gun drawn to tell one and all to freeze.

  Then he recognized Longarm looming above the body he'd just been told about. He lowered his six-gun to ask, "What was he wanted for, old pard?"

  Longarm soberly replied, "We're still working on that. I didn't want anything in here but some free lunch. This young lady in calico shot him. She claims she's the law from Keller's Crossing. All I know is what I saw, and she sure as certain cleaned his plow for him."

  Sergeant Nolan smiled uncertainly at the vision in calico to ask, "Keller's Crossing, ma'am? No offense, but I don't recall any such a township in the Centennial State of Colorado."

  She dimpled mighty innocent for a gal who could gun any man in such a premeditated manner and replied, "Not Colorado, silly. Up north of Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory. This villain I just caught up with was wanted for murder and highway robbery up yonder."

  By this time Longarm had gone over the tin badge and the sort of court order she'd handed him without a hint of shame. He gave them back to her, for the time being, as he told her, "I've seen way better badges advertised in the Police Gazette and a first-year law student who prepared an arrest warrant that casually worded would surely get a failing grade. But I reckon that goes with allowing the citizens of a republic to elect their own judges. Meanwhile, I asked to see your own peace officer's warrant, like the one I carry, allowing I'm sworn in and authorized to act as a U.S. Deputy Marshal."

  She looked sincerely puzzled as she told him, "I don't know what you're talking about. Undersheriff Rita swore me in as a deputy with my hand on the Good Book and Judge Edith allowed her own warrant for the arrest of Rusty Mansfield, there, was all I'd need when I caught up with the man who shot my poor old Uncle Dan'l.

  Longarm and Sergeant Nolan exchanged thoughtful glances. Nolan was first to say, "Faith, I know Wyoming Territory gave the vote to the women when they carved themselves out of Indian Country back in sixty-nine but don't this sound a little thick and all?"

  Longarm tried to sound less sure of himself as he turned to the self-styled deputy sheriff to ask, "Are you saying this man you just gunned in cold blood was a personal enemy before a lady undersheriff deputized you, right informal, to serve that arrest warrant made out by a lady J.P. who should have known better, across a state line?"

  Ida Weaver nodded sort of smug and told him, "They both agreed a woman with a good motive for bringing that brute to justice might do a better job than any man merely out for the bounty."

  "What bounty?" asked Longarm, adding, "There was nothing in that tersely worded scribble about any reward money posted on that poor mess on the floor."

  Longarm turned to Sergeant Nolan to grumble, "Her so-called arrest warrant was made out by somebody signing E. P. Keller, J.P., authoriz
ing the bearer to track down and bring back one Rusty Mansfield, true name unknown, dead or alive on unspecified charges of highway robbery and murder most foul."

  Sergeant Nolan stared thoughtfully at the smug little gal from north of the U.P. tracks to marvel, "And did they, now? This would be the first I've ever heard of a justice of the peace having such grand powers, and while I've seen reward posters offering bounties dead or alive, I've yet to see any arrest warrant worded to read that way!"

  Longarm nodded and said, "I'd be proud to write you up for an assist if you'd see about getting this possible interstate-want over to the morgue for now, Nolan. It ain't that I'm too lazy. But I somehow feel my superiors over to the federal building would rather I brought Deputy Ida, here, in to thrash this confusion out with them."

  Ida Weaver protested, "You can't arrest me! You can't! I haven't done anything wrong! That beast I just shot down, like the dog he was, did the very same thing to my poor old Uncle Dan'l."

  She must have meant it. She kicked the limp corpse, hard, before Longarm could take her gently by one arm and softly tell her to cut that out, adding, "I'll take your word, for now, about him being a beast. What separates us human beings from the rest of the beasts is that we try to follow the law of the land instead of the law of the jungle. I know what it feels like to go after outlaws who've hurt kith or kin. So I ain't saying nothing might have possessed me to just blow away a killer I had the drop on. I wasn't standing in your shoes when you just done it. I was a good two feet away. I might have some of this situation wrong. But, right or wrong, I have to carry you over to the federal building with me, now. You ain't under arrest, unless you refuse to come along ladylike."

