by Tabor Evans
Willard nodded. “Be right back,” he snapped, then stormed down the hallway like a cyclone.
In a frenzy of bustling noise and action, Longarm and Allred moved the two damaged females out of the rooms, through the Drover’s Inn’s lobby, and into Willard’s wagon.
During the entire noisy fracas, the hotel’s desk clerk dithered around them, got in the way, and squealed, “Swear to Jesus, I didn’t know nothin’ about none of this. Never heard nothin’ outta the ordinary. ’Cept maybe a bit of what I’d call girly squeals of pleasure. You know what I mean?”
Longarm laid the girl from room four in the bed of the wagon, then turned on the clerk and said, “Get the hell away from me, you spineless piece of shit. You might not’ve known exactly what was happenin’, but ain’t no way you didn’t have a pretty fair idea. Makes me sick just lookin’ at you.”
He hopped onto the seat beside Allred. “Whip ’em up, Willard. Not sure how bad the one I found is hurt. ’Sides, we don’t get away from here fast I’m gonna kick hell outta that stupid fuckin’ clerk.”
Chapter 16
Doctor John Wheeler stepped from the larger of his private examining rooms, then eased the door closed behind him. He ran a trembling hand through thinning hair. As though lifting an anvil, he pulled the stethoscope from around his birdlike neck, and shook his head. He glanced around the crowded office. His fleeting looks skittered from the tired faces of Marshal Sam Farmer and a pair of Fort Worth’s policemen, over to Willard Allred, and finally hesitated on Custis Long.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” Long snapped.
Wheeler strode across the congested room, placed a hand on Longarm’s shoulder, and ushered him onto the boardwalk. He pulled the door closed behind them for some privacy. As they stood on the edge of the rough walkway, Wheeler let out a tired sigh, then said, “You got an extra cheroot on you, Marshal?”
Longarm fished a square-cut stogie from his vest pocket. He fired a match and watched as the haggard-looking sawbones puffed the cigar to life.
Wheeler leaned back on his heels, sent blue-gray smoke toward the darkening sky, then said, “Actually, their condition isn’t quite as bad as it first appeared, Marshal. I know they looked pretty rough when you brought ’em in. But the truth is, other than being roughly treated beyond describing, held down, and havin’ the hell raped out of ’em, neither girl has suffered through nearly the kind of severe beating Miss Wayland did. Recovery for these young ladies is simply a matter of a few days’ rest and recuperation. Youngest of ’em appears to have suffered the most damage. Have to admit, the flower of her innocence was rather forcefully taken from her.”
“Find out what their names are, Doc?”
“Poleman, I believe. Oldest girl’s name is Anita. Younger one’s called Martha. Near as I was able to ascertain, they’re from a family livin’ over around Springtown.”
“That fits with information Willard and I forced out of an associate of Ballentine’s named Brakett. Wish now I’d have squeezed him a mite harder. Did either girl say why they made the mistake of comin’ to Hell’s Half Acre with Ballentine in the first place?”
“Miss Anita said the man made claims to the rather lofty positon of impresario. Said he had ties and great influence at the Centennial Theater and the Theatre Comique. Told ’em their beauty and obvious talent would ensure a spot onstage. Guess it’s easy to put stars in a country girl’s eyes. We certainly see plenty of disillusioned young women down in the Acre.”
Longarm spat in disgust, then snapped, “Damned shame, if you ask me.”
Doc Wheeler rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Have you by any chance got the impression this whole incident might’ve been staged for your benefit, Marshal?”
“What? What the hell does that mean, Doc?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
Longarm shook his head, then cast a darting glance into the busy thoroughfare. “No. I don’t believe that for a second. ’Course, I suppose someone at the White Elephant could’ve told him who I am—my lawman’s background and such. No, still don’t believe it. There’s just not any way Quincy’s that smart.”
“Sons of bitches are oftentimes smarter’n we like to think.”
“Look, Doc, I can understand why, and how, he caught Mattie out in the street and beat hell out of her. But his treatment of these girls was simply the kind of behavior you can expect from an abusive pimp in the process of conditioning new women for his own nefarious and exploitative ends. Me’n Willard just happened to break in on the whole mess before it had a chance to go any further. Lord knows what the Poleman girls would’ve looked like a week from now if we hadn’t stepped in on ’em when we did.”
