by Tabor Evans
She rose to her full height in nothing but her high-button shoes, and Longarm's crotch tingled about as much as they both would have expected because, two-faced whore or not, all that perfectly shaped naked flesh would have tempted a more saintly cuss. Then she slithered in his direction and puffed, "How would you like just a quick come, with me sort of sitting in your lap?"
Longarm knew how much he'd like it. So he got to his own feet before she could straddle his weak nature and replied firmly, "How would you like me to handcuff you to a bedpost in the other room, Miss Elvira? My orders are to protect you from anyone who might not want you to testify in court, whilst making sure you'll be in court to testify. I ain't getting paid to take no shit off a prick-tease, and whilst we prefer to keep you material witnesses comfortable as well as safe, there's nothing in the department rules preventing us from holding you across town in our Federal House of Detention, locked up with nobody to sass but a tough old matron who's seen and heard it all."
The big blonde stopped crowding him, although he could smell her warm body odors. Damn it, she'd just had a bath and taken a vinegar douche down yonder. As he tried not to inhale, the mighty warm-natured witness sighed and said, "You must not like girls. Are you one of those boy-buggers they whisper about, Deputy Long?"
Longarm sighed. "I don't bugger nobody on duty, But if it's any comfort to you, I'd likely be tempted even more if I was stuck with sleeping alone later tonight. But I ain't, praise that other gal's romantic streak, so why don't you go have a lie-down, if you feel more comfortable bare-ass, whilst I catch up on some reading from my office files?"
She called him a son of a bitch, went back to the same sofa, and flopped down to start playing with her fool twat right in front of him, complaining that no true gentleman would let a poor weak woman be abused that way. It got even harder, and so did his old organ-grinder, once she commenced to moan and groan about wanting it in her as she was coming all alone.
By this time Longarm had taken the file from a side pocket of his frock coat, and even managed to read the first few pages without understanding a full paragraph. It seemed the one called Calvert Tyger had been the leader of the five-man gang who'd pulled that big payroll robbery. All the while old Elvira was sobbing, "Jesus, don't let me waste this passion on my fucking fingers!"
The late Brick Flanders had been second in command. Another outlaw had answered to Chief, and was thought to be of Indian blood. The others were more casually described, and might have been saddle tramps picked up for the occasion to hold the horses, act as lookouts, and such. At that point Elvira gasped, "My God, I really came and now I feel even hotter for some reason!"
Longarm knew her reason. Everyone imagined sex was even better than it really felt when they could only feel it with their frantic paws. He went back to the file. One of those purloined treasury notes had been cashed in Durango just before Calvert Tyger had died in yet another rooming house fire, and that seemed sort of suspicious as soon as you read the same line over. It was easy to read the same line over, then over some more, with a naked lady jerking herself off in the same room with him.
Longarm sighed and said, "I wish you'd do that in the bedroom, Miss Elvira. This other case I'm reading about is serious."
She left her hand in place between her naked thighs as she told him she was serious too. But he went on reading, so she tried it another way, demurely observing, "I'll bet that lady you're meeting later has to be the bee's knees in bed. Is she pretty? Does she let you shove it up her ass for a change now and then?"
Longarm read on about how the three known ringleaders, Tyger, Flanders, and the mysterious Chief, had all deserted General Pope's column during that Santee rising back around '63. But that wasn't what Uncle Sam wanted them on. Sibley's Sixth Minnesota had already broken the back of Little Crow's ill-advised attempt to turn the clock back by the time Pope finished organizing his bigger force of limited-service Union vets and paroled Confederate prisoners. Some said Pope had mopped up after Sibley so thoroughly because of the piss-poor showing he'd made at Bull Run.
"Does she suck it hard for you when you get tired?" the material witness demanded as Longarm read on about the two Galvanized Yankees, or rebs released from Fort Sandusky to fight the Sioux, who had lit out in the company of an Indian scout and three officers' thoroughbreds in the summer of '64. They'd headed West with the war still raging in the East, then lost out on the general Postwar amnesty by stealing yet more army mounts and hitting both a post office and a federal payroll shipment between spates of more local rampaging.
