Longarm 244: Longarm and the Devil's Sister

by Evans, Tabor

  He’d picked a saddle mule for the first day on the trail with some distance in mind. You could get thirty miles a day out of a cavalry mount without hurting it. A Spanish saddle mule would carry you ten miles further, easy, in such balmy spring weather. So Longarm tried for that and rode in around sundown to the dinky settlement around a Butterfield stage stop in the severely eroded Finlay Mountains. Then he paid for extra care for his somewhat lathered mule and checked into a posada early and alone after a snack by dusk at an open-to-the-street tamale stand. He neither tried to get noticed nor shouted for attention before he turned in early with some magazines and plenty of smokes.

  In the morning he rose early and swapped the mule and a few dollars more for a paint cowpony who’d seen better days. Her main attraction for a lawman on an undercover mission was her local brand.

  He rode her hard, albeit less hard than he had the bigger mule, and made it to a bigger trail town where the mountains flattened out some and he got to ride through cattle range a spell. The complicated tangle of modestly high but rugged ranges to the west of the Stockton Plateau were dubbed the Davis Mountains on most maps and cropped up some more south of the Rio Grande as Old Mexico’s Burro Mountains. Longarm drove the paint mare as far as Allamoore, a handy stop in the low pass through the main Davis range on a harder uphill push the next day and, this time, let it be loudly known he was sick and tired of a muley old mare off the Rocking H, who’d gone lame on him goddamn her eyes.

  So there were other Texicans and Mexicans listening with interest by the municipal corral as the stranger who allowed they could call him anything but “Late For Breakfast” dickered with an old Mex horse trader for a fresher mount, come morning.

  They’d about settled on the paint and a few dollars more when an older Anglo sporting a brass star on his vest drifted across from the town lock-up, taking in Longarm’s faded denims and tailored gun grips as he came, casually placing his gun hand on the butt of his Navy Colt Conversion before he quietly asked, “Might you have a bill of sale for that pony from the Rocking H remuda, cowboy?”

  Longarm had one, but that was no way to get famous in Texas. So he puffed up a tad and demanded, “Are you calling me a horse thief, little darling?”

  The town law soberly replied, “I ain’t nobody’s darling. I’m the town marshal and a deputy sheriff of Hudspeth County combined. So would you care to show me a bill of sale for that mare, come along to the telegraph office with me, or fill your damn fist? It don’t make no nevermind to me at my age. I got to this age by beating fresh young squirts to the draw.”

  Some of the onloookers standing close crawfished back from what was starting to shape up as impending doom. Longarm let the tension build enough to ensure some gossip. Then he smiled sheepishly at the gruff old lawman and said, “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, Mr. Law. I’ll show you the infernal bill of sale if it means that much to you, for Pete’s sake.”

  The older lawman tensed even more as Longarm reached inside his denim bolero jacket for the simple bill of sale he’d asked for when he’d tossed in those extra dollars with that mule. Being county law, the old timer knew the names of most county residents authorized to trade in horseflesh on a regular basis. So when Longarm handed the terse contract over, he read it fast, nodded curtly, and handed it back as he growled, “Why didn’t you just produce your damned bill of sale as soon as I asked for it? What sort of a name is Crawford, and are we supposed to be afraid of you because you pack a double-action?”

  Longarm shook his head and said, “I’ve been told Crawford is a Scotch name. You’d have to ask the uncle they named me after what a Duncan might be.”

  The local lawman decided, “That’s a Scotch name as well, sometimes. Now tell us what you’re doing here in Allamoore, Mr. Duncan Crawford.”

  Longarm answered simply. “Trying to get me a better mount. Couldn’t you tell? This greaser and me were about to spit and shake on yonder roan when you horned in just now.”

  The portly Mexican asked who he was calling a greaser.

  Longarm laughed lightly and said, “I apologize, Amigo. I didn’t know you were Irish. Do you want to sell that fucking roan or don’t you?”

  The town law quietly observed there was no call to talk nasty to good old Gordo.

  Longarm shrugged and said, “I never invited any of ‘em into Texas. I had kin at the Alamo and I’m pleased as punch about my daddy’s ride through Old Mexico in ’47. Might you have a horse-trade in mind your ownself or can I work something out with this greaser about yonder roan?”