  So she, her still-warm six-gun, and the childishly written arrest warrant came along ladylike, and in no time at all Longarm had her seated in the only chair on their side of the cluttered desk in the smoke-filled oak-paneled office of Marshal William Vail of the Denver District Court.

  Billy Vail had been younger and slimmer when he'd ridden with the prewar Texas Rangers. He was still a keen-eyed lawman despite being somewhat older and way dumpier than he'd put up with in even a senior deputy. He'd asked the lady's permit to go on smoking as Longarm, standing by her leather chair, did most of the talking. It was up for grabs whether the crusty Billy Vail would have really put out his pungent black cigar, had anyone asked him to. But as Longarm went on talking, trying to make Ida Weaver sound as kindly as he could, but all too aware she didn't have much going for her, he saw old Billy seemed almost pleased with his account of what could only add up to a murderous abuse of dubious authority.

  Vail seemed to brush aside the informal deputization of a known grudge holder as he beamed at Ida Weaver to say, "You sure tracked him good, Deputy Weaver. You say that before that rascal murdered a kinsman and inspired you to become a law lady, you were running a hat shop and just plunking at cans now and again with a late husband's old six-gun?"

  She sighed and said, "This gun belt was Ralph's, as well. When we moved out to Indian Country from Ohio, he thought it might be a good idea to teach me how to handle a gun."

  Billy Vail glanced at Longarm and chortled, "There seems to be no argument about that. I was more concerned with how a young widow with a hat shop tracked an owlhoot rider on the run all the way down here to Denver and the Parthenon Saloon, of all places."

  She confided, "They told me at the Tremont House he liked the free lunch at the Parthenon, and ever so many people on the streets were willing to direct me there from the hotel."

  Longarm quietly told her, "He meant how did you track Mansfield to the Tremont House. I know the Overland Feeder Line still stops East-West coaches on Tremont Place, and you told us Mansfield stopped stages for fun and profit, but wasn't that still stretching some?"

  She shook her head and answered, "Nobody had to guess. We got a tip about him staying there, signed in as Thomas Thumb, the sarcastic thing!"

  Longarm asked if she had any notion who might have tipped off the law in Wyoming when the Denver P.D. was so handy.

  She said she had no idea. Before Longarm could ask any further questions, Billy Vail hushed him with a wave of his cigar and rose to his feet, saying, "I reckon we have it figured tight enough, Deputy Weaver. The women having the vote in Wyoming Territory, it was sure to come to pass that one or more counties had to wind up with a sort of girlish complexion, no offense."

  Longarm stared thunderghasted as Vail stepped out from behind his desk to lead the way and held out a pudgy hand to help the deadly little thing from her seat, agreeing, "Rusty Mansfield shot an uncle on you. So Justice of the Peace Edith P. Keller made out a dead-or-alive arrest warrant on him and Undersheriff Rita Mae Reynolds swore you in as a she-deputy and told you where to go to serve it on the lowlife, right?"

  She said that was what she'd been trying to tell everybody all along. Billy Vail helped her to her feet and led her to the door as he called out ahead.

  When old Henry, the young squirt who played the typewriter out front, came running like the eager pup he seemed to be, Billy Vail told him, "I want you to type something up that this law lady can show any local copper badges out to make a fuss about her showdown with an outlaw here in our jurisdiction. She'll explain as you make it short and simple, Henry. I'll give you her more formal statement after I've had time to decide how she wants to word it. She ain't had as much experience writing up arrests. So as soon as you're done, out front, I want you to escort her on over to Union Station and see her safely off to Wyoming, hear?"

  Henry never argued with Billy Vail. Henry was no fool. But as the two of them left, Longarm demanded, "How come you just got so easygoing, Boss? That tale she told sounded sort of wild to me."

