Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers Read online

  “I enjoyed it just fine,” Longarm said, climbing down from the driving box. He looked up at Will and said, “I’ll be along in a minute. I want t’ help you with the feeding and cleaning up.”

  Will drove the coach around to the back of the office. Longarm brushed himself off and turned to Charlie. “That’s a good boy you have there.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said. “I wouldn’t be able to make it without him. He is a true blessing.”

  Longarm reached into his pocket for a cheroot, bit off the twist, and lit his smoke. He eyed Charlie critically.

  “Is there something wrong, Marshal?”

  He smiled. “I’d kinda forgot what a fine-looking woman you are, that’s all.”

  “You also forgot that I can’t abide smoke,” she said, ignoring the compliment.

  “Oops. Sorry.” Instead of putting the little cigar out, though, he stepped around to the other side of her so the breeze would carry his smoke away from the lady.

  Charlie went inside the office—perhaps to get away from him and his smoke, although she did not say anything more to him about it—and he took a moment to admire the swish of the befeathered whore who had been their passenger since Bailey. That one looked like she would be a wild ride, the sort that made a man want to strap his spurs on extra tight before he mounted her. Not that he was interested in buying any female company at the moment.

  Longarm finished his cheroot then walked around back, where he helped Will with currying the four horses and checking their feet, then feeding and watering all four of those plus the four others that would be used for the reverse route come morning.

  And when all that was done, there was still harness to inspect, clean, and oil and the coach itself that had to be checked and the axles greased. Will even crawled beneath the big coach and looked at the thorough braces before he was satisfied that all was well.

  “You treat those horses like they’re your children,” Longarm told him. “Hell, you treat them better than a good many men treat their human children.”

  “I just want to make sure things are as good as I can make them. I don’t know if Mama told you, but we don’t have so much of a margin that we can afford for anything to go wrong around here,” Will said.

  “She told me,” Longarm said. “There isn’t anything I can do to help you out with the company, but I sure as hell hope I can do something about these robberies.”

  “Join me for a drink?” Will said.

  Longarm nodded. “With pleasure.”

  Chapter 16

  Longarm spent the next several days riding on top of the stagecoach with Will Carver, but there was no sign of the highwaymen. He did, however, come to know and like the young driver. And he met the men Will dealt with along the Carver Express Company route.

  On Sunday the coach remained parked behind the company office, while the horses stood quietly in their stalls.

  Longarm slept late, past six o’clock, then rose and shaved. He bundled up his dirty clothes and carried them down to the Chinese laundry on his way to a café for breakfast.

  He dawdled over a platter of beefsteak and fried potatoes then walked over to the sheriff’s office to see if Bud Jahn had returned yet. He had not.

  “I don’t know when the sheriff will be back,” Deputy Tommy Bitterman told him. “But, say, could you hold down this desk for a few minutes while I go take a leak? Please?”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Longarm said.

  Bitterman disappeared almost before Longarm got the words out of his mouth. Longarm smiled. He had been in such a situation before and remembered well the discomfort.

  He also knew better than to expect the deputy back in “a few minutes.” Bitterman would take advantage of this respite for every bit as long as he thought he could get away with.

  It was all fair game when a man was trapped on boring duty on a Sunday morning, Longarm knew, so he leaned back, crossed his legs, and lit a cheroot.

  Two minutes later all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 17

  A young man came larruping into the sheriff’s office, hatless and breathless and wild-eyed.

  “Where . . . where’s Tommy?”

  “I’m settin’ in for him,” Longarm said. “What’s the matter?”

  “A deputy. We’re needing a deputy. There’s . . . a fight. Somebody’s gonna get killed, sure as shootin’.”

  Longarm came around in front of the desk. He was not sure what Sheriff Bud Jahn’s rules were about leaving the place empty—there were prisoners in the jail back there, after all—but apparently this was an emergency. And anyway, Bud’s rules were not Longarm’s rules and his best judgment would just have to do.

  “Show me,” he barked, and the fellow turned and started back down the stairs at a good clip.

  The fellow led the way to a saloon four blocks distant. Even before they arrived, Longarm could hear the commotion that was going on inside.

  There must have been a dozen men or more involved in a wild melee. Fists were flying. Anyone on the floor was apt to get his head kicked in. Empty bottles, glass mugs, chairs, anything and everything constituted a weapon.

  A man who Longarm assumed had to be the bartender—he was wearing a stained apron anyway—was down on the floor, bleeding heavily from a split in his scalp. It was obvious there was no one else interested in keeping order.

  Longarm flipped his wallet open and hung it in the breast pocket of his coat with the badge showing bright and prominent. Then he waded into the fight, grabbing people by the scruff of the neck and hauling them upright, growling instruction for them to shut the fuck up and move aside, moving on to the next man.

  He whittled the size of the fight down one by one until he came to the last man swinging. That one was the size of a small mountain. Or maybe not so small.

