Longarm and the Lone Star Legend

by Tabor Evans

  "That's quite a story," Longarm said after a few moments.

  They both stood silent for a while, until the vivid images the story had raised began to fade.

  "Ki? Why did you come to America?" Longarm finally asked. "Did Starbuck send for you, the way he sent for Myobu?"

  Ki looked at him sharply. "I was not sent for, but came here to seek my future. I stowed away on a clipper bound for San Francisco. Later I learned that the ship belonged to Alex Starbuck. It seemed to me to be an omen — I was to seek out and offer my services to the man upon whose ship I found transport. There were other reasons, of course. I felt that my karma was linked to those Americans who plucked their nourishment from my homeland. More about that I will not say… After some time in San Francisco, I found my way to Mr. Starbuck's offices. I was fifteen years old."

  "And you actually got to see him?" Longarm asked, amazed. "You were just a boy, and you got past all of his clerks and assistants?"

  "I had grown up in a house where English was spoken, so I had the language, though that would not have mattered, since Mr. Starbuck spoke fluent Japanese." Ki smiled faintly. "As for getting past his security provisions, I considered that to be my employment test. In any event, I offered him my services, and he accepted."

  "What do you mean by 'services,' Ki?"

  He shook his head. "Here the stream that is my story flows into the Starbuck River. I cannot tell the rest without Jessica's permission."

  Longarm nodded. He did not want to strain their fragile friendship by revealing that Jessie had already told him her story. "You haven't mentioned why you decided to leave the Japans in the first place. You sound to me like a very homesick man."

  Ki bowed. He placed his palms on his thighs and bent from the waist. It was a gesture of politeness, but not one of obsequiousness. During the entire maneuver he held Longarm's eyes with his own. "I mean you no disrespect, Longarm, but there are things I cannot discuss."

  "Was it your father or mother who was Caucasian?"

  "Forgive my silence, Longarm."

  "I understand." Longarm looked away from the pain he saw in Ki's eyes. "Good enough." He picked up his Winchester and headed back toward the bunkhouse. "See you in town."

  As Longarm walked away, Ki chose another arrow from his quiver and blindly notched it. He brought up the bow, pulled back the string, and fired. His eyes, blurred by tears, could not see the target, but his ears told him that he had hit it. His raging heart had not ruined his aim.

  Ki nodded to himself in grim satisfaction. That was honorable if not excellent.

  Chapter 10

  Longarm approached Canvas Town on foot. It was like approaching the seashore at night. The roar, like the thunder of the surf, grew louder as he drew closer. If Sarah's high white church steeple and her schools embodied the spiritual and moral fortitude of Sarah Starbuck, the section beyond Main Street, the section called Canvas Town, embodied her fiery red hair, bedroom eyes, and hot, sensual femaleness. The proper side of Sarah immortalized a fine woman, but Canvas Town was that woman by night, sparked by her man's embrace.

  In Canvas Town there were no street lamps — no streets, for that matter. Longarm went from the glare of the brightly lit tent entrances to the pitch-black, grassy fields in between. Ambling about, he listened to the squeak and groan as the tents swayed against their ropes in the night breeze. There rose everywhere the sound of tinny piano music and the hearty laughter of men who were tired, but not so tired that they might give up their fun. Voices would swell out of the darkness only to fade as shadowy forms blundered past, drunk, night-blind, or a little of both.

  The hissing kerosene lanterns by each tent entrance were surrounded by fluttering moths, and farther out, by the railroad tracks, other tents with faintly glimmering red lanterns attracted a different sort of moth to flutter and beat its wings before burning up in a flame far, far too hot. How could this honkytonk, carnival atmosphere, this wild abandon just a street away from the gas lamps and whitewashed picket fences, not remind Longarm of the two sides of every woman's personality?

  The sharp tang of cheap whiskey, and the smoky grease-smell of even cheaper food both attracted their share of cowboys. In one relatively well-lit area, gunsmiths, saddlemakers, clothiers, and cobblers peddled their wares from small booths or the tailgates of wagons. Competing for the cowboys' hard-earned dollars were the stalls that offered games of chance. These lured their marks with a pretty girl standing by the entranceway. Only the greenest lad could think that he had any more chance of winning the woman outside than he did of winning the game inside, but still the hands streamed in, not caring whether they won or lost, only looking for a good time.