"I'm wild and wanton and I'm not ashamed to say so!" yelled the buxom blonde as she threw herself naked on the rug near his feet, bracing her heels to either side of his own so she could thrust up and down at him with her raging crotch as Longarm mildly observed, "So were the three young rascals I'm trying to read about in this folder, till more recently least ways. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since we were all young and foolish enough to think them banners and bugle calls were really going to make this world a better place. It says here the ones we know best as Tyger and Flanders took to pulling better-planned jobs for a lot more money at a time, with the times spread ever wider apart."
She sobbed, "I can't spread my thighs any wider. You're either made of iron or they cut off your balls in that war you're so fond of bragging about!"
He sighed. "I never did much in the war worth bragging about. I feel sort of foolish now about some of the chances I took as a fool kid. I wonder if Tyger and Flanders were starting to wise up at the last. Nothing here to indicate whatever happened to Chief or lesser members of their gang."
She rolled over on her hands and knees to wiggle her bare and shapely rump at him. "Nobody takes it brown as good as me. If you're not man enough to stick your dick up my ass, I'd be proud to show you how I can puff on a smoke if you'd like to stick the end of that cheroot in me."
He chuckled and replied, "Lord love you, I pay more for these here cheroots than I can afford on my salary, Miss Elvira."
He had to look away as he softly added, "This afternoon I seem out to earn every penny Uncle Sam pays me!" For while her winking rosebud rectum was only interesting, the bawdy bitch had a downright pretty pussy, and she must have known how rare that was, judging by the way she was winking that at him as well, in alternate contractions of her obviously well-trained love muscles.
He lowered his eyes back to the file in his lap, but it was tough to make much sense as he sat there reading with a raging erection while Elvira begged him to let her take care of it for him.
Then somebody knocked on the door and the big blonde was running into the bedroom, snatching up her summer frock as she tore past the arm of that sofa. So Longarm rose to answer the knock on the hall door as she slammed the door behind him.
It turned out to be Smiley and Dutch from his own outfit. Deputy Smiley never smiled. Smiley was the family name of the otherwise morose breed.
Nobody could pronounce the High Dutch name that went with Smiley's shorter, more cheerful-looking, but deadly sidekick. So everyone called him Dutch, and he didn't seem upset about that. Longarm knew Marshal Vail always sent them out as a team to get the work of one well-balanced deputy out of them. Smiley was a good tracker who tended to walk into traps with his eyes on the trail, while Dutch, who could have doubtless shot his way out of the Alamo back in '36, seemed to need the guidance of an older and less ferocious pard to keep him from gunning the wrong folks.
Longarm allowed he was a mite surprised to see them so soon in his own tour of guard duty. Smiley said, "The boss has something else for you to do back at the Federal Building. He said you're not to stop off at the Parthenon on your way back."
Longarm said, "I won't. Did old Billy say what he wanted me for?"
Smiley shook his head. "Nope. He gets pissed when you question his orders. He just told us to take Over for you here and send you back to him on the double. Is there anything me and Dutch ought to know about this witness gal we'
re supposed to be riding herd on?"
Longarm started to say she was just a whore with unusually wild ways. Then he frowned thoughtfully and said, "I'll tell you better in a minute. After I present you to the lady."
It wasn't that easy. Longarm had to knock more than once before the big buxom blonde came out, fully dressed with her hair piled more primly atop her head, and demurely howdied Smiley and Dutch in turn. She sat back on that sofa and behaved as if butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth as Longarm explained the change in plans.
Then Longarm grabbed his hat and coat and signaled Smiley to step out in the hall with him as he was putting them on. He warned the hatchet-faced breed, "Something's up. She was just now offering me all three ways for free. Yet now she's gone all ladylike, or at least like a whore who ain't about to give nothing away just to be friendly."