Wheeler took a deep drag off his cigar. He blew the smoke skyward again. “Don’t doubt your assessment a bit, Marshal. Please believe that my question was nothing more than the random musings of an inquisitive mind. Whole business just seems a mite coincidental, don’t you think? I mean, you’d had contact with Miss Wayland before her brutal beating, and then you go and find the Poleman girls after they’d been terribly mistreated by the same man.”
Longarm glared at the Fort Worth physician. “Well, you can believe me when I tell you, Doc, he won’t get a chance to do anything like this again.”
Both men turned to face City Marshal Sam Farmer when he stepped onto the boardwalk with them. “We have anywhere from two to five soiled doves a year who die right here in the Acre, Marshal Long,” Farmer said. “Some by their own hand, others at the hands of passing, drunken cowboys. And every once in a while, as was almost the case in this instance, an irate pimp kills one of ’em.”
“Dangerous work, that’s for sure,” Wheeler said.
Farmer nodded. “Sellin’ her body to strangers is a hard life for any woman. If the alcohol, drugs, or disease don’t get ’em, depression, suicide, or murder probably will.”
Longarm shifted his stance, then leaned against a porch pillar. “You’re not tellin’ me anything I don’t already know, Sam. But what we’ve got here is the brutal attempted murder of one woman, and the wicked, unconscionable abuse of two others—one of whom appeared to be an untouched virgin, pure as the driven snow in Montana. Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m gonna have Willard searchin’ in every crack and cranny of the Acre for Quincy Ballentine and the Caine boys. And God have mercy on their collective sorry asses when we find ’em—’cause I’ve hit the end of my string with the whole sorry bunch. Got no use for men who’ll abuse women like this.”
Farmer pushed his hat back and scratched his head. He yanked the hat down low over his eyes, then said, “We’ll be lookin’ as well. Can’t have this kind of heartless brutality happenin’ on my watch. Gonna take everything I can do just to keep it out of the damned newspapers. Scribblin’ sons of bitches get hold of a story like this, it’ll be weeks ’fore they turn it loose.”
Longarm’s pointed stare bored in on Farmer. “You’re not gonna let the tale get out?”
“Not if I can stop it. Kind of story has the power to destroy just about any elected lawman who ever pinned on a badge. No, we’ll find Ballentine, and the others, and deal with them ourselves.”
“Not if I find ’em first,” Longarm snorted. “I’m gonna put Willard on their trail and, sure as God made little green apples, I’d bet he finds Ballentine and the Caine boys by mornin’.”
The sun had been up for almost three hours the next day, and no word had yet arrived from Willard Allred. Longarm lounged in his favorite brocaded chair in the El Paso Hotel’s busy lobby. Loaded and ready for instant use, his ten-gauge Greener stood discreetly propped against the wall behind a dainty, curve-legged, walnut table next to the overstuffed seat. He nursed a big mug of dark, viscous, aromatic coffee from the nearby bar and scanned a copy of that morning’s Fort Worth Daily Gazette. True to his word, it appeared Marshal Sam Farmer had kept any mention of Mattie Wayland’s brutal beating, or the equally vicious attack on the Poleman girls, from appearing in
the paper.
He’d just folded the town’s favorite rag and closed his eyes for a second when Willard hustled up with a toothy grin on his face. “Found ’em, Marshal Long. Found all of ’em.”
Longarm sprang to his feet, stuffed his hat on, then grabbed the shotgun. “Where? Where are they?”
“Well, they’re right across the street, over by the White Elephant. Been askin’ questions of anyone who’ll stand still long enough. Tryin’ to find you, actually.”
“That a fact?”
“Yep. Tell ya, it’s been a helluva night, Marshal. Tracked ’em all the way from the Empress Saloon, where we last seen the Caine boys, down to the Emerald. They went from the Emerald to the Headlight Bar on Ninth. Sons of bitches drank up everthang they could lay a lip on. They got right belligerent in their travels, too. Picked a fight damn near ever’ place they stopped. Nobody stupid enough to accommodate ’em, though. Rogued around all night long from one waterin’ hole to the next. Kept steady movin’ north.”
“That’s how they ended up right outside?”
