Longarm on the Overland Trail Page 4

  She didn't answer. She must have thought it impolite to talk with her mouth full. Longarm stared down at her bobbing red head with ever growing fondness and reflected that he was, after all, a federal lawman, and that Colorado could worry about its own dumb laws. The widow woman down the avenue who'd introduced him to this literal man-eater was going to cry fire and salt if she ever found out about this, and the odds were fifty-fifty she would, since women could brag as bad as men about such matters. On the other hand, this one was sure to say far meaner things about him if he tried to stop her at this late date, and what man born of mortal clay was about to stop at a time like this, in any case?

  So they both went deliciously crazy for a spell, and Longarm was only mildly surprised, when they stopped for breath at last, to find himself bare-ass under the piano with her smiling up at him adoringly, with her bare feet pressed against the bottom of the sounding board. He'd been wondering what those funny harpish drummings he'd been hearing were. They sure had a fine grip on one another with her wide-spread heels braced that way.

  He kissed her some more and said, "Well, howdy, pard. I was wondering where you might be whilst I was up in heaven. But don't you have a bed on the premises?"

  She sounded serious as she demurely replied, "Oh, never. That would be downright indecent, Custis! Whatever would you think of me if I went to bed with you in broad daylight?"

  "I'd think you were being practical about splinters in your sweet bare behind. This is a sort of silly place to screw, no offense."

  "None taken. I'm lying on my kimono, if you must know. I like a firm surface under me when you thrust so hard. It makes it feel so hard."

  He noticed that as he moved experimentally in her, but she said, "Wait. I do think my tailbone's getting bruised. Let's try it a more comfortable way, dear."

  He said he was willing to try anything that didn't hurt. So they crawled out from under the piano to try it on the rug with her on top. He found that was inspirational indeed. As she moved up and down atop him he judged her waistline to measure no more than twenty-odd inches, without a lick of whalebone or India rubber to help, and her heroic breasts bounced proud and firm in defiance of the laws of gravity.

  It felt so good he would have been content to do it some more, but she said, "We have to think of my reputation," and popped off him to add, "Come on. The neighbors have big ears."

  He had no idea what she was talking about as she led him back over to the piano. She lowered the big lid and climbed atop the bed-sized instrument, patting the black varnish beside her naked flesh as she asked him what he was waiting for.

  He said, "I ain't waiting for anything. I'm trying to figure out what you want me to do."

  "You've been in here almost an hour. They've only heard the piano play a few bars, quite a while ago. Would that sound like a music lesson to you, if you were an old biddy hen?"

  He said he doubted it and, grasping her intent at last, got aboard the piano with her. The hard, slippery surface felt odd against his bare flesh. It felt even odder, albeit good, when he mounted her big, soft body again and she raised her hands over her head to reach down to the keyboard and moan, "Faster!" as she proceeded to play "Kitten on the Keys."

  He laughed like hell and did his best to keep in time with her as she tinkled and bounced her bare bottom at the same time. He hoped her nosy neighbors thought she had a big bass drum in here as well, for it sure sounded like it.

  After climaxing again together in such an artistic fashion, they both lay quietly in each other's arms for a spell. Then she sighed and said, "That was lovely. But it's getting late, darling. They have to see you leaving before suppertime."

  He'd been hoping against hope she was going to let him escape without the tears and recriminations a man who enjoyed life just had to accept with the nicer words of womankind. So he kissed her fondly and said, "Yeah, we wouldn't want 'em to think we've been nibbling on each other."

  She laughed low and dirty, but shoved him off, and damned near broke his neck as he rolled off the piano as well.

  It only took her a moment to climb back into her kimono. As she sat on the sofa beside him, watching him dress, she sighed and told him, "Lord have mercy, but we can't go on like this, Custis."

  He hadn't been planning to, but he thought it only decent to look wistful and say, "I know. I ought to be whipped with snakes for taking advantage of a sweet little helpless thing like you."

