Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor

by Evans, Tabor

  It wasn’t, but under the circumstances Longarm decided not to say so. Actually, it made sense. Hell, everybody knew that one way or another Norm didn’t have any kind of permanent ties to Crow’s Point or to Hirt County, Kansas. Facing criminal charges and a possible jail term here, never mind the truth or falsehood of the situation, Norm Wold would hardly hesitate to throw his things onto a horse’s hind end and slope on out of town. He could go someplace else without raising a sweat, and obviously the town justice of the peace knew that.

  “Yes, ma’am,” was all Longarm contributed in response to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s rhetorical question.

  “I suppose . . . well, I’m sorry if I startled you,” the lady said. “Will you be staying here while you’re in town? You will stay and help Norman, won’t you? Is there anything I can do to help you help him?”

  Longarm might have come up with a few suggestions, actually. But they wouldn’t have related to helping Norm exactly. Mrs. Fitzpatrick really was a right toothsome-looking female. Big. But mighty tasty-looking. He cleared his throat. And shook his head.

  The lady glanced toward the curtains, which were decorously closed. Anyone out in the street would be able to see there was a light burning inside, but could not see in to know who was there or what they might be doing. Longarm understood now why the curtains might be kept that way instead of being open to let light in during the day.

  “If you will excuse me, sir?” she said, rising. He could see now how tall she was. This woman was big all over, by damn. She stood there looking him almost eyeball-to-eyeball. And there were not a whole hell of a lot of women who could make such a claim.

  It seemed that Norm’s woman was a handful and then some. Longarm kind of envied him that.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled again—damn, but she was fine-looking when she did that—and held a hand out to shake. “I do apologize for startling you, sir.”

  “Longarm,” he corrected. “You can call me Longarm.”

  “Then you must call me Eleanor.”

  No, he thought. Ellie or El or any of the other possible diminutives just wouldn’t have fit. Not for this one. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, then smiled and quickly changed that to: “I mean, yes, Eleanor. I hope I’ll see you again under, shall we say, more normal circumstances?”

  He thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes—they were sort of a gold color, he could see now—and she answered, “More respectable, you mean.”

  Longarm grinned. “Whatever.”

  Eleanor Fitzpatrick turned to gather up a velvet handbag and a small, paper-wrapped bundle—a homecoming present for Norm, probably—and started toward the back of the house. “You needn’t see me out,” she said over her shoulder. “I know the way.”

  Yes, he expected that she did at that.

  That was confirmed later, after he’d naturally gone to see her out, when he went into Norm’s bedroom to turn in for the night. The bed there was turned down. On both sides.

  Longarm considered it something of a pity that the preparation wasn’t being put to use.

  But Eleanor—Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he told himself somewhat sternly—was Norm’s woman. She might be a large and lusty chunk of female, but she was Norm’s, and that meant she was not up for grabs.

  After all, dammit, a man had to draw the line somewhere.

  Didn’t he?

  Chapter 12

  Longarm yawned. He wasn’t tired. Hell, he was bored half into a stupor. He dragged the Ingersoll out of his vest pocket. It was 4:48 in the afternoon. Close enough to quitting time for his purposes, thank you. He bit back another attempted yawn, his teeth chattering lightly as he did so, and laid a sheet of paper into the pages of the musty, soot-stained ledger he’d been prowling through. That would mark his place for tomorrow’s labors.

  Not that he expected to learn anything really. He certainly hadn’t found anything of interest to this point. Nothing that would tell him why anyone, Norm Wold or any other human soul, should take any interest whatsoever in the continued existence of the records of Hirt County, Kansas.

  It probably would have helped a great deal, Longarm conceded, if he’d had any tiny notion of what it was he hoped to find.

  Unfortunately, he did not. Not the least lick of an idea existed at this point.

  But surely there had to be some reason why a party or parties unknown tried to do away with the damn records.