“Who knows? There’s rumors all over the Acre ’bout how somebody come and spirited them two girls outta the Drover’s Inn. Ballentine’s been a-slingin’ it around durin’ his travels as how he’s gonna kill the hell outta whoever stole his property. Could be as how the clerk at the Drover’s told Ballentine and the Caines who spirited them little gals away, and it just took ’em all night to finally build up enough liquor-fueled nerve to finally get up here.”
“Stole his property?”
“Yep. Get the impression as how old Quincy harbors pretty strong feelin’s on the issue. He feels like he owns them gals.”
Longarm cracked the shotgun open, pulled out each load and examined it, then snapped the weapon shut and propped it on his hip. “Say they’re outside in the street?”
“Well, they wuz over on the corner, hangin’ ’round the entrance to the White Elephant. Think maybe durin’ his searchin’ last night, Ballentine finally also made some kind of connection between the feller what pistol-whipped his sorry ass in Luke Short’s restaurant, and the marshal who took them girls of his’n what disappeared.”
“Surprised he didn’t recognize you, given that the clerk at the Drover’s knows you a lot better’n he knows me.”
“Figured the same thing, so I stayed outta sight much as I could. Didn’t give ’em the opportunity to spot me.”
Longarm glanced across the lobby at the El Paso Hotel’s front entrance. “You up for the possibility of a blisterin’ gunfight, Willard?”
A wide grin flashed across Allred’s bedraggled, friendly face. “Born ready, Marshal Long. Especially when there’s the possibility I can put right some of the horrors carried out on them poor young women by bastards like Ballentine and the Caine brothers.”
“You see any of Marshal Farmer’s Fort Worth policemen on the street ’fore you came in here?”
“Not a single one. Typical of their behavior, though. Gutless sons of bitches tend not to be around when a body really needs ’em. ’Specially if’n there’s the possibility of hot lead a-fillin’ up the air.”
Longarm slapped the old Confederate soldier on the shoulder. “We don’t need ’em, Willard. Just wanted to make sure they’re not around to meddle, or get in the way.”
“Well, then, let’s go round this bunch of woman-abusin’ bastards up, or send ’em to the devil’s doorstep, if’n we’re forced to, by God.”
“Once we get out on the street, we’ll get as close to the trio as we can, and I’ll try to arrest ’em. Turn ’em over to Farmer and let local law take its due course, if’n they’re willin’ to throw down their weapons. But if that don’t work, they’ll likely fight. Shootin’ starts, I want you to go for Quincy. Aim for the biggest part of ’im with that rifle of yours. I’ll use the shotgun on the Caine boys. Figure they’ll stick fairly close to each other and make a good target. All of that clear enough?”
Allred grinned, then levered a live round into the chamber of his rifle. “Go on ahead, Marshal. Cut ’er loose and let ’er buck.”
Chapter 17
Longarm strode onto the rough plank walkway in front of the El Paso Hotel. Like an obedient pet, Willard Allred followed. A hot, dust-laden wind blew past them and swept east along Third Street toward Calhoun. Allred stepped up to a spot alongside Longarm, then snapped a brusque nod to indicate the location of their prey.
Directly across Third, near a hitch rail on the south side of the White Elephant, Quincy Ballentine and the Caine brothers railed at those passing by. As if by some magical transference of thought, Ballentine and his cohorts turned in unison, exchanged a few quick words, then moved into the middle of the street. They faced Longarm and Allred and assumed a belligerent, unyielding stance.
A cold, prickling sensation, accompanied by a pimply patch of chicken flesh, crawled up Longarm’s spine into his hairline at the base of his skull. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Sharpen up, Willard. Looks to me like these sons of bitches intend on a-goin’ down shootin’.”
Alert onlookers up and down the busy thoroughfare spotted the heavily armed threat and headed for the nearest available spot perceived as offering safety. Doors, alleyways, shops, and stores soon filled with anxious, finger-pointing spectators who appeared convinced a killing was about to take place.
Ballentine, a nasty abrasion still decorating his bruised jaw, spit, then kicked dust onto the gob of phlegm. “For some reason, I figured you jus’ might be the son of a bitch I was a-lookin’ to find.” He ran a thumb along the scab-covered scrape left by Custis Long’s pistol barrel. “Ain’t forgot what you done to me right in front of God, Mattie, and everybody in the White Elephant, you arrogant bastard. Hear tell you’re some kinda federal fuckin’ lawdog.”