  She nodded. "I don't think any of the bruises will show, but you're right. I just can't resist you. That's why you're going to have to be brave for both of us, darling."

  He tried to sound heartbroken as he asked, "Does that mean you don't want me coming back no more, Miss Mavis?"

  She said, "I want you so bad I can taste it, even after coming all those times just now. But I have to consider my good name, and you know how everyone gossips about a divorced woman."

  He nodded. "Yeah, it seems mean as hell. For it only stands to reason most married gals get screwed more regular than even the wildest divorcee."

  "You don't know how true that is, darling. You may have noticed I was feeling sort of frustrated when you surprised me this afternoon. You can't do that again. People are sure to talk as it is. But I've an idea. Where will you be going when you leave here?"

  "I ain't sure. You sort of surprised me, too. I had a doctor I wanted to consult about demented hookworms and the public library might have more than a song about Black Jack Slade on hand. But they'd both be closed by the time I could get to either, now. So I reckon I'll have me some supper and just prowl about some more."

  "Oh, I was thinking, if you knew a very, very discreet little love nest we could sort of get to separately and discreet..."

  "I'd sure like that," he lied, "but I'm on the trail of a mad-dog killer and he just showed me there's no place in town that's safe. I dare not risk your pretty hide, Miss Mavis. My own could be in enough trouble if he spots me before I spot him again."

  He got to his feet, buckling his gun rig, and put on his hat to leave. As he did so she rose beside him, grabbed him around the waist, and hugged him close as she said, "Oh, dear, if you're really in that much danger you'd better stay here after all. I'd rather risk my reputation than let you risk your life, you sweet man."

  "That would be wrong for both of us, little darling," he told her. "No man who has to look at his fool self in the mirror when he's shaving could ask a lady to get ruined for him. And, besides, I don't see how I'd ever catch that killer under your piano. So I'd best get it on down the road."

  As he was leaving she coyly suggested her bed might not be too improper a place to explore, after dark. But he left anyway, before she could set a date for his next music lesson.

  As he moved on down the avenue under the shade trees, a little old lady wearing a sunbonnet was sweeping her front walk. When he ticked his hatbrim at her, she smiled and said, "Isn't it nice out this evening, now that it's started to cool off?"

  He smiled back and said, "Yes, ma'am. It sure is a lot cooler than it was just a short spell ago."

  CHAPTER 4

  The Denver Public Library wasn't the only place in town a man could find a book. A little used bookstore on Larimer was open despite the hour. It smelled dusty inside. A little bearded gent wearing specs and a skullcap came out from the back to ask what he could do for the only customer in sight.

  Longarm said, "I see you mostly sell regular books, and I don't blame you. But I'm looking for a Wild West magazine about a real albeit unlikely gent named Black Jack Slade."

  The old book dealer looked pained. "Books about how to build a steam engine or rescue a maiden from a dragon are not good enough for you? We got books of fact and fiction. We got books old and new. We got books by Sir Walter Scott and books by authors nobody ever heard of and probably shouldn't. But a book about a blackjack? I don't think so."

  Longarm said he was sorry for being such a pest and turned to go. But the old man stopped him. "Wait. You say you want a penny dreadfu
l? Them we got. Come, I'll show you. We got a couple of boxes of such trash as part of a house-cleaning sale a few days ago. I was saving them for the rag picker, but who knows?"

  Longarm followed the old man back through the musty racks, then through a curtained doorway into pitch blackness. The old man struck a match to light a wall lamp. They were in a small, cluttered storage space piled floor-to-ceiling with pasteboard boxes and wooden crates. The old man hauled a battered child's toy box out into the light and opened the lid, saying, "Look and enjoy. I'll be out front if you find anything."

  Longarm hunkered down, setting the top layers of mouldering cheap paper neatly aside until, halfway to the bottom, he found a once-garish, now-faded cover that still looked mighty wild. He read the date--November, 1866--and set the old magazine aside until he'd replaced the others, closed the lid, and shoved the box back where it belonged. Then he picked up his treasure, put the lamp out, and rejoined the old man near the front of the shop.

