Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209)

by Evans, Tabor

  “Why, ma’am, if I’d’ve known that I would’ve set them both up to a good feed,” Longarm said. “I’m sorry they didn’t mention it.”

  “I believe you would have done exactly that,” the lady said. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am Cornelia Blaise. This is my daughter, Melody Carmichael, and my granddaughter, Liberty.”

  Longarm doffed his Stetson and made a leg toward Mrs. Blaise. When he straightened up he said, “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, ma’am, an’ I’m pleased t’ make your acquaintance.”

  “A marshal! My goodness. And quite the gallant, too. It is approaching the noon hour, Marshal Long. Would you be free to join us for luncheon?”

  “I’d be pleased t’ do that, Miz Blaise. If I wouldn’t be intruding on your family time.”

  “It would be our pleasure, Marshal, and the least we could do to repay your kindness.”

  “That ain’t necessary, ma’am,” he said.

  “Please, mister,” Liberty pleaded, tugging at his coat sleeve. “Please come. I never met a real marshal before. Please?”

  Longarm looked down into the little girl’s eyes. That was enough to make up his mind. He smiled. “Can I sit next t’ you if I come?”

  The child hopped up and down with pleasure. “You can. I promise.”

  “Well, in that case…”

  Chapter 4

  Longarm stared. He could not help himself. The Blaise mansion was larger than some—hell, it was larger than most—hotels he had stayed in. It sat on three acres or so of carefully groomed lawn on the edge of Cheyenne, out past the territorial capitol building. It was three stories tall with a small porch and white columns at the front. A doorman waited for them as the phaeton rolled through the wrought-iron gate and up a curving, graveled driveway.

  “Welcome to Blaise House,” the grand dame said.

  “Yes, welcome,” Mrs. Carmichael echoed. Liberty just grinned and hugged Longarm’s arm.

  The phaeton crunched to a halt on the gravel and the coachman jumped down from his perch to open the door and assist the ladies to the ground. Liberty made a game of hopping down. And Longarm was left to get down without professional assistance while the doorman dashed out to fetch in the luggage.

  Inside, the entry was a hall large enough to hold dances. The furnishings were dark and heavy. The lighting was from electrified chandeliers, suggesting that Blaise House had its own generating plant because Longarm was fairly sure the town had none. Even Denver had few such plants. A setup like that would surely cost a fortune. But then the Blaise family quite obviously had a fortune to cover it.

  “We will be in the parlor, Donald. Please inform us when dinner is ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The doorman, who apparently performed double duty as the butler, too, actually bowed his way out.

  Longarm wondered if he should run into town and buy a formal outfit so he would be properly attired here.

  “This way please, Mr. Long,” the grand lady said, taking his arm and guiding him through the foyer to an equally large and impressive parlor. It was furnished with large, overstuffed pieces. The far wall was open to a glassed sunroom with a concert piano in the center.

  She led him to a sofa, Liberty clinging to his other arm, and settled him there with Liberty tucked in close beside him.

  “Coffee, Mr. Long?”

  “That would be nice, ma’am, thank you.” Actually a shot or two of rye whiskey would have been better after a night spent on the rails, but coffee would do for the moment.

  Mrs. Blaise nodded in the direction of the doorway and the butler instantly stepped into the room. “Coffee, Donald.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was only a matter of seconds before Donald came in wheeling a cart with silver service and china cups. The coffee was steaming hot, the cream thick and heavy. It occurred to Longarm that a fellow could get used to living like this…from the master’s point of view, that is, less so from that of the servants.

  The coffee was predictably excellent, the dinner that followed equally fine, the meal rich and heavy. As they were nearing the conclusion of the feast—a feast for most folks but normal enough here, he guessed—Liberty left her chair at Longarm’s side and ran to the head of the table. She leaned close and whispered in her grandmother’s ear. Mrs. Blaise gestured to Donald and in turn whispered in his ear. Then she smiled and patted Liberty’s cheek. Liberty jumped up and down with joy and ran back to Longarm.

