Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209)

by Evans, Tabor

  The Donald he was speaking to was slender, with graying dark blond hair. Donald wore a broadcloth suit. He did not have a tie but he did wear a revolver holster showing beneath the hem of the suit coat. He also had a round badge pinned prominently on the lapel of the coat.

  “The son of a bitch assaulted me, Donald. I’ll press charges, you can be sure of that.” His voice was pitched loud enough to carry throughout the restaurant.

  Heads turned. For the second time. The same diners witnessed the fight—what little there was of it—not twenty minutes earlier. Now they looked to see what would happen to the stranger once the law got hold of him.

  Donald approached Longarm warily, one hand already draped over the butt of his Colt, but the gun remaining in the leather.

  “I was gonna look you up come mornin’,” Longarm drawled, “but I reckon now is as good a time as any.”

  “If you want to press charges…”

  “Aw, no need for that,” Longarm said, glancing past Donald to the big man, who now was looking very pleased with himself.

  “Mr. Connerly here is—”

  “Is an asshole,” Longarm interrupted. “Mind if I reach inta my pocket for something, Donald?”

  “Fine, but do it slowly, please.”

  Longarm kept his hand well clear of the Colt that rode at his waist, instead dipping his fingers into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieving his wallet. He pulled it out and flipped it open so Donald could see the badge that was pinned inside.

  “Oh. You are…”

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, out o’ Denver.”

  “You’re one of Billy Vail’s deputies? Lord, I’ve known Billy for years and years. Used to know him down in Texas when he was a ranger and I was just starting out with the Austin police department.”

  Longarm nodded.

  “Custis Long, you said?”

  He nodded again.

  “You’re the one they call Longarm.”

  Another nod.

  Donald turned to the aggrieved local citizen. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll take care of this. Go on about your business now. I have it under control.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I am. Go on now.”

  The big fellow huffed and rolled his shoulders but he turned away, probably more than happy to let someone else tangle with the situation, and left the restaurant. The tension that had been in the room since his return evaporated and folks went back to their suppers. Donald reached for the back of the chair opposite Longarm’s and said, “Mind if I sit?”

  “Please,” Longarm said. “I’m just fixin’ to have some deep-dish apple pie that if it’s good as it looks, well…” He rolled his eyes and grinned. “Join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Donald said. He turned before he sat and said, “I’ll have coffee, Dennis, and some of that pie.” He pulled the chair out and sat down, reaching a hand across the table to shake with Longarm on his way down. “Pleased to meet you, Long. I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Thanks. And you are…?”

  “Donald Hauser. I’m town marshal, chief deputy, and general dogsbody hereabouts.”

  “My pleasure, Don. I’ll tell Billy where I seen you.”

  “Do that, please. What brings you up this way, Longarm?”

  Dennis arrived with two generous slabs of pie, a cup of coffee for Hauser, and a refill for Longarm.

  Longarm quickly filled the local man in on his problem, concluding with, “I been hoping you could give me something t’ go on ’bout these holdups. I know most of ’em originated, the coaches that is, down in Cheyenne, but at least some were rolling out o’ Miles City. I’m told a gent name of Hal Tyler with the Bastrop stage line would be able to give me the details up here.”

  “Not anymore he can’t,” Hauser said. “Hal quit his job with Bastrop and pulled stakes. Said he was going to try his luck in San Francisco or some such warmer place.”

  Longarm laughed. “You ever been to San Fran?”

  Hauser shook his head. “No, never.”

  “Neither has Tyler.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “If he thinks San Francisco is warmer, he hasn’t.”

  “Cold place?”

  “Terrible. Damn wind there cuts bone deep. It’s a diff’rent sort o’ cold from up here. Anyway I was hopin’ to talk to the man ’bout these robberies.”

  “The way I understand it,” Hauser said, “he didn’t know much he could have told you about them. The way it worked, whenever an outfit in Deadwood wanted money shipped to them they wired ahead for it. They had some sort of code worked out between the bank and this mining company so nobody except the folks who needed to know could figure it out. Tyler and me sat down and talked it over plenty, but we neither one of us could see where anyone at this end tipped the robbers to the shipment.”

  “Do you know where the money was consigned?” Longarm asked.

  “Of course,” Hauser said with a nod. “They were going…let me see if I can remember. One was going to the Lady Blue mine. Another was a shipment to the Deadwood bank…I forget the exact name of it…some sort of transfer between sister banks, as I understand it.”

  “Going to different places,” Longarm mused aloud, “with different people involved each time.”

  “That would be about right,” Hauser said. “How does that stack up with the Cheyenne experience?”

  “Much the same,” Longarm admitted. “It don’t give us much to work from.”

  Hauser grunted. “That’s likely the exact same way the robbers want you to see it. Which, come to think of it, raised the question about why you federal boys are looking into it. I thought this was strictly territorial jurisdiction.”

  Longarm explained about mail clerk Clarence Osgood and the mail being sent via strongbox.