  "I'll take this one, sir. How much do I owe you?" he asked.

  The old man shrugged. "Take it. I sell books, not wastepaper. I told you I was going to get rid of all that trash. I've been meaning to put it out back in the alley, but my son is away on business and my back is not what it used to be."

  Longarm said, "You have to let me pay you. This has to be one of the earliest pulp books about a real person, so some of it could be based on fact. You see, I ain't a gent with bad taste in literature. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal, and this dumb old penny dreadful could be serious evidence in a murder case."

  The old man laughed incredulously and said, "Where but in America could such things happen? You need the book, take the book. It's one less I have to carry out with my aching back."

  "Now, look, the cover says it sold for a nickel back in Sixty-six. What say we settle for that, at least?"

  The old man shook his head stubbornly. "I'm an ethical businessman. I don't cheat customers. I got that whole box of old magazines thrown in, free, as part of the deal I made for a couple of hundred real books I really wanted. How could I charge you for something I never paid for and was just going to throw out? It's against the law to do a small favor for a lawman?"

  Longarm said, "You sure are a stubborn old cuss, no offense. But would you agree one good turn deserves another?"

  The old man shrugged. "Do me a favor and we'll call it square."

  Longarm took off his hat and coat, put them on the counter with the favor the old man had just done him, and said, "All right. You show me where you want things piled, and that's where I'll pile 'em for you."

  "You don't mean that," the old man replied. "I got at least a ton of scrap paper to leave out back for the rag picker."

  "We'd better get cracking, then," Longarm said.

  Longarm didn't think it made much sense, either, by the time they'd finished. The spry old man had done some of the work, of course, so they were both paper-dusty by the time they'd toted all the trash books the old man was too proud to sell out to the alley. As he dropped the last heavy box beside the back gate, Longarm said, "I hope nobody steals all this paper before your pal can pick it up."

  "Let them," the old man said. "Anyone willing to lift such a load deserves it. We both must be crazy, but for a lawman you're a nice change. Where I come from, lawmen don't help an honest merchant. They help themselves to his merchandise. Do you like sweet wine? I got sweet wine inside and we've agreed one good turn deserves another."

  Longarm grinned, wiped his sweaty face with his pocket kerchief, and said, "We're going to have to stop doing favors for each other before we both wind up crippled. Are we square about that old magazine now?"

  "Idiot, I told you it was yours to begin with. But I thank you just the same. I can't wait to write my brother in the old country that here the cossacks are harmless lunatics."

  They went back inside. Longarm gathered up his things and they parted friendly. The balmy dry air of the mile-high city dried him off as it cooled him down. But the combined effects of a hundred and thirty pound gal and a ton or so of less interesting stuff to manhandle had left him feeling exhausted and thirsty. So when he came to a neighborhood saloon, as sedate as such things got, along Larimer, he ducked in to settle his nerves and catch up on his reading.

  The place was laid out a lot like Luke Short's Long Branch in Dodge. Built into a storefront, it was no more than twenty feet wide and ran back about forty. The bar ran the long way, along one wall. Small tables were set along the other wall. The place was almost empty, save for a few regulars and a desperate as well as homely Mex gal lounging against the bar in a flouncy skirt with an organdy rose pinned to one overweight hip. As he ordered a schooner of needled beer at the bar she flashed a gold tooth at him and murmured, "Buenoches, querido. A onde va?"

  He was going to a table to sit down. He didn't answer her with more than a dry smile. As he moved to do so, she started to follow, but the barkeep warned her in Spanish that she was messing with the law. Sometimes it came in handy to be so well known in the rougher parts of town, Longarm thought.

  He sat at a table facing the front, drank some suds, and spread his find on the table. It was entitled, "Black Jack Slade, Terror of the Overland Trail."

  So far so accurate.