Smiley shrugged and grumbled, "It's no secret you're more of a ladies' man than me, or even Dutch."
Longarm modestly but sensibly insisted, "I ain't that pretty. I just told you she's On record as a trail-town whore, and I repeat she was offering to take me on a heap for nothing. Meaning she had something in mind. You know why I don't expect her to make you two gents the same kind offer?"
"You don't have to rub it in," Smiley said.
"It ain't that the two of you are too ugly for a trail-town whore. It's because there's two of you!"
Smiley looked doubtful and remarked, "Oh, I dunno. They say Silver Heels used to take on a dozen or more men a night, and Silver Heels was more refined than your average whore."
Longarm nodded. "She ain't reluctant to take on the two of you because it would be undignified. She'd likely feel it would be a waste of frigid effort because there's no way to get the drop on two separate gunfighters screwing one gal in turn."
Smiley scowled and demanded, "Who in thunder do you suspect of having that sort of sneaky stunt in mind, pard?"
Longarm shrugged. "She never told me. But try her this way. Say she made that deal with the prosecution just to get her own sassy ass out of the sling. Say that now that she's had time to calm down and size up the situation, she's decided she'd as soon not bother with appearing in court against her pals. So say she and some other pals we never caught are planning for her to leave the prosecution one less witness?"
Smiley thought. "Make as much sense for them to just kill her. Where in these United States could a striking blonde like that one duck a serious federal warrant?"
"After dying her striking hair? How would you like me to list 'em, alphabetic or numerical? For all we know they plan on killing her, albeit I'm sure they only suggested a train trip of a hundred miles or more."
He left his frock coat open as he consulted his pocket watch. "I'd best get going. You boys are in charge of her now. But if it was still me on duty here, I'd be keeping my eyes peeled for some slickery."
Smiley stepped back inside. Longarm headed for the same stairs he'd come up only a short spell back. Then he reconsidered and ambled back to the rear stairwell, more for practice than anything else. He'd checked into this particular hotel before, although later in the evening and in more of a hurry, lest the gal cool off while he signed them in. So he'd never taken the time to explore all the ways in or out, and a man just never could be sure there might not be some future time when an alternate escape route might save him from another guest smoking in bed or an irate husband prowling the halls in the dark.
He didn't find the back stairs all that astounding as he followed them down to the ground floor. Once there, he found himself in the service hallway leading from an alley entrance to the lobby out the other way. He tried the alley door. He saw anyone could leave at any time, but had to knock if he aimed to enter. He shrugged and headed for the lobby to leave the more dignified way. As a paid-up man-hunter Longarm was hardly aware of his actions as he paused in the shadows of the archway out to the lobby to determine just who else might be on the premises at the moment.
He saw that aside from the clerk there were three gents lolling in the lobby. Two of them were seedy older men who looked as if they were just waiting around for the rest of their lives to unravel. The third man was far younger and seemed as proddy as a schoolmarm on her wedding night.
The squirming cuss in that far corner chair was wearing high-heeled riding boots, a telescoped black Stetson, and a shoulder holster along with his seersucker summer suit. There was no federal law against squirming in one's chair, or even packing a concealed weapon. But Longarm still got out his badge and pinned it to his lapel as he considered how he wanted to approach a total stranger whose only known crime was the way he made the hairs on the back of a lawman's neck tingle.
That shoulder rig would give the squirt in the seersucker suit a pretty good edge in a contest against a cross-draw man. But nobody outside of Ned Buntline Western novels got paid to indulge in quick-drawing contests, with the loser never getting the chance for a rematch. So Longarm drew his.44-40 in the shadows of the archway, and held it pointed politely at the floor. It was handier than any holstered side arm in any sort of rig. But before Longarm could step out into the lobby, a fourth man came into view at the bottom of the front stairwell. This one was dressed more like an undertaker who punched cows on occasion, and Longarm crawfished deeper into the shadows when he saw the one who'd just been upstairs was headed to join the one in that far corner. The one in black wore his own gun cross-draw under his coattails. Meaning that, like Longarm, he'd taken time to study on the various conditions and positions in which a man might be called upon to get his damned gun out quickly.