  “Smart thinking,” Hauser agreed, digging into his pie.

  Longarm had almost forgotten about dessert. The pie, when he got to it, was as good as anything he had had in a very long while, if ever.

  “Where will you go from here?” Hauser asked.

  “Deadwood, I reckon. Unless you got a better idea.” He frowned. “I sure don’t.” He finished the last of his pie and held his empty cup high to call for a refill.

  “If I could think of anything, I would damn sure tell you,” Hauser said. “But I can’t.”

  “Yeah. Me, neither.” He sighed. “But, Lordy, I do hate for a robber gang like that t’ keep getting away with what they been doing.” He smiled. “Maybe if I’m lucky they’ll hit the stage I take down to Deadwood. That will put paid to the sons o’ bitches.”

  “I sort of hate to hope that the stage is held up again,” Hauser said with a grin, “but this time I will.” He shoved back from the table and stood. “Thanks for the dessert.”

  “Hey, wait. Aren’t you gonna arrest me for assaulting that stupid son of a bitch in here?”

  Hauser just laughed and turned away.

  “Reckon not,” Longarm mumbled under his breath as he reached for his coffee cup. Damn, but that was a fine meal. And on the heels of an even more fine fuck. He wondered what the lady hotelkeeper would be doing for the rest of the evening, because after that good meal and a little time to recuperate, he was ready to go at her again.

  Chapter 18

  He never got an opportunity to bang the lady hotelkeeper another time. When he got back to the Debois Arms the woman acted like she had never before seen him, much less wallowed around with him making the beast with two backs. If anything she acted cold and aloof from him.

  But he did find out from the desk clerk that her name was Pansy Dantzler and she owned not only the Debois but several other businesses in Miles City as well.

  Screwing Pansy again being out of the question, Longarm settled for a few shots of rye whiskey at a nearby saloon, then turned in and got a good night’s sleep.

  Morning found him unusually well rested—sleep being the aftermath of a good fuck—and
searching for the Bastrop office, which he found at the east end of town.

  “No, sir, I don’t know much about those robberies,” the current station chief told him. “I was brought in from Lewistown to take over when Hal left. Heard about them, of course. We don’t get so very many robberies now that the boom has died down, so they were the talk of the company when they happened. I wish I could help you.”

  “You can,” Longarm told him.

  “Anything I can do, just name it.”

  “I need transportation down to Deadwood,” Longarm said. “Lead, too, I suppose.”

  The man’s expression brightened. “Now that I can do for you. We have a coach leaving this afternoon at two. It goes through Belle Fourche and Lead then back up the gulch to Deadwood.”

  “Regular run?” Longarm asked.

  The helpful gent nodded. “Twice a week, regular as a clock.”

  “Lucky timing,” Longarm said. He grinned and added, “Saves my butt from having to make the ride on a rented horse, an’ you know how bad some o’ them can be. Count me in for a seat on that two o’clock stage, please.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Marshal.”

  Longarm turned away, then had another thought and turned back. “Will you by any chance be carrying a bank transfer or a payroll for the Lady Blue?”

  “Not that I know of,” the station chief said, “but then we never know ahead of time, not until the very last moment.”

  “If your bank here does consign a shipment with you today, let me know when I come to board, will you?”

  “Count on it, Marshal.”

  Longarm went back to the hotel to retrieve the clothes he had worn up from Cheyenne—they had been at the dry cleaners…and damn sure needed cleaning—and pack ready for the next leg of his journey.

  While he was in his room packing, Pansy Dantzler showed up, wanting another wrestling match.

  “No, thanks,” Longarm told her, offering no explanations to soften the rejection. He got a hell of a kick out of the look on the woman’s face when he turned her down. Very likely it was an experience she never in her life had before. And it was about damn time that she did, he thought. She was good in bed, there was no doubt about that, but she was full of herself and needed to be taken down a peg.

  And anyway he was busy.

  He finished packing, carried his carpetbag over to the Bastrop office to be put aboard the two o’clock stage, bought a pint of rye to fortify himself on the road, and went to have some lunch before the trip.

  Chapter 19

  Longarm was slumped in the corner of the rear seat on a Concord stage that was much larger than was necessary, at least for this run. In front of him, on the rear-facing bench, were two whores whose perfume could not completely mask the fact that they needed to bathe. Beside him dozed a drummer who sold hardware. The middle bench was empty.

  The coach rocked and swayed outrageously on the leather suspension straps that served as springs. The motion was very similar to that of a boat in choppy water, so much so that one of the whores had become seasick and puked out the window.

  Longarm yawned and stretched. He gave some thought to the question of should he try to sleep. Or not bother trying.

  “Whoa. Whoa, you sons o’ bitches,” the driver called from his box high above the four-up out front.

  Must be some obstruction on the road, Longarm assumed, because they were not due into Belle Fourche for—he pulled his Ingersoll out and checked the time—not for another three quarters of an hour or more.

