by Tabor Evans
Longarm grunted softly to himself. Apparently yes, they indeed did think he was that easy. Hell, he had been the last time. Melody’s bullet had missed by less than an inch that time or he would now be dead.
But then the last time he had not been expecting to be gunned down from ambush.
The difference was that this time he knew what he was up against.
He tied the rented horse—it was a good thing that the creature was a lazy, stumbling bum; it would not likely jerk free and run home—but took the stubby little shotgun with him.
He had four spare shotgun shells in his coat pocket, each of them loaded with a full ounce of no. 2 goose shot, and his two .45 Colts. He had thought about borrowing a rifle from Wilson Hughes, but that would have given the game away too soon. Hughes might well have found a way to warn Gray and Thompson about what Longarm was up to. It was a risk he did not need to take.
He checked the loads in his guns, stuffed the spare Colt into his waist at the small of his back, and began stalking the deadly duo.
There was no brush close beside the public road, but there was more than enough scrub oak and fans of spreading juniper on the string of low hills—mounds, really—on the side of the road where Gray and Melody were hiding.
Keeping out of sight from them as much as possible, Longarm took his time with the approach.
Whether deer or man, there is no trick to stalking them. Just take your time, think about how slowly you need to go and then go even slower. And watch where you put your clumsy damn feet. Of those, going slowly is the most important.
And Longarm did go slowly.
A tortoise could have outrun him, and he would not have minded in the slightest. He was careful to avoid letting the brush snag his clothing and even more careful about placing his feet where they would make the least noise.
They did make some noise. That was unavoidable. And in his ears those very faint cracklings of dried leaves sounded like drums pounding or signal guns booming.
Neither Al Gray nor Melody Thompson heard any of it.
He was able to creep up onto the hill behind them and then descend, slowly and carefully, until he was within nine or ten yards and at their backs.
Al Gray was the one who seemed to be nervous. Gray fidgeted. Picked a scab on his hand. Dug a fingernail into his ear. Stood up every minute or two to look back along the road Longarm was supposed to be following.
Melody was calm and businesslike. She had swept the leaves and twigs away to make a nest in the grass and stretched out there with the rifle beside her. She placed a low pile of flat rocks in front of her and padded them with a blanket she removed from behind her saddle. With a good rest to shoot from, he had no doubt she would be able to clip the ears off a housefly.
Her rifle was a custom outfit. A Schuetzen with double-set triggers, hooded sights, an odd-shaped stock, and a palm rest. He had no idea what the caliber would be. That could be a custom job as well.
Whatever, the rifle was a thing of beauty. Some gun maker somewhere should be justifiably proud of his creation despite the low purpose Melody was putting it to these days.
Longarm took a deep breath and dried his palms on his trousers, then stepped out of the brush behind and slightly above the two.
“Afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “Nice day for a walk, ain’t it?”
Chapter 60
They looked to him like they nearly shit their pants at the sound behind them. Both rolled onto their sides and stared behind them, wide-eyed with surprise.
And fear. The sight of a sawed-off shotgun staring down at you can do that.
Al Gray in particular looked like he might piss himself. Melody Thompson did not take the shock exactly in stride, but she did not look as worried as Gray did.
“Stand up, you lovebirds. An’ keep your hands where I can see ’em,” Longarm said, motioning encouragement with the barrels of his shotgun. “An’ you, Al, you can leave your six-gun on the ground there. You won’t be needin’ it, or at least you won’t be havin’ it, where you’re going. Melody dear, same thing with your rifle. Which I admire, by the way. It’s handsome.”
Both stood. Reluctantly, but they stood. Both raised their hands, too.
“No need for that,” Longarm said. “Put your arms down. You’ll tire yourselves t’ no purpose if you try and hold ’em up like that. Now in a minute I’m gonna toss you some handcuffs. Melody, you can put ’em on your partner there.”
Longarm held the shotgun aimed generally downhill while he dug in a pocket looking for some handcuffs.
“You son of a bitch,” Melody snapped. “You changed hats. That’s why I didn’t recognize you. You were wearing a brown hat when I shot you. But I swear I thought I’d killed you. Now you have on that gray hat, damn you. How’s come I didn’t kill you that day?”
“Yeah,” Gray said. “I saw you on the ground. I thought you were dead.”
“Close,” Longarm said, “but no cigar.” He did not particularly feel like complimenting Melody on her marksmanship or telling her how very close she did come to killing him. “What was the deal there? Freeing your partner, were you?”
“At least that worked,” Melody said.
“For a little while,” Longarm agreed.
“You bastard,” Melody snarled.
“Now, darlin’, that’s not the way you were talking to me the other night. You were cooing like a lovebird when you had my dick in you,” Longarm said with a sarcastic smile.
“What!” Al Gray exploded. “You fucked him? You told me you didn’t do anything with him.”
“Oh, close your yap, Alton. I’m a whore. What would you expect me to do with him?” she returned.
“But the son of a bitch is a marshal. He’s taking us to prison. And you, you bitch, you fucked him. If that wasn’t bad enough, you lied to me about it afterward.”
“At least he’s a complete man, Al. You can’t even get it up to fuck me,” Melody said, contempt twisting her features.
“You bitch!” Gray dipped his hand into a pocket and came up with a tiny .22-caliber revolver. He pushed his hand forward. Pressed the little gun beneath Melody’s left tit and pulled the trigger.
The explosion, small to begin with, was almost completely muffled by her flesh.
Melody looked down at herself, aghast, and fell.
Longarm’s shotgun exploded and the left side of Al Gray’s hip and belly were turned into red mush. Worse, one or more of the pellets ripped his stomach open. Gray coils of intestine spilled out.
The man collapsed. He fell on top of Melody, the coils of gut covering her pretty face.
By the time Longarm reached them Gray was dead. He pulled the man away from Melody and swept the shiny, gray coils off of her.
“At least,” she whispered, “you won’t get me into no damn courtroom to be stared at like a monkey in a cage. So fuck you, Long.”
Longarm cleaned her up as best he could and sat with her until she was dead. Then he marked the spot so it could be easily seen from the road below. He found their horses and rode down to where he had left his animal.
The liveryman was going to be unhappy, Longarm knew, when he reclaimed the Remount Service’s borrowed horses. And the gear that had been on them.
Hortense, on the other hand, should be pleased with the reward Longarm intended to see that she got. The money would go a long way toward taking care of her children.
As for that bastard Wilson Hughes, there was nothing Longarm could do about him. Longarm had no authority when it came to state law. But oh, he wished he could come up with some federal charge against the man.
He intended to ask Billy Vail to look into that when he got back to Denver.
Which would not be soon enough.
Watch for
LONGARM AND THE WHISKEY RUNNERS
the 432nd novel in the
exciting LONGARM series from Jove
Coming in November!
