by Evans, Tabor
Two Bullets for One Robber…
“You’re under arrest,” Longarm said as he stepped out of the Concord.
The robber jerked—startled, no doubt, although Longarm could not see his facial expression beneath that hood—and brought the muzzle of his revolver around toward Longarm. Any self-respecting robber would have been aiming toward the coach to begin with, of course.
Then he made his second mistake. And by far his worst one. He cocked his piece—it rightly should have been ready to fire to start with—and tried to shoot Custis Long in the face.
Before the man could trigger his Smith & Wesson Schofield, Longarm put a bullet in his chest and another in his belly. The first slug knocked him back a step. The second doubled him over with a cry of pain.
“You didn’t…you didn’t have to…”
By that time Longarm was on the ground in a crouch, looking around for the others.
He saw no one…
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 Custis 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
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
TABOR EVANS
LONGARM
AND THE DEADWOOD
SHOOT-OUT
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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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 DEADWOOD SHOOT-OUT
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Milo Sinovcic.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61920-9
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ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 1
Custis Long took the stone steps two at a time leading up to the Federal Building on Denver’s Colfax Avenue, a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a study in brown, brown corduroy trousers, brown tweed coat, brown-and-white-checked shirt, and snuff-brown Stetson hat. He had a handlebar mustache, dark eyes flecked with gold, and a craggy face that women quite inexplicably found interesting. He wore a double-action Colt revolver in a black leather cross-draw rig.
He was feeling particularly good this morning. For more than a month he had been trying to convince a maddeningly lovely chorus girl at the Hansborough Theater that she should grant him the pleasure of her company, and finally she had wilted under the pressure of his repeated requests. This weekend after the Saturday night performances he would squire her out to dinner. And perhaps more. It was an understatement to say that he was looking forward to the engagement.
He entered the building and made his way down the corridor to a frosted-glass door marked u.s. marshal. The tall deputy entered the office suite, greeted Marshal William Vail’s clerk with a cheery “Howdy, Henry,” and hung his flat-crowned brown Stetson on the hat rack beside the door.
“Hello yo
urself, Longarm,” Henry responded. Henry was a serious sort, slender and bespectacled. “Boss wants to see you,” he said.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Longarm said, reaching up to smooth his hair and twist the ends of his mustache. “I got to get over to the barber shop this morning.”
Henry shrugged as if to say he did now know what Billy Vail wanted. Longarm knew better. There was nothing that went on around this office that Henry was not privy to.
“Is anyone in with him?” Longarm asked.
Henry shook his head. “No, go on in.”
Longarm paused outside Billy Vail’s door and lightly tapped on it.
“Come in.”
Longarm stepped inside. The marshal was seated behind his desk, poring over a stack of the paperwork that made most of his duties administrative ones while his deputies rode out to do the actual work of the office.
Billy Vail’s appearance belied his abilities. He was round-faced, balding with a pink complexion and an innocent mien. He looked almost angelic but before coming to Denver had been a Texas Ranger and a salty one at that. Billy Vail could hold his own with a six-gun or a bad horse and many an outlaw had mistaken him for soft. That was an error they made only once.
Vail looked up from his papers and pushed them to one side. He motioned for Longarm to take a seat in one of the two chairs that faced the marshal’s broad desk.
“I hope you don’t have plans for the weekend,” he said.
“I do, but that don’t matter, Boss,” Longarm said.
“Have you heard of the Salter gang?” Vail asked.
“Sure. Who hasn’t. They’re smart sons o’ bitches. They rob in one territory an’ escape into another where the law can’t follow them, an’ they never, ever make the mistake of doing anything that could put us onto them.”
Billy smiled. “Well, they made their mistake this time. Or, rather, some very smart postal clerk got a step ahead of them.”
Longarm’s eyebrows went up in inquiry.
Billy’s smile became even broader. “The gang has been taught that they take strongboxes and shake down passengers but they studiously avoid touching the U.S. mail pouches.”
Longarm nodded. “That’s the word about them, yeah.”
“Well, this time a mail clerk in Cheyenne stuck a handful of mail into a strongbox that was being shipped to Deadwood. That shipment was basically minted coinage intended for the bank there. Payroll money for the most part. Salter or one of his people found out about it, something they have been particularly good at. The Salters hit that shipment and took the strongbox. Mind you, they did not intend to steal any undelivered mail, but thanks to that clerk in Cheyenne they did. There were six registered letters. The clerk, his name is Osgood, even wrote down the names and addresses of the senders and the addressees of those letters. So now thanks to him the Salters have stepped across the line and committed a crime under federal law.”
“Osgood, you say?” Longarm said. “I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”
“You’ll get the opportunity to do just that,” Billy said. “I want you to go after the Salter gang and bring them in on charges of theft from the United States mails.”
His date with Carrie Gibson was forgotten for the time being. This was much more interesting, especially since it went outside the routine of transporting prisoners to and from court dates.
“I can leave just as quick as the train schedule allows, Boss,” he said.
“Good. See Henry for your vouchers. He has already been briefed.” Which confirmed what Longarm already suspected about Henry’s pretended ignorance of the assignment.
“Right away, Boss.” Longarm stood and touched a finger to his forehead, then spun around and headed for the door.