  Longarm could buy Norm’s theory that there was no deliberate attempt to frame the town marshal for the crime, that indeed it was only very bad luck that led the arsonist to hide the evidence of his crime in Norm’s unused carriage shed. Longarm could accept that. But that did not negate the fact that to prove Norm innocent would likely require proof that someone else was guilty. And the undisputed best way to get that, considering that all the evidence was aimed at Norm Wold, would be for Longarm to collar the genuine miscreant and toss the son of a bitch to the wolves of the court.

  And the only problem with that was that now Longarm was obligated to find answers for all the usual questions. Like who, what, why, where, and when.

  What, where, and when were no problem. But who remained a mystery. And with nothing else to go on, Longarm figured his best chance right now was to concentrate on why. Hence this mind-numbing stint in the county offices—to say nothing about the butt-numbing abilities of the desk chair Schooner had so generously loaned him.

  Longarm yawned again, didn’t bother trying to stop it this time, and shoved back away from the desk. “Mind if I leave the book here overnight?” he asked.

  “It won’t bother me any.”

  “Thanks. Schooner?”

  “Mmm?”

  “That invitation to join me for a drink or whatever is still open.”

  “Thank you, Longarm, but I still better say no.” The fat man grinned. “My wife promised pot roast and new potatoes for supper, and she makes the best.” He patted his own more than ample belly as evidence of his mate’s excellence in the kitchen.

  “I expect I’ll be playing cards tonight at the place,” Longarm said. “I don’t know the name of it, but there’s a piano player who knows what he’s doing and the bar-tender’s name is Jake.”

  Schooner nodded. “I know where you mean.”

  “Join me there for a beer if you’re of a mind to.”

  “I just may do that later.”

  Longarm retrieved his hat, waved good-bye to Schooner, who was busy tidying up and locking things away, and went outside. Supper at Dottie’s, he figured, then over to the saloon for a friendly game and a nightcap before heading back to the lonely silence of Norm’s little house.

  He was halfway to Dottie’s cafe when the fellow with the gun stepped out in front of him.

  Chapter 13

  “Howdy,” Longarm said.

  The man—he was more boy than man, actually—responded with a wild-eyed look.

  Longarm tried again. “Something I can do for you, son?” Smiling, he reached inside his coat—with his left hand; the right remained unencumbered as a precaution, not that he saw any particular need for worry—and pulled out a cheroot. Keeping his eyes on the boy in front of him, Longarm bit off the twisted tip of the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and then dipped two fingers of his left hand into a vest pocket for a match. He lowered his chin, but not his eyes, when it came time to light the smoke.

  Through all this the boy was standing there so tight and nervous, it was a wonder he didn’t vibrate and thrum like a damned violin string.

  Longarm guessed his age to be eighteen, nineteen, somewhere in that neighborhood. There were some youngsters who could count themselves grown and responsible at that age, but this one had an air about him that said he still should be in knee pants. He looked, in truth, as if his belfry wasn’t quite full, as if somebody had shorted him half a peck when brains were being portioned out. Not that Longarm was in any position to pass judgment on short acquaintance. If that was what this was.

  The boy continued to stand there
, giving Longarm a vacant, open-mouthed stare.

  He was towheaded, with hair like sun-bleached straw that had gotten wet and was commencing to mold. His hair should have been trimmed two, three weeks ago. He had blue eyes that darted nervously, and a twitch or habitual tic that made the left side of his cheek flutter. A few wisps of pale hair dangled from his chin. Longarm guessed this kid hadn’t ever had to shave.

  The boy wore a tattered bib overall that was near white from age and countless washings, and was worn out at the knees where several patches had been applied long ago and now needed to be done again. Underneath the bib was a pink pullover shirt that might once have been red. It too was ancient and worn thin. He was barefoot, the bottom ends of his pant legs stopping four or five inches short of his grimy ankles and filth-encrusted feet. He was bareheaded.

  The oddest thing about him, though, was neither his appearance nor his attire. A body might see that in any young half-wit.