  By morning's light, Canvas Town would look sordid and dreary, Longarm knew. But that was tomorrow. Tonight the shadows and kerosene glow only softened and beautified, and the whiskey did not punish but instead rewarded the drinker with sharp wit and boundless energy. Come morning, both Canvas Town and cowboy could lick their wounds and swear never again — until nightfall.

  It would all last as long as the roundup lasted. Sarah had no need for tent hotels and soft-roofed saloons once the free-lance hands had drifted from the area. The tents owned by the town would be taken down and folded up for another season. The peddlers would hitch their swaybacked teams to their gaudy wagons and slowly head for other parts, other gatherings of men with time and money on their hands.

  Longarm entered a saloon tent and bellied up to the bar — which happened to be a couple of planks laid lengthwise on a trio of high sawhorses. There was no floor to the tent, and consequently no floor to the saloon, except for well-trampled grass, but there were tables and chairs, lit by candles stuck into empty whiskey bottles, or by small, hissing lanterns. Behind the bar were beer kegs and a motley assortment of half-filled bottles.

  "What's yours?" the bartender asked in a weary, punch-'drunk voice. He had a day's worth of beard on his cheeks, purple shadows beneath his eyes, a cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth, and, incongruously, a shiny, brand-new derby, about one size too small, perched like a bird directly on top of his bald head.

  Longarm gave the bottles a quick perusal. Sure, he could order Maryland rye, and the label would probably even assert that it was Maryland rye, but what would he get? "I'll take a beer," he told the barkeep, who filled a mug with the draft, and then gave Longarm his change from a leather purse strung about his ample middle.

  As the bartender performed his services, Longarm noticed him scanning the tent with ever-watchful eyes. The place was crowded and rowdy. The bartender carried no gun, but when he turned around, Longarm saw the braided leather handle and wrist loop of a blackjack sticking out of the back pocket of his pants. Behind the bar, in a corner, a fellow with a double-barreled scattergun sat and watched the crowd from a high-chair contraption.

  Longarm took his mug to a nearby vacant table. Toward the rear of the tent, two liquored-up hands began to fight over which way a deck was stacked. The bartender pointed to the two men and hollered, "Quiet down, there!"

  The hands ignored him, of course. Longarm lit up a cheroot, sipped at his beer, and leaned back in his chair to watch the show.

  The fellow in the high chair climbed down, scattergun in hand. He wasn't very tall, but he was well built, with thick forearms and large, capable-looking hands. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, and a derby that seemed the identical match for the bartender's. Maybe they were brothers.

  The scattergun was more than likely a means of intimidating the patrons rather than blowing their fool heads off. Usually such fearsome-looking weapons were loaded with birdshot. A rowdy cowboy might end up enduring the taunts of his friends as he searched out a doc to pick the pellets out of his backside, but he'd heal up pretty soon. It would not do for any saloon, permanent or canvas-roofed, to earn itself a reputation as the sort of place where a patron could be killed by the help. As the man passed Longarm's table, he saw that in addition to the scattergun, the fellow wore a .44 derringer
in a tiny stitch of a holster, high up just behind his right hip. In the unlikely event that killing should be required, the tiny handgun's range was adequate in the close confines of the tent.

  Both cowboys quieted down as the bouncer approached their table. Longarm could not hear what passed between the bouncer and the rowdy pair, but he did see one of the cowboys make a grab for the scattergun, a stupid move in any case, but especially stupid against such a handy opponent. The fellow with the derby stepped nimbly back, swinging the barrel of his shotgun as he did so, to crack the steel against the other's outstretched fingers. The cowboy howled and let his injured paw hang limply at his side. His buddy scrabbled for the revolver crammed into the waistband of his jeans — the fellow was plainly no gunslick — and was rewarded for his clumsy efforts by having the twin barrels of the scattergun shoved hard into his belly. The cowboy doubled over, his revolver falling out of his pants to thud against the grass as he did so, and the fellow with the derby spun him around and booted him right through the doorway of the tent.

