by Tabor Evans
No Reservations About Killing . . .
Longarm did not think he had ever seen the man before. Certainly he was not a patron of the Star Saloon.
But the fellow recognized Longarm. And seemed to fear him.
His hand leaped toward his revolver.
Longarm had no idea why.
But he did not have time to ponder the question or to ask why. The man was drawing on him. That was introduction enough.
Longarm’s .45 came to hand almost without him taking time to consciously reach for it.
His Colt spat its own brand of thunder and lightning as flame and smoke—and lead—belched from the muzzle.
Across the width of the café floor Longarm’s first bullet took the man in the belly.
A second struck him high in the chest. And a third ripped into the left side of his face.
“Jesus!” Tisbury screamed.
Longarm came to his feet and stood poised to fire again if necessary. A fourth bullet was not needed. The man, a complete stranger as far as Longarm knew, crumpled. He toppled face-forward onto Tisbury’s floor. He fell like a sack of grain, making no move to soften the blow or prepare for it. Once he hit, he lay completely motionless . . .
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
LONGARM by Tabor Evans
The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
WILDGUN by Jack Hanson
The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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LONGARM AND THE STAR SALOON
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
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ISBN: 978-0-515-15430-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63491-2
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / January 2014
Cover illustration by Milo Sinovcic.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 1
“Pardon me for sayin’ this, ma’am, but you got big tits.”
“That, sir, is un-pardonable. Have you never been taught how to speak to a lady?”
“Yeah, an’ if there was a lady present, I wouldn’t talk like that.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“You old bag.”
“Not so old that I couldn’t fuck you into the ground, mister.”
Longarm threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, an’ I believe you could still do it, too.”
“Oh, Custis, it is good to see you, dear. Thank you for coming.”
“Anytime you need me. I told you that once an’ I meant it.”
Helen Morrow threw her arms around Longarm’s neck and clung to him for a few moments before she lifted her face to his and kissed him long and deep.
Helen was a big woman, tall and thick and round. He suspected she would weigh in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds . . . if you could find a scale to take her. A livestock scale perhaps.
But she was all woman. A former lover, although she had been considerably thinner then. And he was genuinely fond of her.
Helen had to rise up only a little to reach Longarm’s lips. Then she hugged him and stepped back a pace.
“Let me look at you, dear,” she said. “Good Lord, you’ve hardly changed over the years.”
Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long grinned and said, “It’s the result o’ clean living.”
His remark brought a bark of sharp laughter from Helen. She knew better than to believe that. “But you do look fine, dear,” she said.
Deputy Long, known as Longarm to friend and foe alike, did indeed look fit. He was tall, well over six feet in
height, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.
He had brown hair, a broad sweep of brown mustache, golden brown eyes, and a firm jaw. He wore a brown tweed coat, brown corduroy trousers, and a flat-crowned brown Stetson hat. His gunbelt, rigged for a cross-draw, was polished black, as were his stovepipe cavalry boots. Beneath the coat he wore a calfskin vest with a gold watch chain stretched across his belly.
“I swear, dear, you haven’t changed a bit. How long has it been?” Helen asked.
The corners of Longarm’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and said, “Too long, darlin’. How’ve you been? An’ why am I here?” The smile widened and he added, “Apart from the pleasure o’ seein’ you, that is.”
“Come into my office, dear. I don’t like to talk too openly out here in the parlor where anyone might hear.”
Longarm glanced around at the bevy of ladies who were sitting in the overstuffed chaises, waiting for customers to arrive. He removed his hat and followed Helen down a short hallway and into a large, sumptuously appointed office and bedchamber.
“Would you like something to drink, dear? Rye whiskey, perhaps? I have a good brand. Bought it just for you.”
“And I’ll enjoy it, I’m sure, but right now what I’d like, if you have some, is a cup o’ coffee.”
“Right away, dear. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a moment.”
Helen left the room, her movements light despite her bulk, and Longarm perched on the side of Helen’s big canopy bed. True to her word, Helen was back in less than a minute.
“I thought you were going for coffee,” he said.
“You never have had any patience, have you?” The big woman chided him. “It will be here in a minute.”
“Oh, my. Servants. You really have come up in the world, haven’t you?” he said.
Helen nodded. “I’ve come a long way since you knew me, dear.” She sighed. “A very long way. That has a bearing on why I asked for your help.”
“I’m listenin’,” he said.
There was a knock at the door, and a slender, doe-eyed girl whose skin tones suggested she might have been Mexican or perhaps Indian entered with a tray containing a carafe of steaming coffee along with cups and condiments. There was also a small plate of butter cookies.
The girl served the coffee, curtsied daintily, and silently left.
Longarm balanced his cup and saucer on his knee and said, “You were sayin’?”
Helen sighed again, and her shoulders slumped wearily. “Custis dear, there are five whorehouses in Quapah County, and I own three of them.”
Longarm’s eyebrows went up. “Congratulations. No wonder you look so prosperous.”
“Oh, I have money, it’s true. This is the most elegant of my properties.”
He nodded. The house was indeed splendid. And the girls he had seen out in the parlor were handsome, each of them impeccably dressed and made up.
“One of the others is, frankly, a dump. It’s a cheap house for cheap whores.” She smiled. “And would you believe, I make more money off of it than I do from the other two combined. We have cowboys coming here to ship cattle, railroaders working on the line, and recently we got an influx of coal miners working the newly opened diggings north of town. The men like things simple and cheap, and they don’t even seem to mind what the girls look like as long as they are willing to drop their knickers for half a dollar.”