  The fellow was huge. He was wearing shirtsleeves with only the sleeve garters holding them up because what remained of his shirt was hanging down around his waist. He was gleaming with sweat. And somehow he retained his hat, which was a soiled and much battered derby.

  Tall as Longarm was, he had to look up when he confronted this one.

  “Screw you, pipsqueak,” the mountain roared as he lunged for Longarm’s throat.

  Longarm grabbed for his .45, reversed it so the flat of its butt was a club, and whacked the big man on the temple. The blow rattled him. Longarm could see that. But it did not put him down.

  Longarm ducked under a wild sweep of the big fellow’s right fist and whacked him again with the butt of the heavy revolver. This time his eyes crossed, but he still did not go down. Instead he swung at Longarm again.

  This time Longarm did not quite get out of the way. The fellow’s fist landed like the kick of a mule. A rather large and angry mule.

  Longarm felt things go fuzzy for a moment there. It was obvious he was not going to stand toe to toe with the big fellow, so he stepped in close and whacked him yet again. As hard and as solidly as he could manage.

  The derby must have cushioned the blow to some extent, but Longarm gave it everything he had. And this time the fellow went down. It was like seeing a tree fall. His eyes rolled up in his head so there was nothing but white showing, and he toppled face forward, out before he ever hit the floor.

  Longarm walked over to the bartender, who was sitting up with his back against the front of the bar—the wrong side for a bartender to be on, which he would undoubtedly agree with.

  “Are you all right?”

  The bartender looked up at him. It seemed to take the man a few moments for the fact of Longarm’s presence to register and for him to see the badge that hung on the front of Longarm’s coat. He shook his head and blinked. “I will be,” he said.

  “Want a hand up?”

  “I . . . give me a minute.”

  “Sure,” Longarm said, turning away to look
over the room.

  Two men in rough clothing were behind the bar drinking free whiskey as fast as they could gulp it down.

  Longarm motioned them aside. They took a look at the badge and set the whiskey bottles down then scurried out from behind the bar.

  Half a dozen other men were picking up chairs and slumping into them. A fair amount of blood was flowing. It probably was a good idea that the sawdust on the floor was thick and could absorb it all. Men were doing what they could to stanch the bleeding, but it was obvious that the local doctors would have some stitching to do.

  The big fellow sat up, shaking his head. He looked up at Longarm. “Did you do this?”

  “Uh-huh,” Longarm told him. “D’you want to let be? Or would you like t’ cool off in the jail instead?”

  “You ain’t taking me to jail now?”

  “Not unless you need it,” Longarm said.

  The big man grinned. “Shee-it, mister, but you got a punch.” Apparently he did not remember or had not seen that it was the butt of a clubbed revolver and not a fist that put him on the floor.

  “I’m really not going to jail?”

  “No, you’re really not.”

  “Thanks, mister. I owe you one.”

  Longarm was not entirely sure how he meant that. Owed Longarm exactly what? Regardless, the fight had gone out of him now and he seemed willing to let it go, at least for the moment.

  The bartender had climbed groggily to his feet and was back on the correct side of the bar for him. He sighed heavily and began assessing the damage.

  Longarm waited around long enough to be reasonably sure that the party was over then hurried back to the sheriff’s office, where he was supposed to be.

  Chapter 18

  True to Longarm’s expectations—if not to his stated intention—Tommy Bitterman took his sweet time about returning to duty. It was the middle of the afternoon before the deputy returned and relieved Longarm from desk duty.

  “Anything happen while I was away?” Bitterman asked.

  Longarm snorted. “You know damn good and well there was a dust-up over at some slop joint. I don’t even know the name of it. Anyway, I’m sure you know all about that an’ did before you asked. Fairplay ain’t so big a town that you won’t have heard.”

  Bitterman’s answer was a grin but not a single spoken word. Yes, he knew.

  Longarm rose and reached for his hat.

  “Did you make out a report about that fight over at Sanchez’s place?” Bitterman asked.

  “I don’t do paperwork,” Longarm said on his way out the door.

  “Hey!” Bitterman barked. When Longarm was halfway down the first flight of stairs, he heard the young deputy belatedly call, “Thanks.” Longarm ignored him.

  Longarm had a light lunch, then spent the afternoon idling at the bar in one saloon or another, not really drinking but keeping his ears open for any mention of the stagecoach robberies. The miners, enjoying a day off from their underground labors, were much more interested in the prizefight that was scheduled for that evening. There was considerable talk about that.

  He had supper at a café on the east side of town, close to the railroad depot. When he walked out of the café, the sun was disappearing behind the peaks to the west. Darkness was gathering and there was a chill in the high mountain air.

  He noticed a circle of torches and oil lamps with flaming wicks and bright reflectors on the far side of the railroad tracks. Crowds of men were gathering there, and a series of posts, connected with rope, had been set within the lighted circle.

  That, he realized, was where the fight would be held.

  What were the terms? He remembered hearing something about it when he first got to town. Five dollars to step into the ring, if he remembered correctly, and a hundred if you could last—five minutes, was that it?—if you could last five minutes without leaving your feet.