  The Overland Trail, like a lot of stagecoach trails, had more or less died with the coming of the Iron Horse. Rails now ran along parts of it. Other parts were still used as wagon traces by local traffic. Some had just been allowed to go back to seed, mostly tumbleweed. The old Overland Trail didn't interest Longarm as much as the wild-eyed rascals who'd haunted it back in the transcontinental stagecoach era, and as he read the book, he had to allow the writer had tried to get some of the facts Longarm already knew right. So it was safe to assume some of the things Longarm didn't know could be based on yarns still fresh at the time of publication.

  Trying to make old Black Jack out a misunderstood Robin Hood was silly, of course. Slade had started out decent enough with an honorable discharge after the Mexican War and had been hired as a supervisor by the Central Overland California & Pikes Peak Express Company, posted at Julesburg, where the stage lines forked to serve both the older mining camps out California way and the new Colorado strikes between Pikes Peak and Cherry Creek, as Denver had been called at the time. So he'd had a good job, had he had sense to behave right. Suffering snakes! His name had not started out as Black Jack. He'd been hired as Joseph Slade by Overland, and it was no wonder a half-cracked little bookworm had been struck by the fact they were both baptized the very same way!

  Longarm read on about the Terror of the Overland Trail, and old Black Jack Slade had surely been that. He began his job for Overland by commencing to fuss with a French-Canadian fellow supervisor named Belle. The book said Belle was a dishonest employee who'd been robbing the company. It was a mite late to ask why Overland hadn't just fired Belle, in that case. The mutual admiration between Slade and Belle had been settled by Belle shooting Slade first, a lot, making the mistake of leaving Slade alive, and winding up with his tanned ear dangling from old Black Jack's watch chain.

  Most gents would have stopped right there. Having established his rep as a mighty grim man to cross, Black Jack took to scaring folk just for practice. Within three years he was getting too famous to stay alive much longer in Julesburg, so he'd crossed into Montana with a Colorado warrant out on him.

  He and his long-suffering wife settled down in Montana to raise cows and hell. There was no mention of them having any kids, so there went any hope of the latter-day Slade having any basis for his delusion. The original Black Jack hailed from Illinois, not Ohio. No matter how the writer tried to justify the original model as a misunderstood hero, Longarm could see he should have stayed in Julesburg, where at least folk were scared of him. Acting crazy-mean hadn't worked so good in the Montana mining country around Virginia City. The local vigilance committee advised Black Jack politely to saddle up and ride far. He took this as an invitation to indulge in a week-long drunk and
shooting spree the vigilantes didn't find half as amusing. So they found a rope and a handy beef-loading scaffold in the Virginia City yards and hung him up to cool considerable. The sad tale ended with old Black Jack buried in Salt Lake City, Utah. The reasons given made no sense at all to Longarm. But then, nothing either Black Jack Slade had done made much sense.

  He was going over that part again, sure it had to be a mistake, when two mistakes took place in the here and now in rapid succession. The homely Mex gal at the bar stepped away from it for another try at his virtue just as someone who had to like him less fired at Longarm through the window from outside.

  The gal and a lot of busted glass went down as Longarm leaped up, gun in hand, to fire back as he charged. The sill of the shattered window stood two feet above the floor. Longarm leaped over it to land with both boot heels on something softer than he'd expected Larimer to be paved with. He fired straight down as he bounced off and put another round in the son of a bitch for good measure. Then he saw he was wasting ammunition and hunkered down by a watering trough to reload as he swept the rapidly clearing street with his narrowed eyes. He saw that nobody else seemed to want any part of the action. The only possible targets headed his way were waving police nightsticks, so he got to his feet and holstered his gun before they could make any mistakes about him.

  One of the local lawmen shouted, "What's this all about, cowboy? Oh, it's you, Longarm. We might have known. Do you always have to act like it's the Fourth of July?"

  Longarm pointed at the body stretched out on the walk between them and said, "It was his grand notion, not mine. Hold the fort. There's another one down inside."