“You aren’t surprising me none,” Longarm said, trying the coffee and finding it very much to his liking. “So what does this have to do with . . . ?”
“Someone is trying to muscle me out, Custis. And I don’t even know who is doing it,” Helen said.
“They’re tryin’ to hurt you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Financially, anyway. And there have been . . . suggestions . . . that I could be hurt physically if I don’t play along with them.”
Longarm smiled. “In that case, darlin’, you did the exact best thing when you sent for me, ’cause operators like that are just my meat. Hand me one o’ them cookies, will you, please?”
Chapter 2
When he had known her before—long before he became a deputy United States marshal—Helen Morrow had befriended a young out-of-work and out-of-money Custis Long. She took a liking to him and gave him a hand up.
At the time she worked as an accountant for an elderly gentleman. Longarm had suspected she did more for the old fellow than keep his books, but he had never asked and Helen never volunteered any information of that nature.
She had taken him in. Fed him. Washed his clothes. Given him a place to sleep. And fucked him. She had helped him find his way in this brawling, sprawling, wide open Western land, and he had never forgotten her. The way Longarm saw it, he owed her. Anything he could do that would help Helen Morrow, he would do and gladly.
He reached for the carafe and refilled his coffee cup, then said, “If you don’t mind me askin’, how’d you come by three whorehouses? Back when we were close, you didn’t have much more’n I did.” He grinned. “And I didn’t have hardly nothin’ but a ragged shirt and a wore-out pistol.”
“I remember that shirt.” She laughed. “I had to patch it for you, as I recall.”
“You did a fine job of it too. I can recommend you as a seamstress if you get tired o’ riding herd on these ladies of the evening.”
“Yes. Them,” Helen said. “Do you remember Albert, the gentleman I worked for at the time?”
“I remember meeting him. Didn’t exactly get to know him, of course, but we met.”
“Yes, well, Albert and I were . . . close, you might say. He was married, of course, and had children. Naturally they were the recipients of his estate when he died, but there was a secret . . . I think the word is codicil or something like that. Anyway it was a bequest that he did not want his wife and children to know about.
“He didn’t want them to know about quite all of his business ventures, and he certainly did not want them to know about me. So when he died, I inherited a whorehouse. I already knew about it, of course. I had been keeping the books on it for almost a dozen years by that time.
“I had my own ideas about the business side of how to run a house. And I learned the practical side of it. How to hire the girls. And how to fire them when necessary. How to handle the drunks and the brawlers and the ones who couldn’t get it up.” She smiled. “It might surprise you, Custis, how many there are of those. They come in acting tough and saying they will strap on their spurs and ride a girl into the ground, then when they get to the room, they can’t get a proper hard-on. Naturally our rule is that no one ever finds out about those boys. But we know. The truth is that the girls like to have them as customers. Usually they are no trouble at all; they don’t want their secret to get out, you see.”
Longarm finished his coffee and took the last cookie from the plate.
“It turns out that I have a good head for business,” Helen said. “I inherited the one house, but I’ve worked my way up to own the others as well. And my girls are treated right. I haven’t had a suicide in more than a year. Show me one other house that can make that claim. My girls make good money, and they can leave whenever they like. I even give them an address in town where their folks can write to them and think they are working for a hatmaker. Not many of their families know what they really do for a living, of course.
“I’ve worked hard for my success, Custis,” she said. “I would hate to have to start over at my age. I could do it, of course. But I would hate it.”
“Then let’s make sure it don’t come to that,” Longarm said. He set his cup aside and went to her. He put his arms around her and held her close. After a moment Helen began to weep silently.
“There, there, darlin’,” he said. He fashioned a smile and added, “You did exactly the right thing when you asked me to come lend a hand.”
Chapter 3
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br /> “Could I have a taste o’ that rye whiskey you were talkin’ about?” he asked.
“Of course. I have it right here.”
Longarm enjoyed rye whiskey. But more than the drink, he wanted to give Helen a task that would help settle her down. It was his experience that nothing benefited a woman more than waiting on a man. It took her mind off whatever had been bothering her so she could concentrate on being helpful.
Helen rose ponderously from her armchair and went to a waist-high cherrywood cabinet at the side of the room. She opened it, took out a bottle and glasses, and poured a generous measure of whiskey for Longarm. Finally she delivered the drink to him and resumed her seat.
“Ah. You were right, darlin’. This is good stuff,” he said after trying the whiskey. “The best. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she said.
“Do you feel like talking about your situation now?” he asked after a minute or so.
“Certainly.” Helen said.
Longarm took another swallow of the rye and asked, “How exactly is someone trying to undermine you and you don’t even know who’s doing it?”
“Oh, Custis. It has been horrible. You remember that I told you I have a post office box where the girls’ families can write to them?”
He nodded and drained the last of the rye. Helen did not seem to notice. In any event she did not offer to refill the whiskey, so he got up and helped himself to another glass. The rye really was of excellent quality, and he just plain enjoyed the stuff, even though Helen was suffering.
“Someone knows what that box number is, Custis. They are sending threatening letters, some of them really nasty.”
“To you?” he asked.
“Yes. And lately to my girls as well.”
“Have you saved any of those so I can see what they say?” he asked.
Helen shook her head. “They are . . . They were terrible things. I didn’t want them under my roof. They threatened to . . . to do things to us. Ugly, hateful things, Custis. They threatened to mutilate us. Threatened to cut off certain, um, body parts. That sort of thing. I burned the letters. Every one that I had. When they started coming, I didn’t know. Wasn’t prepared. I just gave the unopened envelopes to the girls.” She made a sour face. “That was a mistake.”