  “You can stay here with us, Mr. Marshal. Isn’t that fine?”

  “But I…”

  “It is all arranged, Mr. Long,” Mrs. Blaise said before he could finish. “My coachman has already been dispatched to bring your bag from the depot, and Donald is having a bedroom prepared for you.” She smiled. “Believe me, we have enough guest rooms that you will be no intrusion.”

  “Please, Mr. Marshal? Please?” Liberty clung to his arm and practically swooned with excitement.

  He looked down into those guileless blue eyes and melted. “All right,” he said. “But I can only stay the one night. I have work to do, you know.”

  The little girl kissed the back of his hand and shivered with delight while her mother pretty much ignored the whole thing.

  Chapter 5

  Marcus Carmichael, Liberty’s father, put in an appearance about six o’clock, arriving in a light runabout drawn by a sleek, black trotter. Carmichael himself was plump and sleek, with oiled hair and a diamond stickpin. He accepted Longarm’s presence in his house as a commonplace occurrence. Both his welcome and his handshake were perfunctory, and he immediately retired to his study with the instruction that he be called when supper was served.

  Longarm visited with the ladies and spent most of his afternoon and evening playing card games with Liberty.

  Supper was light but the service was formal. Afterward Longarm retired upstairs where a room had been prepared for him. There had been no invitation for him to join Carmichael in the study for brandy and cigars. It was a lack Longarm could live with. His only purpose for staying was to please Liberty. The child was such a joy that he almost wished for a daughter of his own.

  But then, he realized with a chuckle, it was more convenient to borrow one.

  Before she was up to bed Liberty went onto her tiptoes and gave Longarm a good-night kiss.

  The child just plain melted his heart; that was the truth of the matter.

  Upstairs, tucked away at the back of the third floor, the family being somewhere below, he sat in the bedroom rocking chair long enough for a smoke and a nip of rye from the bottle he carried in his carpetbag, then he stripped, blew out the lamp, and crawled between the fresh, sunlight-scented sheets.

  He was asleep almost immediately.

  He came awake again to a light knocking on his door. In this genteel upper-class house there was no need for him to reach for the .45 he had placed on the bedside table. He sat up and reached for it anyway and had the revolver in hand when he stood and padded to the doorway.

  Lamplight shone beneath the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked, standing to the side of the door.

  “Cornelia,” the answer came back.

  Longarm’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, I, uh, just a moment.” He hurriedly put the revolver back into its leather, then returned to the door and pulled it open.

  Cornelia Blaise, sometimes known as Gramma, stood there holding a hurricane lamp. She was wearing a sleeping gown of pale silk with pearls and fancywork sewn on. The gown came to her throat and had long sleeves, but the way the silk clung to her curves—and Cornelia Blaise had what Custis Long considered to be quite splendid curves—it managed to be sexy as hell.

  “May I come in?”

  Longarm stepped back and the lady swept into his bedroom.

  She very carefully set the lamp onto the bedside table, quite matter-of-factly shifting his Colt to one side when she did so.

  When she turned to him the lamplight was behind her. He could see the outline of
her figure through the backlighted silk. Her legs were long and slim. Her breasts small and shapely, riding high on her chest despite her years.

  Her hair was down, flowing loose and long. It caught the gleam of the lamplight and seemed almost to shimmer.

  Longarm’s cock had no notion of a houseguest’s polite behavior. It immediately jumped to attention.

  Cornelia looked down and saw the sudden bulge in his balbriggans.

  The grand lady smiled and said, “Good. Would you like to fuck?”

  Chapter 6

  Longarm was too surprised to speak, but his pecker, lightly throbbing behind the thin cloth of his balbriggans, spoke for him.

  Cornelia stepped forward. One arm crept around Longarm’s neck. Her other hand very matter-of-factly gripped his cock. She lifted her face to his and kissed him, her tongue sliding into his mouth when she did so.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  Longarm lifted an eyebrow and the grand lady smiled and said, “Not you, dear. This is what I was thinking of.” She squeezed his prick and laughed.

