LONGARM AND BIG TROUBLE IN BODIE by Tabor Evans
Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1995 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 0-515-11702-1
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
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A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Printing history Jove edition / September 1995
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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 U.S. Deputy Marshal 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. McMASTERS by Lee Morgan The blazing new series from the creators of Longarm. When McMasters shoots, he shoots to kill. To his enemies, he is the most dangerous man they have ever known.
Chapter 1
They say you were wild and woolly, Bodie, And fast on the draw as they make ‘em; That you lived at ease with the bad and the bold, Who thought nothing of shooting a man down cold, And defying the law to take ‘em. -LILLIAN NINNIS Longarm stood at the bar nursing a beer on an airless July afternoon as he awaited the val of the eastbound Union Pacific which would carry him back to Denver. He couldn’t get out of town fast enough because Reno was sweltering in the heat of summer.
“It’s too damned hot for anyone to go work less’n they gotta,” the huge bartender named Fergus remarked, pouring himself a warm beer and tossing it down his gullet before drawing himself yet another.
“Well,” Longarm said, removing his Ingersoll pocket watch from his vest and checking the time. “I’ve got to wait about another thirty minutes and then I can finally board the eastbound Union Pacific.”
“Where you goin’, Marshal?” the bartender demanded to know as he leaned his big arms on the bar.
“Back to Denver,” Longarm said. “I’ve been away from my own bed for almost six months, and when I get home I’m going to sleep for about a week.”
“Gonna be hot in Denver too,” Fergus warned smugly, wiping the back of his running nose with his sleeve. “Train passenger from there came in just about two days ago and said it was over a hundred in Cheyenne. It’s probably just as bad in Denver. Hotter than a whore’s underwear.”
When Longarm didn’t say anything, the bartender continued. “If n I was you, or if n I could ever get away from this saloon and have a little time off, I’d head right on up the mountain and take my comfort in Lake Tahoe. That lake water is colder than a whore’s heart.”
“Sure,” Longarm said, “I been up there lots of times, but I’m not on vacation.”
“Meaning,” Fergus said, cocking his eyebrow and looking at Longarm as if he were on trial, “that you are being paid this very minute to sit here and drink beer by us poor taxpayers?”
Maybe it was the heat, the green beer, or the damned flies, but Longarm was feeling unusually testy. The bartender, a coarse man who could not shut up and mind his own business, was starting to become a real irritant.
“Taxpayers, hell,” Longarm growled. “Fergus, I’ll bet you never paid a tax in your whole life. And yeah, I’m on a salary. If they paid me by the hour, the government and its taxpayers would go practically broke.”
“You’re just saying that because you caught a couple of train robbers that was stealing the government mail,” the bartender said, folding his big, hairy arms across his chest and jutting out his jaw. “From what I hear, you were luckier than a whore on-“
“Shut up about the whores!” Longarm snapped, rocking back on his heels and balling his fists. Fergus was brutish-looking with a fist-busted nose, which Longarm was about to mash again. “Fergus, I came in here for a beer and some peace and quiet. But what do I get? A bigmouthed, ugly bastard who can’t shut up and leave me alone.”
Fergus’s lantern jaw sagged and his own fists knotted. “You callin’ me bigmouthed and ugly?”
“And you can add stupid too,” Longarm said, easing back from the bar.
The bartender’s face turned as red as raw meat. “I always hated lawmen, and you ain’t doin’ a damn thing to change that opinion.”
“Maybe,” Longarm said, feeling his blood start to rise, “you think that I care who you like or don’t like.”
“That ties it!” Fergus bellowed. “Get out of here before I throw you out!”
Longarm didn’t move. “I’m going to finish my beer and leave when I want,” he said, “unless you’re even more stupid than you look and attempt to throw me out the door.”
“Well, if you’re man enough to keep that tin badge in your pocket, I will!” Fergus thundered.
“Then come on,” Longarm said, deciding that the bartender’s brain had probably become pickled from drinking too much of his own green beer.
Fergus charged around the bar and the handful of other patrons retreated toward the doorway. But Custis held his ground and when the bartender lunged at him, he flipped the last of his bad beer into Fergus’s face and then ducked a wild overhand that stirred the hot air and scattered the droning flies.
Longarm was a big man himself, although now he was outweighed by at least fifty pounds. As he ducked, he drove his fist into the bartender’s flabby gut. Fergus grunted and his mouth flew open. Greenish froth sprayed from his lips and his fist struck the bar, and he tried to hold himself up as Longarm pounded him twice in the kidney.
“Enough!” the bartender cried, knees buckling as he sagged toward the floor, puking in a cuspidor.
Longarm stepped back and eyed the man. “I never saw such an unsociable bartender in my life,” he said, deciding that this fight was over and he might as well start off for the train depot and suffer the heat for a few extra minutes.
Longarm headed outside, where the air scorched him like the heat of a blacksmith’s forge. Tugging the brim of his black Stetson down against the hot glare of the afternoon sun, he marched up Virginia Street.
“Marshal!”
Longarm heard the venom in Fergus’s ragged voice, and knew before he went for his gun that the bartender was going to try and kill him. Even as Longarm’s hand slapped the butt of his Colt he threw himself sideways into Mrs. Baylor’s Millinery Shop. Three shots boomed and Mrs. Baylor and her female clients dove for cover, screaming.
Longarm rolled into a crouch with his gun in his hand. He could hear Fergus’s huge clodhoppers slamming down on the boardwalk as the man raced forward, intent on finishing Longarm off.
“Easy, ladies,” Longarm warned. “Just stay low and remain calm!”
But there was nothing calm about them. They were all screaming as if their throats were being cut. Longarm knew that he could not risk one of these hysterical women getting killed accidentally in a gunfight. Seeing no other option, he crawled back to the doorway and slipped an edge of his body around so that he could get a good view of the onrushing Fergus.
“Drop it!” he shouted when the man was almost upon him.
Instead, Fergus opened fire. His first errant bullet struck a saddle horse almost sixty yards up the street and took off its right ear. The poor horse reared back, screaming with pain, and busted its reins, then raced up the street, almost trampling a boy in the process.