  The thing that captured Longarm’s attention most was the gun the boy clung to. It was an old Remington revolver, a brass-framed model, so it almost had to be of the old cap-and-ball design from back before Remington received patent rights to offer cartridge guns. There was no loading lever visible on this one, so Longarm assumed it had been converted for cartridge use at some time in the past, most likely to the once-popular .44-rimfire cartridge that worked so nicely in the old Army .44-caliber loose-powder shooters. From the distance, which Longarm judged to be eight or ten yards, he couldn’t tell any more than that.

  Even from so far away, though, Longarm could see that the boy clutched his gun with a grip so tight it made his knuckles white.

  The boy was breathing hard, and sweat plastered strands of hair across his forehead.

  “Is there something you want, son?” Longarm tried again. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “I want . . . I want....” The voice was practically a croak. The boy licked his lips and tried again. “I’m supposed . . . in the back... can’t.” He shook his head wildly from side to side and spoke again. “Can’t do that, can’t.”

  “Can’t what, son?”

  “Not right. From the back. Can’t.”

  “Can’t do what from the back, son?”

  “Can’t . . . shoot.”

  “Shoot someone in the back? No, that wouldn’t be right. Look, can you tell me what’s wrong? I’m an officer of the law. A peace officer. Maybe I can help you.”

  “Can’t . . .” The boy’s face twisted and twitched, and there was a brightness in his eyes that hinted of welling tears that he refused to let fall. “Can’t. Not in back.”

  “No, of course you can’t,” Longarm agreed calmly, puffing on his cheroot. “Tell me what’s troubling you, son. I’ll help any way I can. Will you do that for me?”

  “You aren’t....”

  “Aren’t what, son?”

  “Mean. I mean, not alla time you aren’t. Are you?”

  Longarm smiled. “I hope not. Let me help you now, will you please?”

  “Gotta . . . shoot.”

  “Who, son? Who’s done something so terrible that you think you have to shoot them? Tell me, please. I’ll help you. I promise.”

  The boy started to cry. “Got to ... got to do it.”

  “We’ll take care of it together, son. Whatever it is, tell me about it. Me and you together, we’ll take care of it.”

  The boy sobbed, his chest rising and falling at a furious rate as he gulped for air and cried the breath back out of him again. His neck was red with strong emotion, and Longarm doubted he could see worth a damn with all those tears pouring out of his eyes.

  “Oh, Jesus! Jesus Lord!” the boy gasped in what was obviously a genuine plea from the depths of his heart. “I’m sorry, mister. I got to.”

  He raised the big Remington—damn thing looked several times larger from the front end than it had from a side view—and shakily aimed it square at Longarm’s chest.

  “No, let’s ta—”

  The Remington roared, and a gout of white smoke blossomed at the muzzle.

  Longarm felt a ball tick the tweed of his coat somewhere low on his left side. Close. The kid couldn’t see worth shit because of all his tears, and maybe because of that, he was shooting without really being able to take solid aim.

  Longarm had time to think that this might have allowed the damnfool kid to shoot straighter than he probably could have if given time for serious aim.

  But damn it . . .

  The boy used both hands to drag the hammer of the Remington back for a second shot.

  This time Longarm found himself staring straight into the gaping barrel of the old but still all-too-workable gun.

  He hated it. God, he hated what he had to do.

  But he couldn’t stand there and let himself be gunned down by some poor, simpleminded kid who didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

  It was lousy. But Longarm didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of choices. Not when the boy had another four or five rounds left in the cylinder and there was no cover around close by for Longarm to duck behind.

  The boy, chest heaving from the effects of his crying, steadied himself to shoot again.

  Dammit . . .

  Longarm raised his Colt—he didn’t so much as recall drawing the thing, but it was already in his hand—and shot deliberately low, hoping to take the kid in the hip and knock him off his feet.

  All Longarm wanted to do was disable him, dammit. Make him quit shooting long enough that he could be disarmed. Then, well, then Longarm would try again to help him. He meant that. He had no ill will toward this frightened child who seemed bent on Longarm’s demise. But first Longarm had to do something to keep the boy from killing him before that help could be given.