  “Beautiful? Why, you ain’t even seen it yet,” Longarm said.

  “We can correct that, can’t we?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. Reckon we can at that.”

  Without waiting for more of an invitation, Cornelia unfastened the buttons at the neck of the balbriggans and slipped the undergarment off his shoulders. She pushed them down past his hips and let them drop to the floor around his ankles.

  “Lovely,” she said, looking down at the powerful erection that was standing tall down there. “See? I was right all along.” She took hold of him and squeezed again.

  “Careful what you’re doin’ there or you’ll get a fistful of jism,” he warned.

  “I can think of better places for it,” Cornelia said.

  He reached up to the neck of her nightdress and felt for the closure. Found it at the back, hidden beneath her hair. He slipped the button free and the silky garment slithered to the floor under its own weight, pooling there in a cream-colored pile.

  “Damn, woman, you’re mighty fine,” he observed. And indeed she was. Tall and slim and with only a hint of belly. Her tits were pale, the nipples small and pink. The bush at her crotch was a vee of gray fur, tightly curled and already moist with her juices.

  Cornelia came to him, this time wrapping both arms around his neck. She raised herself on tiptoes and lifted one leg high. Longarm was surprised to find that she had easily impaled herself on his cock, taking him deep into her cunt while they stood belly to belly and lip to lip.

  She kissed him, pulling his tongue into her hot mouth while she ground her hips against his.

  Cornelia was able to take every inch of him, something that not every woman could handle. She rocked back and forth against him, his prick sliding in and out with the woman’s motion.

  Without warning she tightened her arms around his neck and lifted herself, wrapping her legs around Longarm’s waist and driving herself onto him. He was holding her completely off the floor, his arms around her torso, her tits warm and soft on his chest.

  He felt the heat of her pussy. Felt the slippery moisture of her juices. Felt his own sap quickly rise in response to her.

  Cornelia bit his ear but Longarm scarcely felt it. His concentration was on the exquisite sensations of being deep inside this handsome woman’s body.

  He groaned and shuddered as his come exploded into her. Cornelia began to shudder and moan as he did so. If she was faking her orgasm, he realized, she was doing one hell of a fine job of it.

  He clung tightly to her, all of her weight on his sturdy frame as both of them came.

  After another minute or so he sighed. Cornelia unwrapped herself from around him and dropped her feet to the floor once more. But she continued her hold around his neck, her mouth on his, her breath rapid and hot.

  “Damn,” she whispered when she pulled her face an inch or so away from his.

  “Yeah,” Longarm agreed.

  “You are good, dearest,” she said.

  “Glad y’ think so, ma’am.”

  The lady giggled and asked, “Do you think we can do it again?”

  “You bet, but let’s lie down an’ try it this time.”

  She took his hand and led him onto the bed, placing herself wide open for his entry when he joined her.

  Chapter 7

  Cornelia stayed with him until dawn, then she slipped out of his room. When Longarm went downstairs for breakfast an hour later the woman acted like she scarcely knew him.

  Liberty begged him to stay “just one more day,” which Cornelia, with a twinkle in her eye, seconded, but he kissed the little girl on the forehead and declined the invitation.

  “It’s work that brought me up here, an’ I’d best get to it.”

  “Finish your breakfast then and we shall drive you back into town,” Cornelia said.

  The distance was not so much that he could not walk it but he was glad enough for the offer. Donald fetched his bag downstairs and escorted him outside where a light wagon was waiting for him. Half an hour later he was deposited in front of the Cheyenne post office.

  “Mornin’,” he greeted the clerk on duty. Longarm showed his badge, then said, “I’m looking for a gent name of Osgood. I don’t know his first name.”

  “That would be Clarence,” the clerk said. “He’s in the back sorting mail. Is this important?”