  Throughout the short-pitched battle, the bouncer had kept on his face the relaxed but alert look of a seasoned veteran. That expression signaled to Longarm that the fellow knew that nine out of ten bar brawls ended in low comedy, like this one had, but every once in a while there was one that could suddenly burst out of control, like a forest fire in woods gone too long without rain.

  The cowboy with the swollen hand scurried after his drinking partner. The derby-wearing winner of the fight tossed the fallen revolver after the two, then sauntered back to his lookout post behind the bar. The din of conversation and clinking of bottle against glass went on as it had before and during the confrontation. As far as Longarm could tell, he was the only man who had even bothered to look in the direction of the commotion.

  Longarm sent blue wreaths of smoke toward the pitched cloth ceiling. Canvas Town was an interesting place to while away the hours, but its pace and commotion were such that no information or gossip could be gleaned. For his purposes, Longarm needed a quiet saloon where the barkeep had time on his hands and was grateful for company, paying or otherwise. The bartenders in Canvas Town were just passing through, like the cowboys themselves. The place was too fleeting a phenomenon for anybody to learn much about anybody else.

  Longarm would have spent his time at the Union Saloon, the largest of the permanent watering holes in Sarah, except that Ki had warned him off, saying that the place was stodgy and stiff, that nothing ever happened there because it was on the regular patrol of Town Marshal Farley and his deputies. Longarm decided to head over that way anyhow, since he'd tied his horse up in front of the Union. Besides, there he could get himself a drink of bona fide Maryland rye.

  Longarm was finishing off his beer when he felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder. He twisted around in his chair to see that he was bracketed by two men.

  "Howdy there, gunslick. 'Member us?" one of them said.

  It took Longarm a second to place them. The one who had spoken had a wispy, billy-goat beard. "Sure. You're the fellow named Ray. Both of you were Higgins's boys. You still with him, now that he's out as the Starbucks' foreman?"

  "Now we're with you gunslick." Ray grinned, showing broken teeth. "Or should I call you by your name? Longarm. Musty, get us some chairs. Us and Mr. Longarm is gonna have a drink."

  While Musty did as he was told, Longarm checked the two cowboys out. They were still each just a pair of gleaming Justin boots, an expensive Stetson, and a long, dusty road in between. They smelled of horseshit, and their guns jutted out from their right hips like the hammers in a workman's belt.

  They sat down, one on either side of Longarm, so that they were positioned more like three men abreast than facing each other. Longarm thought about the danger of the situation, but he figured he was safe from being shot here in the saloon with the bouncer watching over everything from his high vantage point. The one named Musty, a youngish, curly-haired man with pale gray, squinty eyes and sun-reddened cheeks, pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a chaw. He set the plug down on the table.

  "How'd you boys find out my name?" Longarm asked, not that he really expected them to answer, but you could never tell with horse turds like these two. "Pretty slick of you, anyway, I'll give you that." He poked Ray in the ribs, pleased at the angry glare the poke provoked.

  "Never you mind, lawman," Musty mumbled around his mouthful of chewing tobacco.

  "Who said I'm a lawman?" Longarm asked, casting his bait.

  "Not just a lawman, but a federal marshal," Musty replied.

  "Fetch us both a drink, Musty," Ray growled disgustedly. "Longarm here don't need one. He's still got an inch of warm beer left in his glass."

  "You two are real sports," Longarm grimaced.

  "We can't be buying you drinks." Musty indignantly spat a long, brown stream of tobacco juice on the trampled grass. "We lost our jobs on account of you snooping around…"

  "The drinks," Ray barked.

  So they not only know my name, Longarm thought, they know why I'm here. That eliminated the possibility that his being recognized was just a bit of bad luck brought on by his being spied by some jailbird he'd arrested in the past. That sort of thing happened all the time to undercover men. You took the time to build a painstakingly exact cover, and then, from out of the blue, some joker who saw you strolling down the street pointed his finger and sang out. 'He's a lawman!' to anyone who had reason to be interested in such news.