  They were still fussing about his manners as a rat-faced kid in white cotton, a serape, and a straw sombrero scuttled across the way to join an older Mexican seated at a sidewalk table in a silver mounted charro outfit, sipping cerveza.

  As the sneak joined him, staying on his feet with sombrero in hand, the prosperous looking rider quietly asked, “¿Que piensete? ”

  The kid he’d sent closer to listen in replied, “¡Pienso que no, me patron! The tall build is right. The Colorado crush of his sombrero is right. The double-action Colt carried cross-draw is right. Pero el hombre called Longarm by los Yanguis and El Brazo Largo by those of our raza is said to be muy simpatico. That big gringo across the calle is a pendejo chingado begging for a fight with old Gordo!”

  The dapper rider he’d reported this too shrugged and decided, “Is Gordo’s problem. Is just as well for us he is only another gringo with an ugly mouth. Perhaps he won that hat from some Colorado rider, if he did not steal it. Let those he insults directly worry about him.”

  The younger and shabbier Mexican nodded and shot the tall tanned stranger across the way a thoughtful look as he decided, “He is a big one and that Colt has tailored grips. For why did you think he might be the famous El Brazo Largo, me patron?”

  His boss sipped some more iced beer before he replied in a casual tone he didn’t really feel, “Some others I do business with from time to time asked us to keep an eye out for such a famous hunter of men.”

  “They worry that El Brazo Largo could be hunting for one of them?” asked the sneak who’d dismissed Longarm as a drifting bully boy.

  The hired gun asked to stop Longarm at all costs from getting anywhere near the Pecos shrugged and replied, “¿Quien sabe? Perhaps it is one of them. Perhaps it is only someone they know. What can I tell you? I only work here. If he gets past us he is their problem.”

  Chapter 5

  And so it went for the better part of a fortnight, riding rough country, building a rep for the hitherto unheard-of Dunk Crawford. He got invited in for cake, coffee, and gossip at most homespreads you’d pass where the nearest neighbors lived miles away and nobody delivered any morning papers. As a rule Longarm was as likely to stop and visit with Mexicans, Indians, or any other friendly folk. But knowing he was known as ElBrazo Largo along the border by both decent Mexicans and the Diaz Dictatorship’s ferocious Federales y Rurales, he decided it would be safer and better for his image if he avoided any dealings with Spanish-speaking folk that close to the border. In West Texas that included most Indians—peaceful Caddo as well as Mission-Apache of not-so-certain disposition. Full Quill Bronco Apache raiding along both sides of the border under Victorio at the moment spoke uncertain Spanish and just enough English to say, “Die, mother fucker!” So it didn’t seem likely he’d have to worry about fooling that bunch about his real name. With any luck the 10th Cav had Victorio on the run in Old Mexico in any case. The Buffalo Soldiers of the Colored 10th Cav made Indians nervous. This was partly because the army had been able to pick and choose between ex-slaves anxious to soldier and party because the resulting well-trained troopers were tough for some Indians to classify. The Lakota defined a man of color as a wasichusapa, which could be translated literally as black whiteman. NaDéné, or so-called Apache, got around the confusion by just avoiding the 10th Cav as much as they could manage. Things Indians had trouble describing to a “tee” were inclined to be viewed as bad medicine.

 
In the trail town of Toyah along the San Martine Draw, he got into an ugly facedown in the Cottonwood Saloon that never went past the two of them stepping away from the bar as everyone else gave them a whole lot of room. For it seldom did, and, whilst Cockeyed Jack McCall had overdone such bullshit by shooting Hickok all the way, most hard hairpins built their reps on almost-fights.

  John Wesley Hardin and Hickok himself had gained stature at no cost to either just by glowering at one another that time in Abilene. So Longarm could hope his brush with destiny in the form of the mean town drunk of Toyah might convince others he was an armed and dangerous asshole. A true specimen of the breed would have slapped leather on a man too nasty natured to abide and too drunk to beat a schoolmarm to the draw as he stood there cussing and drooling.