“Deputy U.S. marshal, as a matter of pure fact. You boys are all under arrest.”
Doc Caine threw his head back and let out an odd, strangled, cackling laugh. “You can fold yore arrest five ways and stick it right straight up yore dumb fuckin’ ass. Ya know, I ain’t never kilt no federal lawman afore. ’Course they’s a first time for everthang.” Rock-steady hands hovered over the butts of the pistols that poked from the red sash around his waist.
Brother Ezra, thumbs hooked over his cartridge belt, moved several steps away from his brother’s side. “Don’t think you and that broke-down old reb’ve got the stones to arrest boys as bad as us, Mr. Deputy U.S. Fuckin’ Marshal. You ain’t dealin’ with a couple a ignorant, South Texas brush poppers just up from the Nueces River country chasin’ a herd a them stinkin’-assed longhorns.”
With Willard in tow, Longarm moved off the boardwalk, then took several more steps toward the trio of swaying-in-the-wind drunks. The action brought him and his specially appointed deputy within fifteen or twenty feet of Ballentine and the obviously inebriated Caine brothers.
Longarm leveled the shotgun and cocked it. The loud, metallic snap from the weapon’s hammers being set caused a bleary-eyed Doc Caine to rock back on his heels.
Quincy Ballentine held up a conciliatory hand, as though to slow the action a bit. “Now just a second there, lawdog. You’ve got property what belongs to me. Bought and paid for, if you get my drift. All I really want is to get my rightful belongin’s. Gimme back them girls you took from the Drover’s Inn and we’ll just let this whole misunderstandin’ pass. Nobody’ll get hurt.”
Allred snarled, “You cain’t buy and sell people no more, you stupid son of a bitch. Lotta good men died in Mr. Lincoln’s war to prove that. Just cause these’uns happen to be women don’t make it right for you to do it.”
Ballentine’s face reddened. He shook his finger at the lawmen. “Them Poleman gals is mine. Paid for in gold coin. Bought ’em from their dear, sweet, lovin’ pappy. Even hear tell you’ve got Mattie as well. Some surprised she ain’t dead, but I want her back, too.”
Sharp-eared spectators to Third Street’s unfolding events had trouble hearing Longarm when he growled, “I�
��ve heard enough of this bilge. Throw up your hands, you woman-beatin’ sons of bitches. I’ll not allow stupid, abusive scum like you to spend another moment a-breathin’ the sweet air of God’s freedom.”
True to Longarm’s prediction, Ezra Caine opened the ball by going for the pistol on his hip. His first shot zipped past Longarm’s ear like a Mexican hornet, his second sawed across the stolid lawman’s upper arm and left a smoking trench in his snuff-colored suit jacket. Doc Caine managed to get both pistols working and ripped off four quick, thunderous blasts, but the evening’s whiskey consumption appeared to have spoiled his aim. Blue whistlers bored through the air all around Longarm and Allred, but did no damage.
From the corner of his eye, Longarm spotted Willard Allred as, with great deliberation, the old soldier dropped to one knee, took aim, and calmly drilled Quincy Ballentine dead center. The shot crushed the belligerent pimp’s breastbone, augered its way through his body, then burst out his back in a melon-sized spray of blood, bone, and gore.
In the midst of the hot but harmless barrage coming his way from the Caine boys, Longarm dropped the hammer on both barrels of the Greener he held at waist level. A deafening roar from the weapon produced a massive, devastating curtain of lead that splattered the brothers with hundreds of heavy-gauge buckshot pellets. Both men disappeared from sight behind a gray-black cloud of spent gunpowder that rolled across the span of dusty street between the two parties and virtually obscured anyone’s ability to see his adversaries.
Longarm pitched the shotgun aside, slipped the Frontier model Colt from its cross-draw holster, and advanced on the three fallen gunnies. He marched through the drifting, acrid haze he’d put in the air and stopped a few feet from the twitching body of Doc Caine. Smoking buckshot holes that oozed blood adorned the man’s clothing from his knees to his chin. He groaned and sat up, a pistol in each hand.
“Drop ’em, Doc,” Longarm warned.