Chapter 2
Cheyenne lay pretty much due north from Denver yet the fastest way to get there was to take a train east on the prairie to Julesburg, then another straight west on the UP tracks to Cheyenne. It was assumed that one of these days some enterprising railroader would build a line direct from Cheyenne to Denver. One of these days. Longarm had that same faint hope every time he had to go to Cheyenne—which was one of his favorite towns; it was only getting there that was a pain in the ass.
On his way to one of his favorite towns he wiled away the time with one of his favorite hobbies, that being the admiration of beautiful women.
As it happened there were three seated in his car. Well, two and a half. One of them lost points because of her thick ankles.
The most delightful of the females available to be admired was a half-grown filly whose age he guessed would be something in the neighborhood of twelve or thirteen. She was young and pretty and flighty, flitting from seat to window to platform and back again, eagerly chatting with her mother and then dashing off again on another adventure.
There was not a lewd thought in Longarm’s mind when he watched her. Just the sheer joy of admiring youthfully vivacious beauty. Had he ever been that young and carefree, he wondered. Surely not. Never mind that. The child was a pleasure to admire.
And her mother was not bad herself. Mama had soft brown hair tucked into a close-fitting bonnet. Both she and the little girl wore nicely tailored dusters so he could not judge Mama’s figure but no matter. She was pretty enough that her body seemed almost unimportant. Longarm grinned at the thought. Almost!
It was well past dark when the coach rattled into Julesburg, glowing coke cinders dropping out of the night sky onto the sleepy-eyed passengers, most of whom would be changing to other trains here as Julesburg was the terminus for the Denver branch.
“This way to the Union Pacific mainline,” a uniformed conductor bawled. “This way to the omnibuses. Eastbound passengers that way”—he pointed—“westbound, follow me.”
The woman with the thick ankles turned toward the eastbound platform. The mother and little girl trudged sleepily toward the horse-drawn omnibus that would take them to the platform for westbound trains.
Inside the close confinement of the omnibus Longarm could not avoid overhearing them when the child tugged on her mother’s sleeve and in a rather loud whisper asked if she could have something to eat.
“When we get to Grandma’s, sweetie,” the mother told her.
“But, Mama, I’m hungry now.”
The woman’s expression hardened and she looked furtively around to see if anyone else in the coach was paying attention to this exchange.
“Not now,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Ma…”
“We don’t have money for such so be quiet, Liberty.”
The little girl wilted on the rough cloth of the omnibus seat. “Yes, Mama.”
It was but a short ride to the westbound platforms. The coach emptied out there. Most of the passengers filed into the waiting room. A few, including mother and child, waited outside on the platform even though at this middle-of-the-night hour it was fairly chilly out there in the night air.
Longarm went inside the terminal and spotted a butcher boy hawking dried-out sandwiches and somewhat fresher crullers. He bought three of the crullers and carried them out onto the platform.
“Ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I made a mistake in there. I gave the boy too much money an’ he didn’t have change so I took three t’ make it all come out even, never mind that I only want the one of ’em. Would you think me too forward if I was t’ offer these extras t’ you an’ the child there?”
“Thank you, sir, but I couldn’t.”
“I understand that, ma’am, but they’re way more than I can handle. Reckon I’ll just have t’ throw them away if you won’t take them.” He feigned a sigh. “I surely do hate t’ waste perfectly good food.”
Like most women of his experience, this lady, too, abhorred waste. “If you are sure…”
He smiled. “Downright positive, ma’am.”
“In that case…just so they do not go to waste…”
He handed over the spare crullers, touched the brim of his Stets
on, and wandered off to the other end of the platform to eat his sticky, somewhat-too-sweet cruller by himself.
Chapter 3
Longarm yawned and stretched, then picked up his carpetbag and looked around for a hack. Cheyenne in the middle of the day was busy, wagons and heavy drays hauling goods to and from the railroad. He stood on the platform and considered where to go next. The first thing he needed to do would be to learn more about the robbery that led to the Salter outfit taking as yet undelivered U.S. mail. He needed to speak with the local law and to the mail clerk. Probably he would need to go to Deadwood.
First things first, though. He needed some lunch after the long haul east from Denver and back west again. After lunch he should talk with the county sheriff, then the mail clerk, then…he would see how things developed. He would…
“Mister.” He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Mister?”
He looked down into the wide blue eyes and freckles of the little girl from the trains. He smiled; he could not help it. “Yes, miss?”
“My gramma wants to see you.”
Longarm raised an eyebrow.
“Over there,” the child said, pointing to a handsome and obviously very expensive phaeton complete with driver and coachman, both wearing matching white shirts and bright yellow vests.
“That is your grandmother’s rig?”
The kid nodded and took Longarm by the hand.
“One second, please.” He stepped over to the station agent’s cubicle and set his carpetbag inside with a quick, “Watch this, will you?” Then he went with the little girl.
Gramma turned out to be a woman in her fifties or thereabouts. Tall, slender, with silver-gray hair, high cheekbones, and striking green eyes, an ice queen with the look of someone who had been pampered and rich all her life. She was a beauty despite her age and she obviously knew it. She held herself rigidly upright.
The little girl’s mother was already seated in the phaeton. The coachman was busy loading luggage into the boot.
“You are the gentleman who was so kind to my daughter and granddaughter, I believe,” the older lady said. “I want you to know that we…that they…are not beggars. They were robbed while they were in Denver. Robbed of everything. The only thing the scoundrel missed, or did not want, was their return train tickets. That is why they were in such desperate circumstances when you found them and took pity on them.”