  By that time more than one pest had commented on the telescoped Colorado or North Range crush of Longarm’s coffee-brown Stetson. He’d considered another hat before he’d left Denver, wearing the one molded to his skull by some time and toil.

  A new hat always looked new until you’d worn it some, whether you stomped on it, pissed on it, or let a pony drink out of it more than once. His broken-in Stetson’s dark felt crown would look like it had been telescoped a spell and then reshaped if he punched its crown into the more common Texas peak with a crease down the front, and he didn’t want to be taken for even an ex-Texas Ranger. So he told those who asked polite what he’d said earlier about being out of work in the wake of the Lincoln County War. That range was still new enough for riders from all over to be riding it in all sorts of outfits, and, since he didn’t care to go on about things he only knew from heresay, his terse, if not evasive, answers about up New Mexico way (New Mexico being north of the western reaches of West Texas), seemed to convince West Texans more that Dunk Crawford was bad news leftover from the mutually suicidal shootout between the Murphy-Dolan and Chisum-McSween factions. When asked which side he might have ridden for, “Crawford” growled he disremembered, in a tone that discouraged further questions along those lines.

  When asked if he knew Billy The Kid he just smiled through gents as he allowed he knew The Kid by rep and might have met him now and again.

  This was the pure truth as soon as you studied on it. For had a U.S. Deputy Marshal been dead certain that shyly smiling youth who’d bought him that beer had been a wanted outlaw, he’d have never been able to give him that break.

  When asked what he thought of that new territorial governor who’d cleaned up New Mexico, Longarm, as Crawford, dryly said he’d read some of that book about Ben Hur that Governor Lew Wallace had written.

  It seemed safe to opine that Major Murphy had died broke of booze and pneumonia or that his pal, Jim Dolan, had been ruined by the feud as well. Everyone knew Tunstall and McSween on the other side had been killed along with their top gun, Dick Brewer, leaving his young henchman, The Kid, on the run whilst Uncle John Chisum had holed up on his South Spring ranch, feeling old and scared shitless by the trouble he and his own pals had stirred up to begin with, if the truth would be known. Nobody on either side had shown a lick of sense or made a dime extra out of the Lincoln County War. So Longarm’s excuses for looking for work to the Southeast made sense, while the surly attitude he’d assumed had more than one West Texan almost certain he’d lost a job that had called for tailored grips on his Colt ’78, loading .44-40.

  That same stage magician’s shemale assistant had taught him about letting the audience outsmart its fool self that way.

  She’d explained one night in bed how surprised folk were when they thought they had a trick figured out and the magician produced a different result. She’d said you could get them to picture all sorts of trapdoors and mirrors that weren’t where they thought by not stopping them from thinking you’d gone to more trouble than you had. As a peace officer he’d already noticed how bullshit artists tended to give themselves away by telling you more than you’d ever asked them. Few had any call to doubt a man who simply said he’d ridden in the war. It was when he got into all the charges he’d led into the cannon’s mouth that got folk to wondering. Longarm knew that nobody would have believed him for a minute if he’d claimed he’d been the one who’d shot either Rancher Tunstall or Sheriff Brady. But as long as he only allowed he’d been close enough to the costly mess for it to have cost him, nobody had any call to doubt him. It was less important what they thought he might have been up to in New Mexico Territory a spell back than it might have been to explain why he’d come down from Colorado, more recent.

  The scattered spurs of the Davis Mountains flattened out to turn into the Stockton Plateau. The lower Pecos Valley lay between that and the Edwards Plateau to the east, with the former Comanche home range on the Staked Plains more to the northeast. By this time, of course, not many Indians, quill or tame, haunted their former hunting grounds on marginal range, which was being rapidly covered with livestock and mesquite. The earlier buffalo herds had been hell on mesquite and other chaparral.

  He got into another tense discussion over a friendly game of Five Card Stud and then he was down in the valley of the Pecos, somewhat north of that Deveruex-Lopez Grant, south of Sheffield-Crossing.

  He timed his arrival in Sheffield-Crossing on a dusty cordovan gelding for just after noon, hoping the few dusty streets would be cleared for La Siesta, which was followed by sensible Anglos, as well as Mexicans in West Texas, for the same reasons of health.

