Longarm stopped for a moment to estimate the range from the back corner of the station building—which surely was the spot from which that shot had been fired—to the front door of the ladies’ outhouse. Forty yards? At least that, he decided.
A small-caliber pistol is a short-range firearm. Generally speaking, even in the hands of an expert, a .22 pistol could be considered to have an effective range of not more than fifteen yards. Twenty-five yards tops, and that was if the shooter had a solid rest for his hand.
Most handgun combat is undertaken, Longarm knew perfectly well, at distances of from two to eight yards. And never mind what the dime novels claimed. The people back East who wrote and printed them, Ned Buntline and his ilk, might not know any better, but Longarm and all his fellow peace officers damn sure did. Gunfights are mostly belly-to-belly affairs, and the man who is steady enough to draw a bead and take aimed fire from longer ranges is one mighty rare bird indeed.
This guy, though, had shot from an estimated … no, screw this estimated stuff. Longarm wanted to know for sure. He strode to the back corner of the station and, marching in a straight line, paced off the distance to the outhouse.
Forty-two yards. His guess had been close.
He looked back over his shoulder and reflected on the view of the outhouse he’d had from the ambusher’s place of hiding. There was a square-on view of the door to the women’s shitter, but the wider two-holer assigned to the men sat at a slight angle so that from that south end of the station building there was only an oblique view of the men’s outhouse door. Anyone coming out of that outhouse would be momentarily screened from view by the swing of the wooden door itself, and if the victim then happened to move to his left instead of coming straight on, there would be no good shot at all. In order to be sure of getting a good shot at someone emerging from the men’s outhouse an ambusher would have to set up at the north end of the station. And if he were standing there he would be in view of the men who were working in the barn.
Interesting, Longarm thought as he pondered the facts. Damned well interesting.
He pulled out a panatela—later on if the mud dried enough to be a little less sloppy, perhaps he could walk out to the stranded coach and get some of his own brand of cheroots; the panatelas were nice and he was grateful to have them, but they couldn’t compare with his old favorites—and took his time about lighting the thing.
He puffed on the cigar for a few minutes while he rolled a few things around in his mind.
Then, satisfied, he said, “Reckon the excitement is over. You can come out now.”
“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” the blue bitch’s voice called from behind the closed outhouse door.
“No chance o’ that,” he assured her.
“Very well then.” The door came open with a faint creaking of the rusty spring, and the veiled woman stepped outside to join Longarm.
“Turn around for a second, if you don’t mind, please.”
“Pardon me?”
“Please.”
With a small shrug of her shoulders the woman turned to face away.
Longarm reached forward and quickly snapped the steel bracelet of a handcuff onto her left wrist, yanked it hard back, and clamped the other cuff securely on her right wrist.
“What the hell are you-?”
“It’s best you should understand that I don’t figure to screw around with you. You set me up, woman. You brought me out here deliberate as hell an’ set me up t’ be murdered in cold blood. Can’t be no other way, as I see it. So don’t expect no sympathy or gentle treatment. Long as you’re in my custody, woman, you toe the line. Otherwise I put leg irons an’ a gag on you too an’ pack you in like a hog being carried to slaughter. And if you really give me trouble, it could happen that you’ll be shot whilst trying escape. Understand?” The last was pure bullshit. But she didn’t need to know that.
“I’ll have your badge for this, damn you.”
“You an’ your boyfriend had your chance t’ get that. Since you can’t take it off my corpse, I reckon you got t’ pay the penalty for failing. Now shut up an’ hold still while I shake you down t’ see if you’re carrying iron.”
Without further preamble he bent down and stuck a hand under the back of her gown. He intended to take no more chances with this murderous bitch and her as yet unknown playmate.
Chapter 34
Shocked scarcely began to describe the expressions of the others stranded at Burdick’s when Longarm brought the blue-gowned woman in wearing handcuffs—and, incidentally, cussing to make a mule skinner blush. The woman sure as hell had a mouth on her.
In a few terse and well-chosen words Longarm explained just why it was he had put her under arrest. “Quick as I can get her before a federal judge,” he concluded, “she’ll be charged with conspiracy to assault a federal officer. Maybe some other stuff if I can get the U.S. attorney t’ go along. Way I see it”—he paused to take a deep, satisfying drag on the cigar—“she’ll do three years at the least, ten if we can finagle the deal so she comes up before old Judge Hardash. Hardass is what most call him behind his back. An’ he owes me a favor besides.”
“But why would this poor woman want to harm you, Marshal?” Jean Burdick asked.
“I’m not real sure ‘bout that, ma’am. My guess is that her boyfriend got her t’ do it. Hell, could be that’s how she makes a living, setting men up for the boyfriend t’ shoot.”
Mrs. Burdick’s hand flew to her throat in horror, and she looked wildly around at the men—all of them strangers to her—who were gathered in her common room.
If what Longarm claimed was true, one of these men was a deliberate, cold-blooded murderer. And likely had been for quite some time past.
“I think,” Mrs. Burdick said, “we should get my husband in here. After all, he is in charge.”
“Yes, ma’am. As you wish.”
Longarm shoved the veiled woman onto a stool in a corner of the big room, being none too gentle about it, and growled, “Sit still if you like, or I can shackle you in place an’ make sure of it. Your choice.”
She said nothing. Because of the veil he could not see her expression. Likely that was a blessing, he decided.
“Long.”
“Yes, Tyler?”
“Do you know who the woman’s, um, alleged accomplice might be?”
Longarm’s only answer was a wolfish grin.
Let the son of a bitch read that and work it out for himself, Longarm thought with grim satisfaction.
Mrs. Burdick was back within moments, Howard and all four other station employees trailing along behind her. Burdick looked concerned. The stagecoach crews looked like spectators gathering for a prizefight. Or perhaps something even more bloodily entertaining.
“What is this, Long? Have you really placed this lady under arrest?”
“Ayuh, I sure as hell have, Howard. Though I think it’s kinda pushing credibility t’ call her a lady.”
Longarm took hold of the brim of her chapeau and gave it a yank, pulling away hat and veil alike.
The woman who was revealed to view had auburn hair and hard features, her cheeks marred by childhood pox scars and her mouth set in a thin, furious scowl. She had pale eyes and uncommonly thick eyebrows.
It took him several moments of searching through his memory to come up with a name to go with those features.
“I’ll be damned.”
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said yet, you son of a bitch,” the woman told him.
“Clementine Bonner, right?”
“Up yours, shithead.”
“Yeah, that’s you, all right.” To the others in the big room he said, “Miss Bonner is on a gracious plenty of wanted posters. Mostly from Nebraska, Missouri, some from Illinois an’ Minnesota, if I remember a’right. The lady’s specialty, y’see, is murder. She’ll spot a mark she thinks has a wad o’ cash on him an’ bat her eyelashes some. Though God knows why anybody’d want t’ make the two-back beast … uh, excuse me, Miz Burdick, I kinda forgot m’self there.”