  “Very,” Longarm said.

  The clerk frowned but said, “All right then. Come inside the cage. I’ll take you to him.”

  Clarence Osgood turned out to be a burly, rather tough-looking man with hairy arms and heavy beard stubble. When Longarm introduced himself Osgood nodded and said, “I thought one of you fellows would be along. That’s why I put that mail in the strongbox.”

  “That was good thinking,” Longarm said.

  Osgood grunted. “Look, Marshal, I been on the far side of the law a time or two before I found the Lord. Now I try to do right.”

  “Well, you did right this time,” Longarm said. “My boss tells me you have information on the folks those letters were going to. I’d like that list if you don’t mind.”

  “Why is that?” Osgood asked.

  “That will be part of the evidence against these people when I bring them to trial,” Longarm explained. “Dependin’ on how things go, I might want t’ get statements from them for the prosecutor t’ use when it comes down to that.”

  Osgood grunted. “Yeah, that makes sense. Just a minute. I got the list in my locker. Wait here.” He disappeared into the back of the post office and returned a minute later with an envelope that he handed to Longarm. “Is there anything else I can help with?” he asked.

  Longarm shook his head and said, “Not that I can think of. But if I do, I’ll be back.”

  “Anything,” the postal worker said. “Anytime.”

  “Thanks.” Longarm shook the man’s hand and left. He retrieved his carpetbag from the lobby, where he had left it, and walked to the Laramie County sheriff’s office.

  “I’m hoping to find some information on the Salter gang,” he told the tall, sun-bronzed sheriff. “Whatever you know, anything you know, would be a help because I don’t know much of anything about them other than the fact that they are damned good at robbery.”

  Sheriff Bertram Rutter took Longarm into his office and motioned for him to have a seat. He went around behind his desk and settled into his swivel chair. He leaned back and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke while we talk?”

  Longarm grinned. “Not if you don’t mind if I do.”

  Rutter loaded a pipe and fired it up while Longarm nipped the twist off one of his cheroots. Rutter held a match for him to light the cigar and both men leaned back in their chairs.

  “What little I know about the Salters,” Rutter said, “comes from an article in a back-East newspaper. From Philadelphia. It was written by an Englishwoman who claimed she was able to interview the gang on the promise that she w
ould not reveal their names or where they lived. They told her…allegedly, that is…told her that they rob in Wyoming and Nebraska but live in a different jurisdiction where they have committed no crimes and are not wanted.”

  “That would make it Dakota or Montana,” Longarm observed.

  “Right,” Rutter said. “If they were telling the truth.”

  “And if the reporter really did get an interview like that. She could have made it all up.”

  “She could have,” the sheriff agreed, “but hers is the only information we have.”

  “Is the reporter available for me to talk with?”

  Rutter shrugged. “Who knows. I’ve never met her and don’t know if she is still out here. For all I know she could be back East again by now. Or all the way home to England. The article came out weeks ago.”

  “Do you have a copy?” Longarm asked.

  “No, I don’t, but maybe one of my people or someone over in the courthouse has one. I can ask around for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Longarm said.

  “Other than that,” Rutter said, “we know practically nothing about these people. The way they work, they seem to know what stages to hit. They never bother to steal an empty strongbox, only worthwhile targets. One or two of them will step out in front of the stage with shotguns leveled. They never speak. Not a word. They just motion with those shotguns. After the box has been thrown down they get the passengers out and rob them…still without saying a word out loud, mind you…then step aside and let the stage go on its way. They’ve never harmed anyone. They have gotten away with half a dozen of these robberies now.”

  “What do they look like?” Longarm asked. “After that many robberies you should have a pretty good description of them.”

  “Ha,” Rutter grunted. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? In fact we have no idea what they look like. They always wear full-length dusters buttoned to the throat plus flour-sack hoods covering their heads. They even wear gloves, more like gauntlets, to cover their hands and forearms. No one except this newspaper reporter has ever gotten a look at them.”