LONGARM AND THE CRYING CORPSE [066-066-5.0]
By: Tabor Evans
Synopsis:
Don’t eat the red snow … When the snow piles up higher than manure at a tall-tale contest, Longarm gets stranded in a tiny wyoming burg called Kittstown. Seems harmless enough, Longarm thinks. A little rye, a little low-stakes poker with the locals. It’ll almost be like a vacation. Until a pretty young woman turns up dead, that is. Now Longarm must hunt down a cold-blooded killer—a killer with a cruel streak as wide as a crooked mayor’s smile … 219th novel in the “Longarm” series, 1997.
Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1997 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-515-12031-6
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 / March 1997
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.
Chapter 1
Longarm knew damn good and well he was dreaming. The fact that he was aware that it was a dream did nothing to take away from the pleasure. In his dream there was warmth. Yellow sunlight. Green meadows. And a redheaded woman with tits like Rocky Ford muskmelons—except softer and smoother, o course—an a snatch every bit as wet, sweet, and juicy as the pale flesh of one of those same melons—except warmer, of course—and she wanted him. In the dream he knew she wanted him. Needed him. Practically cried out for him to take her, use her, plunge hip-deep inside her. She leaned close. Opened her mouth. Said … “Goddammit!”
Longarm frowned. That was not exactly what a fine redheaded lady was supposed to say. He wrinkled his nose and smacked his lips and wriggled around a bit in search of a more comfortable position on the iron-hard upholstery of the Union Pacific passenger coach. Now if only he could get back to that dream and, more to the point, to that redhead … “Goddammit all to hell an’ back,” the voice, a decidedly masculine voice, said for the second time.
Longarm wished whoever it was would shut the hell up. That was a mighty fine dream the son of a bitch was ruining. He tried to remind himself exactly where the dream had left off. The redheaded woman was naked, right? Or was she? Dammit, he couldn’t visualize her any longer.
“I insist we go ahead,” another voice said.
“Insist all you damn please. Put it in writing. You want the name and address of the president of the railroad? I’ll write it down for you.”
“I’ll have you fired if you don’t get me to Cheyenne on time,” the complainer whined.
“Then I expect I’m going to be fired, mister, because there sure God ain’t none of us making it into Cheyenne or any other place tonight. It’ll be this time tomorrow if you’re damn lucky, and that’s that.”
Longarm opened his eyes. He might as well. His sleep was gone and so was the redheaded woman. Just as well, though. The dream woman had been so sexy he might’ve come in his drawers just from thinking about her, and wouldn’t that have been an embarrassment for a grown man. He hadn’t done any such thing like that since he was … he tried to think back … thirteen? fourteen? Along about that ridiculously randy age, if he remembered correctly.
With a yawn and a broad stretch that chattered his jaw muscles and made his shoulders fairly ache, he sat up, blinking and trying to figure out what the problem was here.
The U.P. eastbound was stationary. That was one of the first things a fellow had to notice. The train was supposed to be clattering along the tracks somewhere between Evanston, Wyoming, which was the last station he recalled stopping at, and … how long had he been asleep? He made a rough guess without bothering to consult the key-wind Ingersoll in his pocket, and decided they couldn’t be as far as Laramie yet or he would be feeling a good bit more rested than was the case. All right, then, somewhere between Evanston and Laramie. Which gave him several hundred miles of leeway.
Wherever they were, there should be a sign on the depot platform. The coach windows were fogged over solid, so he rubbed his palm in a small circle to clear some of the frozen rime.
And found himself looking into a whipping, swirling mass of white.
Sometime since they’d pulled out of Evanston they’d gone and found one helluva snowstorm, it looked like.
Longarm yawned again and stretched some more. Up toward the front of the coach a couple of businessmen were arguing with the U.P. conductor. Toward the back, where the coal-fired stove was puffing and chuckling, the rest of the passengers were concentrating on keeping warm. And for a fact, it was cold as a whore’s heart inside the coach. Now that he was awake and paying attention, Longarm wished to hell he was back in that dream. If not for the redheaded woman, then for the sunshine and greenery of the place where he and that horny redhead had been romping. Damn, but it was cold now that he was paying attention to the fact.
Up toward the front of the car the conductor dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned close to the face of one of the argumentative passengers. Longarm couldn’t overhear what the conductor said, but he was pretty sure the conductor was one feisty little sonuvabitch, because even though the passenger was half a head taller and likely thirty pounds the heavier, it was the passenger who went kind of pale and reeled a step backward.
“Do I make myself clear?” the conductor asked in a normal voice.
“I guess.”
“Do I? Or do you want me to prove it?” the conductor demanded.
“You make yourself clear,” the passenger conceded. “I understand.”
“Thank you.” The conductor gave the unhappy passenger a fake smile that wouldn’t have fooled a toddler, and turned to face the rest of the car. Raising his voice so he could be heard throughout, he announced, “Everybody will be getting off here, folks. There’s snow blocking the tracks in the Bird Creek Cut on up the line, and nothing will be moving until the plows can clear the blockage and the dispatchers get things sorted out again. The Union Pacific will put you all up at the Jennison Arms—that’s at the road’s expense, mind—for as long as it takes. The telegraph lines are still open, so if anyone needs to inform your families or employers or whoever about the layover, feel free. The Union Pacific will pay for one message for each of you, up to … well. I don’t recall how many words you’re allowed, but the telegraph operator will know. If you want to claim your luggage to use during your stay here, there will be someone in the baggage compartment to help you. And don’t bother asking me when the tracks will be clear again, because I surely don’t know any more about that than you do.” The conductor smiled—it looked like the genuine article this time—and added, “If anybody wants to get into a betting pool on what time the wheels move east again, see me in the lobby of the Jennison Arms once we’re all settled. And by the way, heavy as that snow is blowing out there, I suggest we all move from the train to the hotel in one group. I’d hate for anybody to get lost and freeze to death between the platform and the inn.”