  But an ex-convict, or any outlaw, would have no way of knowing why Longarm was in Sarah. Town Marshal Farley might have spilled the beans, but it also could have been either Jessica or Ki. Right now, Longarm had his money on Farley. But why would any of the three who knew his business talk about it to men like these?

  Musty returned with two shots of whiskey and two mugs of beer. The men tossed off their drinks and then chased the rough liquor with cooling swallows of brew.

  Longarm watched, pleased. They were trying to drink their courage, of course, but more alcohol would also loosen their lips. "Buy you gents another round?" Longarm began to rise, but he stopped as Ray, on his left, snaked his right hand beneath the armrests of their side-by-side spindle chairs. Longarm looked down at the six-inch blade Ray was holding against his vest, just about where his heart would be.

  "You just sit back down, Longarm, 'less you want me to pop your pump," Ray said jovially. "It wouldn't be no trouble at all on my part."

  Longarm realized that Ray's knife was out of sight of anyone else in the saloon. Amid all the noise and confusion, Longarm could be stabbed dead and left for a drunk sleeping it off in his chair, and no one would be the wiser.

  "You gonna sit, or you gonna bleed?" Ray softly insisted.

  "Bar's a little crowded anyway," Longarm said, and sat back down.

  Musty reached over and plucked Longarm's Colt out of its holster. He was about to slip it into his own waistband when Ray ordered, "Give it here, boy."

  Musty did as he was told, scowling all the while. Ray held the double-action weapon up to the lantern light. "Fine gun, Longarm. I promise to think of you every time I plink away at a coyote with this here Colt."

  "Hey, you!" came a shout from behind the bar. It was the bouncer, the man with the scattergun, high up on his tower-chair, addressing himself to Ray. "You want to stay in here, put that piece away."

  Ray tucked Longarm's Colt into his gunbelt. "Musty, take his wallet, see if he has any papers that could help — No! Wait a minute, that bastard with the shotgun is still watching us," he grumbled. "Longarm, real pleasant-like, you take out your billfold and lay it down on the table."

  "I'd be careful with the likes of him, Ray," Musty warned. "He could have another gun stashed in his coat."

  "Hmm, do you, Longarm?" Ray coaxed. "Iffen you do, think on this. I'm no gunslick like you, but I've spent a lot of time around campfires with nothing better to do than practice with my knife. There's no gun on earth that can be drawed and fired before I'm able to
push these here six inches of steel between your ribs."

  "Except one gun. maybe," Longarm suggested as he slowly removed his wallet and placed it on the table. "The kind of gun that shoots .25s?"

  "But you ain't likely to have one beneath your coat." Musty guffawed.

  "Shut up about them guns," Ray snapped at his partner.

  "Give me the money in the wallet."

  "There's no papers in here but travel tickets and the like," Musty said. "Hot damn, here's his shiny badge."

  "Hold on to it, and the wallet," Ray said. "That way they'll find a corpse with no identification. We'll all be long gone by the time they figure out that a lawman's been killed, and not just some drunk got himself involved in a knife fight."

  "Let's get it over with, Ray," Musty whined.

  "I guess I'm a dead man, eh, boys?" Longarm made his voice rise high and trembling, the way Henry, the clerk in Marshal Vail's office, sounded when Billy began roaring and fuming over some misplaced report.

  "Keep your voice down," Ray hissed, anxiously eyeing the bouncer surveying the scene.

  "Lord, I hate the idea of it's being a knife." Longarm reached into his pants pocket, the action bringing Ray's glinting blade close by, just like a cat will pounce at the first sign of movement around a mouse hole. "Easy now," Longarm soothed. "Here, see?" He held up a double eagle. "I just thought Musty could fetch us all another round. I know I sure could use a shot. What do you say, boys?"

  Musty snatched up the money, as Longarm had known he would. The nineteen dollars and change would carry an out-of-work cowboy quite a ways. Poor Musty! He wasn't even smart enough to figure out that Ray would never let him keep a cent. Not that Ray was going to profit for very long from this little exchange. "I suppose you boys know more than you're telling concerning the murder of Alex Starbuck?"

  "Plenty more," Ray boasted. His knife hand rested on the seat of Longarm's chair, although the blade was still tickling Longarm's ribs.