  The coach came to a stop, rocking back and forth on the suspension. The driver called out, “We have a box here but it’s empty. That’s why I don’t got no shotgun messenger, mister.”

  Longarm’s interest quickened. They were being robbed? Well, it was what he had been hoping for. But it surprised him nonetheless.

  “Toss it down,” another voice came from in front of the stage.

  “Suit yourself,” the driver responded, “but I’m tellin’ you there ain’t nothing in it.”

  There was a slight pause, then the dull thump of something heavy—the strongbox, no doubt—hitting the road.

  “Now the passengers,” the distant voice demanded. “Get ’em out.”

  “Fuck you. Get them out yourself,” the driver said.

  “Mind your tongue, old man, or I’ll blow you off that high horse you’re riding.”

  The driver shut up after that and a moment later a man wearing an oversized linen duster and a flour-sack mask over his head appeared beside the coach.

  “Everybody out,” he ordered. “Hands high. Empty your pockets.”

  Longarm pushed ahead of the hardware drummer to reach the door first. He motioned for the two whores to get down onto the floor.

  “Hurry up. We ain’t got all day.”

  “We,” the highwayman said. So he had at least one partner out there out of Longarm’s line of sight.

  “Come on now.”

  Longarm palmed his .45 and pushed the coach door open.

  Chapter 20

  “You’re under arrest,” he 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 worse one. He cocked his piece—again 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 the 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.

  “You up there. Jehu,” he called up to the driver. “D’you see any more of ’em?”

  The pale, obviously frightened stagecoach driver crawled up from the floor of his driving box and peered over the side.

  “I asked you…”

  “I heard you, mister. Jesus. That was scary. Fourteen years I been driving for Bastrop and this is the first time I ever been held up. I didn’t like it, not one bit.”

  “Mister, do you see any more of them?” Longarm repeated.

  The driver finally paid attention to the question. He shuddered, shaken badly, but said, “No, I only seen the one.”

  Longarm frowned. This was almost the way they said the robbers worked. Almost. Not quite.

  The way he understood it there should have been at least one more robber there to back up the first one. And the robbers were said to never speak. Never. They just gestured with the muzzles of their shotguns.

  Which was another thing. This guy had a revolver but no shotgun.

  Still, the duster was correct as was the flour-sack hood. And the son of a bitch had indeed tried to hold up the coach. A coach, come to think of it, with an empty strongbox.

  That was another thing, Longarm was thinking as he carefully shucked the empty brass out of his Colt and reloaded with fresh cartridges from his coat pocket. Always before the robbers seemed to know in advance that the shipment included cash. Not this time.

  “Are you sure you don’t see no others?” he called up to the driver.

  “Mister, if I seen any more of ’em I wouldn’t be setting up here in plain sight. I’d still be down in my box.”

  Longarm grunted. He shoved his Colt back into the leather, but warily. He was not yet satisfied that the robber had been alone.

  “Come on down an’ help me,” he told the driver.

  “What for?”

  “’Cause we got to take care of this fellow.”

  “You mean maybe he isn’t dead?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s dead. But we can’t leave him laying here. I want t’
pick him up an’ haul him into Belle Fourche.”

  “You’re gonna get blood all inside my coach. The section boss will be pissed.”

  “We can put him in the luggage boot. But we got to carry him in with us. Now come on down an’ help me.”

  With obvious distaste for the chore, the jehu set his brake and came down off the box.

  Longarm knelt beside the dead robber and pulled the hood off, exposing a seedy-looking middle-aged man who had not shaved in days and whose hollowed cheeks suggested he might not have eaten in some time, either.

  “Know him?” he asked the driver when the man joined him.

  The jehu shook his head. “Never saw him before. Nor any posters on him, neither.”

  Longarm checked the man’s pockets but found nothing more interesting than a snot-stiff bandana and a rusty barlow knife. He retrieved the Schofield from where it had fallen and stuffed it behind the dead man’s belt. There was no holster for it. Apparently the man had not been in the habit of carrying a revolver or just chose to carry it in his waistband. He had no spare ammunition for the pistol.

  Every way he looked at it, Longarm thought, this seemed an amateur attempt at highway robbery. It just did not fit with all the things he had heard about this robber gang.

  “You got ’im, Marshal. You put an end to our string of holdups,” the driver said.

  By then the other passengers were out of the coach and coming timidly forward to gather over the dead robber and stare down at him. It was an impulse Longarm had never understood but one that was common.

  “Come on you,” he said to the drummer. “The three of us can lift this guy easy enough. We’ll put him in the luggage boot an’ carry him to town with us.”

  One of the whores, the one who had gotten seasick earlier in the trip, bent down and wet a forefinger in the poor son of a bitch’s blood.

  “Why’d you do that?” Longarm asked her.

  The chippy shrugged. “I dunno, I just…I dunno.”

  Longarm and the other two men made easy work of picking the robber up and carrying him to the coach. They transferred all the baggage to the roof of the coach and the driver secured the leather luggage boot with the corpse inside.