  Vail waved him to the vacant seat and moved around the desk to resume his own as he growled, "You ain't heard wild yet. I get to read more reports from other parts, stuck here like a broody hen whilst you young squirts have all the fun."

  He leaned back in his own chair, blew smoke out both nostrils like a proddy bull, and continued. "Eight, that we know of for certain. Eight known but not really famous riders of the owlhoot trail who wound up in the same dismal condition when they were tracked down by wildwomen from Wyoming. Each and every one green about the law as well as girlish. Each one packing a mail-order badge, a half-ass arrest warrant, and a personal grudge against the deceased."

  Longarm whistled softly and decided, "I give up. Do you figure some sort of conspiracy or pure shidious luck on the part of some girlish new hands at the game?"

  Billy Vail shrugged and said, "Don't know yet. I'll just have to wait until you tell me, won't I?"

  CHAPTER 2

  Longarm had seldom found it profitable to argue with Billy Vail, either. But he pointed out and Billy Vail agreed it might look as if he were following Deputy Ida Weaver if he caught the same afternoon train to Cheyenne. So that gave Longarm another evening in Denver and old Billy smiled dirty as he told Longarm to give his regards to a certain pretty widow woman up to Capitol Hill.

  Longarm didn't think it was anybody's business that he was in the doghouse at that address for balking at attending the same fool opera he'd escorted her to the summer before. For she was a swell playmate and they got to nibble and sip whilst sitting up yonder in her private opera box. But a man had to draw the line somewhere, and it got tedious as all get-out when the same fat lady in armor kept singing the same song in High Dutch at the top of her fat lungs.

  Had he been in less trouble up to Capitol Hill, he still might have preferred the company of the best lawyer he knew by quitting time. For he'd gotten out of some more tedious courtroom duty that afternoon by boning up on all the telegrams and letters Billy Vail had amassed on Wyoming wildwomen, and he felt the need for some legal advice.

  Portia Parkhurst, attorney-at-law, was neither the best lawyer nor the best-looking woman Longarm knew. But he felt no call to kiss old Judge Dickerson, and the beautiful Miss Fong at the Golden Dragon hardly spoke enough English to discuss l
egal matters worth mention.

  Portia Parkhurst, attorney-at-law, was a tad flat-chested and a mite long in the tooth, but still better-looking than most distaff members of the Colorado Bar Association.

  It couldn't be helped. There weren't that many gals in any bar association. Gals had been allowed to study law at least as far back as the Portia that Portia Parkhurst was named after. She'd told Longarm her momma had been inspired by that lady lawyer in that play about merchants in Venice. But no state bar association had accepted women, with or without law degrees, before they built the transcontinental railroad and Wyoming Territory in '69. It had taken them until more recent before the higher courts would hear a case argued falsetto by a shemale. So Portia Parkhurst had spent a heap of her professional career clerking for male lawyers, and if it showed as whisps of silver in her severely bunned black hair, she'd still read way more law books than a heap of slick-talking courtroom dandies.

  He'd noticed that on courtroom duty, where they'd met whilst she was defending a train robber he was riding herd on. She'd gotten the guilty son of a bitch off, and they'd naturally gotten to talking it over afterward, having supper together at Romano's and then somehow winding up at her place over on Lincoln Street. She'd been a good sport about him not spending the rest of the weekend yonder, too.

  But when he ambled over to her office before his usual quitting time, he found old Portia ready to leave for the day her ownself, and looking severe, even for her, in summer-weight black gabardine and veiled black hat with black silk roses growing out of it.

  When they almost bumped noses in her vestibule, he tried to kiss her casually, and when that didn't work he asked her who's funeral they were headed for.

  She pulled away, saying, "I've just come from a probate hearing, and I look silly in a black frock coat. It's very flattering to be taken for any old port in a storm, Custis. But I've had a long hard day, and I was planning to spend the evening alone with a good book."