Longarm already had his gun out. He reached under his own coat for the handcuffs clipped to the back of his gun rig as he tried to read lips at that range. The way they moved their hands told as much as Longarm needed to know. Knowing he could be wrong, he took a deep breath, stepped out in the light, and threw down on the two of them as he crossed the lobby, announcing in a firm, friendly voice that he'd sure hate to gun the first dumb bastard who failed to raise both hands empty and just hold 'em that way for now.
His words were not taken lightly. The one in black groaned at his rising pal in seersucker, "Aw, hell, you told me Longarm had been relieved, you asshole!"
Longarm said, "He told you true. I reckon I could tell you what you just heard upstairs with your ear to the door and me not as helpless with my pants down as you all planned. But why go into all that bullshit here when it's just as easy to cuff the two of you together and run you over to the Federal Building to tell it to the judge?"
CHAPTER 4
There was bullshit to spare as Longarm's two suspects got to test their own versions, in separate rooms, on various suspicious lawyers and lawmen interested in the case. It was Longarm who suggested, out in the hall, that the prosecution might explain the facts of life to Miss Elvira Carson, the beautiful dumb blonde. The prosecutor snorted, "Don't teach your granny to knit socks, Longarm. It's obvious the friends of the lover she agreed to testify against never recruited that professional gunslick to ride off in any golden sunset with her. They flim-flammed her with some bull about getting her out of town once she tricked her guard into taking off his gunbelt behind closed doors. But what'll you bet they'd have gunned the both of you on the spot if she'd been able to seduce you?"
Longarm sighed. "She tried to seduce Tom Weaver first. I just talked to him down to the crapper. Tom confessed he was as tempted as the rest of us. But lucky for us all, he's happily wed to a frisky younger gal, even if he hadn't been an old pro. I just now gave Tom a mild cussing for not warning me about her in fuller detail."
The government lawyer chuckled. "Deputy Weaver no doubt had you down as an old pro too. It's just as well they took enough rope for us to hang the whole bunch, with or without that whore's reluctant help. Wait till you've questioned a hired gun who finds his fool self involved in a train robbery only the assholes who hired him took part in!"
Longarm smiled thinly and resisted the impulse to show off with a remark about federal
jurisdiction. A government lawyer doubtless knew they could let a killer who hadn't killed anybody off, if he wanted to be helpful as all get-out.
Leaving the rest of the mess to those who seemed to want it, Longarm ambled down the hall to his own office to see why they'd sent for him a good two hours before.
As he entered the reception area young Henry looked up from his typewriter with a knowing grin. "You sure do like to live dangerously. Marshal Vail was just out here asking about you, all red in the face with steam shooting out his ears."
Longarm explained he'd been detained, and headed back for Billy Vail's office. But Henry said, "He's not there. He went out after cussing you a lot, like I said."
Longarm shrugged and headed on back in any case, lest he and old Billy wind up tear-assing through various doors in search of one another, the way the actors did in that comical French farce at the Apollo Hall.
It seemed smarter to just go on in and enjoy a sit-down smoke as he waited for old Billy to get back from wherever he'd gone.
Longarm knew it was rude, but he still swept his eyes over the clutter atop the marshal's desk in hopes of guessing what all the fuss was about. There were wanted flyers and yellow telegrams all over the green blotter. A familiar letterhead told Longarm they'd gotten another letter from Reverend John Dyer, that snow-shoeing itinerant missionary who'd have been proclaimed a saint by this time if the Methodists went in for that notion. For it took more simple goodness than most could manage to spend more than one's own yearly salary on savage cowboys and drunken Indians. And how many mortal fathers had ever forgiven a saddle tramp for murdering his only son, Judge Elias Dyer, saying he knew the killer had only been the weak-willed tool of crooked Colorado politicians?