  Longarm’s slug hit exactly where he wanted it. It struck the kid on his right hip and spun him half around.

  The Remington flew out of his grip to clatter harmlessly to the ground.

  Longarm jumped forward, kicked the gun out of the boy’s reach, and turned back to see what he could do now to straighten out this stupidity.

  Somewhere down the street Longarm could hear the buzz of excited conversation and the approach of townspeople. Good, he thought. Among them, dammit, they should be able to help this boy. And find out what had gone wrong inside the poor kid’s addled brain to bring this about.

  Chapter 14

  “Damn,” somebody whispered. “I never seen so much blood.”

  Longarm glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the boy. He recognized the man who had spoken as another saloon customer from last night, but Longarm did not know him. He did, however, agree with the fellow. He supposed that, technically speaking, he probably had seen more blood than this in the past. But there was an awful lot of the stuff pumping out of the kid right now. The street was puddled thick with it, the blood mixing into the dirt to make a particularly unpleasant sort of dark red mud that had a cloying, coppery stench about it and a look of ugly menace. The bullet from Longarm’s gun must have severed a major artery somewhere in the vicinity of the youngster’s pelvis.

  And because of the placement of the wound there was nowhere to tie off a tourniquet, no way that Longarm knew of to stanch the all-too-vigorous flow of blood.

  “Is there a doctor?” Longarm asked. “Does anybody know how to make this bleeding quit?”

  No one spoke up. Not that he’d expected any help. Longarm himself had seen more than his fair share of gunshot wounds. This was one he doubted the finest surgeon in the land could repair in time to save the boy’s life.

  “Anyone?” he repeated. But there was no one.

  He looked down at the blond boy. The kid was actually smiling. His lips were moving. Longarm leaned lower and put his ear next to the boy’s mouth, so close he could feel the warmth of the kid’s breath on his skin.

  “... bedtime already, Mama? Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the . . .”

  The sounds became too faint to hear, although the lips continued
to move for several moments. Then they stopped too. The kid just sort of drifted away from life. He was still smiling at the time.

  Longarm felt a relief of sorts. At least the boy hadn’t been in pain there at the end.

  But the kid’s death was so damned . . . useless. So stupid. There hadn’t been any reason for it. None.

  And although he’d had to do it more often than he’d ever wanted to, Longarm still did not like killing. He especially hated the need for a damned stupid death like this one. A kid, for crying out loud. Hardly more than a boy.

  Longarm shook his head and gently pulled the boy’s eyes shut before he stood and, shaking his head sadly again, brushed off the knees of his trousers from where he’d been kneeling in the dirt at the dying boy’s side.

  “What was this all about, Longarm?”

  Longarm glanced at the man who’d spoken. It was Sheriff Brown. “God, Jonas, I wish I knew.” Longarm explained what had happened, why he’d had to shoot. “I shot low deliberately, Jonas. Tried to keep from killing him. It was just lousy luck the big vein was cut so he bled to death. I wish....” He shrugged.

  The Hirt County sheriff gave him a sympathetic look.

  “I think I know what you mean. I’ve never had to kill anyone myself. Can’t say that I want to.”

  “You’re fortunate,” Longarm told him.

  “I agree. But you say you have no idea why Dinky came at you?”

  “Dinky? That was his name?”

  “It’s what we all called him. Dinklemann was his real name. John Dinklemann? I think John was his real first name. Like I say, everybody called him Dinky. Right from when he was little. You didn’t know him?”

  “Jonas, I never laid eyes on this boy until a few minutes ago. I don’t know of any reason in the world why he came at me like he did. None.”

  Brown fingered his chin and shook his head. “Longarm, I’ve never known poor Dinky there to so much as have a harsh word for anybody. Never known him to get mad, even when he was teased. He was kinda soft in the head, you understand. Not the least bit bright. But he was a good kid. Never any trouble.” Brown raised his voice so those close around could hear. “Does anybody know any reason why Dinky would have tried to kill the marshal here?”