  The promoter must be pretty confident of his boy if he was willing to lay a hundred on the line because surely there wouldn’t be more than a handful of men who would want to climb into that ring. Five or six maybe, which meant the promoter and the fighter stood to earn only twenty or thirty dollars.

  Of course, that was in entry fees. Side bets would be something else entirely. Longarm supposed that was where the promoter expected to make his money.

  Regardless of all that, it should be a good show, especially for a town full of well-paid men who had little to do with their leisure hours except drink and go with the whores.

  Longarm lit a cheroot and sauntered along with the growing crowd that was headed toward the lit-up ring.

  Chapter 19

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Longarm muttered under his breath.

  The fighter was sitting on a three-legged stool in one corner of the ring. And why did they call it a ring anyway when it was always built in a square?

  The man was stripped to the waist, already covered with a sheen of sweat that gleamed in the lamplight. Sweat? Or oil intended to cause the other man’s leather gloves to slip aside?

  Just that edge, tiny though it was, might sometimes be enough to make the difference, Longarm knew.

  That sort of thing was common enough and, in fighting, was fair enough. But the thing that made Longarm’s hackles rise was that this fighter in the ring was the same big son of a bitch who had sucker punched him in the saloon some days ago. Sucker punched him and knocked him out cold. His jaw still was sore when he chewed on the left side of his mouth.

  And wasn’t that almighty interesting.

  Longarm felt a tightness across the width of his shoulders, and his breath came shallow and quick.

  Almost involuntarily he flexed his hands, forming them into fists and then relaxing them again.

  Five dollars, the entry fee was?

  He had that much in his pocket.

  Chapter 20

  Longarm pushed his way through the gathering crowd until he found a place directly opposite Ox Lennox’s corner. Then he stood, arms folded, and stared at the big son of a bitch who had knocked him cold with a sucker punch.

  He wanted Lennox to see him, and inevitably Longarm’s glare drew Ox’s eyes to lock on with his.

  It seemed odd, but if you stared at something, more often than not, that would draw the other’s eyes to you. Hunters had long known this and avoided eye contact with their quarry. This time Longarm deliberately sent his anger across the twenty feet or so that separated him from Lennox. The bastard had knocked him cold when he was not expecting it and had in fact been trying to buy the man a drink to make up for the one he’d spilled.

  Hunters had long known to avoid eye contact with their prey. Well, this time Lennox indeed was Custis Long’s quarry.

  Longarm just stood. And stared.

  The crowd grew until it numbered several hundred men or thereabouts. Boys filtered through the noisy, boisterous crowd selling beer and peanuts. Men passed among the people taking bets. Whores flitted around the edges selling their own particular wares.

  Eventually a small man in a tweed suit and yellow spats stepped into the ring and held up his hands for silence. Slowly the noise level abated as people became aware that things were about to commence.

  “All right, everyone. My man here, Dexter Ox Lennox, will take on all comers. Five dollars to enter. If you can stay on your feet for five minutes, I will pay you a stack of lovely double eagles. Five of them. One hundred dollars, cash on the line. If you should happen to knock my man out cold, I will double that and pay two hundred. But I warn you. No one has ever managed to do that, and I don’t expect to see it happen here tonight. Now tell me.” The little man raised his voice to a shout. “Are you having fun?”

  The answer was a roar of approval. “Let’s go,” someone shouted. “Get it going,” another voice injected.

  “And so we shall,” the dapper little
promoter said. “Now who will be the first to face Dexter?”

  A burly fellow with bulging upper arms and practically no neck at all was the first to climb into the ring. He handed the announcer a coin and stripped off his coat and shirt. Likely he was an underground miner who swung a pick all day and could drive fence posts with his bare fists. At least he looked like that would be an ordinary feat for him.

  “I’ll go,” he roared and motioned Lennox forward.

  Lennox yawned—Longarm guessed he was faking it but wanted to give that impression—and took his time about leaving his stool, flexing his muscles, and marching into the center of the ring.

  The fight, if it could be called that, was over before most of the crowd realized it had started.

  The miner put his fists up.

  Lennox pummeled the man’s gut.

  The miner doubled over.

  Lennox delivered an uppercut that looked powerful enough to separate the fellow’s head from his shoulders.

  And that was the end of it, the miner flat on his back and Lennox, fists waving, taking a victory lap around the ring.

  Longarm watched two more so-called matches. None of them lasted more than a minute. Every one of Lennox’s opponents ended up sprawled in the dirt.

  Finally Longarm stepped forward and crawled through the ropes, a five-dollar half eagle clutched in his hand.

  Chapter 21

  “I seen you before, little man,” Lennox growled. “Where?”

  “Hey, no jawing with the customers,” his promoter put in, stepping between Longarm and Lennox with his palm up.

  Longarm planted the five dollars into the man’s hand and again glared at Lennox. But up close this time and with no doubt as to his feelings. “You cold-cocked me the other day. I want t’ see how you handle it when a man is set an’ ready.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” Lennox said.