  Neither Mexicans nor Southerners who hid indoors from the worst heat of day—days could get seriously hot—were lazy, as some outsiders thought. But even in Ante Bellum Dixie, where the Planter Folk had led more sporting lives, they’d gotten in most of their social gatherings and fox hunting during the early morn or evening hours. All the flirty belles knocked off around noon to undress and doze fitfully upstairs during the hotter hours, only to come back down gussied up in their hoop skirts for dancing and fan-fluttering that could go on past midnight, when all industrious New Englanders were fast asleep.

  Longarm thought he’d timed things right as he passed the first houses on the outskirts of town. There wasn’t much stirring when he rode down the one main street toward the river and reined in out front of the one livery stable. He rustled up a dozed-off Caddo kid to care for his damned pony. As the Indian watered and fed the gelding in its hired stall (You never fed a pony before you watered it.), Longarm stored his roping saddle in their tack room, but hung on to his Winchester and draped the center strap of his two saddlebags over his left arm. Anyone desperate enough to steal his old bedroll was welcome to the summerweight flannel blankets, canvas tarp, or rolled-in slicker and chaps.

  He tipped the young Caddo a dime extra and asked about any hotel or posada they might have in Sheffield-Crossing. The Indian kid said he just worked there at the livery. They didn’t serve Indians anywheres else in town. Sheffield-Crossing was a cow town of recent vintage. So most everyone who had anything to say there was an unreconstructed reb.

  Longarm stepped out into the now dazzling sunlight with his rifle cradled over his saddlebags, the grips of his sixgun peeking out from under them, with his gun hand free.

  He was mildy surprised but felt no great concern when he saw a baker’s dozen of dismounted riders lined up on the shady side of the street in front of an inviting-looking saloon.

  That reminded Longarm he hadn’t had anything stronger than homespread coffee all day. So he started across the wide, dusty street to do something about that. But one of the riders on the far side, in a pair of pony-hide chaps with a matching vest, bellowed out, “Stay put, you rude bastard! Show some respect for the damned dead!”

  Longarm was fixing to stride on over and ask the cuss who’s death he had in mind when he heard the drums of the dead march and glanced up the street to the west to see ... nothing at all.

  But somebody had to be beating that mournsome drum. So Longarm stayed put and, sure enough, a raggedy uniformed band with just the one drummer drumming a snare covered with black muslin, came out of a si
de street to swing their way, followed shortly by a rubber-tired hearse drawn by a handsome black team with plumed harness. As it drew nearer you could see the silver-handled mahogany coffin through the plate glass sides of the hearse. Whoever they were fixing to plant had died rich, it was safe to assume. A full platoon of mourners were following afoot, with one Mex kid gussied up in a silver-trimmed black charro outfit, leading a freshly groomed palomino, saddled vaquero style with polished wood showing, where Anglo saddle trees were leather covered. The saddle was empty. Two tall, tooled vaquero boots rode backwards in the stirrups with their big spur rowels leading.

  The mourners seemed a mixed bag of Anglo, Mex, and in-between, all wearing their Sunday best, which seemed to make folk look more like their ancestors than the everyday work duds worn by everybody did.

  One gal in particular caught Longarm’s eye. She strode down the street as if she owned it, despite her respectful expression as she followed the dead man’s mount. She was dressed for riding, herself, in a black Spanish habit and one of those flat-topped black hats with fly tassels dangling all around the edge of the broad brim. Her complexion was that odd orange shade you never saw on any man or any woman who didn’t descend from whatever part of Old Spain such an unusual peachy hide called for. As she disdainfully glanced his way, he saw her big old eyes flash hazel. Her hair was swept up under a hat the color of old gold braid. She sure was something and he couldn’t blame her for dismissing him as some saddle tramp. He’d been busting a gut trying to be taken for a saddle tramp.

  As the hearse passed, most of the riders in front of the saloon on the far side made the sign of the cross. For all the mean things they said about Mexicans, or perhaps because of them, a heap of so-called Texas Anglos were Irish Catholics. Spain and then Mexico had encouraged swarms of such folk from the British Isles to settle their province of Texas in the vain hope they’d form an English-speaking Catholic buffer between Old Mexico and the alarming Yanqui Heretics.