“Sit there please, Boone. And you over there please, marshal.”
“Ma’am?”
Belinda Joy clapped her hands in joy and said, “Really, boys. Shame on both of you. Chester Short? I’d be a poor sort of crotchety old lawbreaker if I couldn’t recognize the famous U.S. Deputy Custis Long, wouldn’t I? Please don’t worry, though. I won’t give your game away, dear, whatever it may be. And please forgive me my conceit. I didn’t want either one of you to think this old woman can be so easily taken in although I really should have remained silent, I suppose. I-” She was interrupted by a tapping at the heavy oak door. She raised her voice. “Yes?”
Joycelyn came in carrying one tray, followed by a really stunning Mexican girl with another.
“Thank you, ladies.” Belinda Joy oversaw the distribution of goodies—cigars to both gentlemen, tea to herself and Crockett, and a truly excellent distillation of rye whiskey for Longarm; the old bat really did seem to know what she was about—then prudently waited for the whores to depart before she toasted her guests and, still smiling, asked, “Now, boys. How may I help you?”
Chapter 30
Longarm stifled an almost overwhelming urge, quite naturally made all the more insistent because he didn’t dare give in to it, to sneeze. It was dusty as hell in the attic, the tiny motes swirling and twisting in the heavy, still air.
And hot? Lordy, he did reckon. Sweat soaked every stitch he was wearing and plastered the cloth tight to his overheated flesh all sticky and itchy. He removed his Stetson and laid it aside. Which was something of a relief from the heat that held his head in a furnace but which also made it possible for the sweat on his forehead to stream through his eyebrows to collect in his eye sockets where it stung and burned. He used an already sodden handkerchief to mop and swab at the offending perspiration but what he needed wasn’t a lousy hanky; what he needed was a tub—cold water, not hot—and a Turkish towel thick enough to require two to handle it. All right, a big towel and maybe a small Turkish girl to go with it. That should be all right.
Accepting the inevitable with a sigh, Longarm laid his cheek momentarily against the butt-stock of the beat-up old borrowed shotgun he was cuddling—he’d left his own fine Winchester in Denver since baseball players wouldn’t logically go a-traveling with so much armament to hand—and fought against an urge to close his eyes. In addition to everything else the heat in the damned attic was making him sleepy.
A little discomfort, though, would mean nothing if it allowed them, Longarm and the local boys, to catch the gang of thieves that seemed to be trailing alongside the Austin Capitals.
Last night Belinda Joy Love filled them in on the probabilities. There were indeed strangers in the neighborhood. Two of them. Young. Call it nineteen or twenty. One with yellow hair and the other with close-cropped brown hair. Lean, both of them, and not too tall. Horny as only the young can be horny and eager to release all that energy. Or so Belinda Joy’s girls reported. The girls would have related the exact preferences of the newcomers also except neither Longarm nor Boone Crockett gave a damn.
The information that Long and Crockett did value was the fact that each of the young men, one called Jim and the other Joey, each claimed that he was on the verge of coming into sudden money. And claimed as soon as they made their hits—their own words according to the whores—as soon as they did that they would be back with cash enough to buy the girls out for a whole night long and then they would have some real fun.
Forewarned with those tidbits of braggadocio, Longarm, Crockett, and Crockett’s two deputies were now intent on making sure there was no big hit to enrich the pockets of those two strangers in town.
There was no bank in town, not as such, but the largest mercantile offered storage boxes inside a massive steel safe. Boone Crockett had chosen to guard that one himself, hiding inside a closet where he could watch the seemingly unprotected safe without being observed.
The town marshal placed one of his deputies inside each of the saloons as well on the theory that those cash-heavy businesses would make for tempting targets if robbers wanted an easy score while the businesses were closed and all the townspeople out on the edge of town watching the ball game. And Longarm, not in uniform for the day thanks to his “suspension” by a supposedly angry club manager, took upon himself the task of protecting the United States Post Office.
Which was why he found himself lying in a hot and dusty and quite thoroughly miserable attic while his substance oozed out of his pores and trickled clean away.
Never, never, ever! had he been so hot or so uncomfortable. Not ever his whole life long.
He stifled an impulse to sneeze and another to scratch and wished those miserable little sonuvabitch robbers would walk in so he would have the satisfaction of making some-damn-body pay for this.
Chapter 31
Ha! Gotcha, you little SOB, Longarm thought as he heard a scratching at the side door, the faint creak of unoiled hinges, and soon the sound of slow, tentative bootsteps on the plank flooring.
Longarm strained to see what was going on down below. He was lying next to the ornate metal grillwork that covered the hole where, in other more comfortable times of the year, a stovepipe could be installed.
As it was he could see down into the post office but only at a sharp angle that covered a very limited field of vision. Still, he had a perfectly fine, almost directly overhead view of the post office safe. And that was what it was all about.
He heard the soft scrape of boot soles on wood, then a small clattering sound that he could not identify. No matter.
He debated whether to use the shotgun or his revolver once the robbers appeared beneath him. The shotgun would be awkward to bring into play in these close quarters but lethal when used. The Colt was more selective. Either way he would have to snatch the grate off in order to shoot down at anyone trying to break open the safe. And since one hand would be needed to pull the grate aside, perhaps he would be better off using the revolver. Careful to do it in silence, he laid the shotgun gently down and slid the big double action Colt out of his holster. Now all he needed was for the robbers
…
“Marshal?” Longarm blinked. Who the hell?
“Mr. Short?” the same voice called again, a little louder this time. “Where are you, sir?” There was a sound like a cupboard being opened and closed again. “Marshal Crockett said for me t’ come tell you there’s nothing doing, sir. Ball game’s over and everybody is on their way back. Those two boys you was warned about was out at the ball field along with everybody else, Boone says. Miz Joy sent a girl to tell him. They was out there drinking beer and eating peanuts and yelling like hell for that Texas team t’ win, sir. Uh, wherever you are.”
The local deputy was wandering around inside the post office while he spoke, directing his words to the counters and cabinets and into a broom closet so small it would barely hold a mop. Obviously the boy—Longarm thought his name was Tommy, Timmy, something like that—hadn’t been told precisely where to find the visiting fireman, only that he was to go find the federal man and deliver the message.
Longarm sighed. Dammit, if a man was gonna have to be this miserable he at least should have the satisfaction of it paying off. Too late for that, of course. “Hey! You down there.”
“Yes, sir?” The young deputy stared toward the ceiling in response to Longarm moving about now.
“Move that trash bin, will you? I don’t want to come down on it when I drop.” Longarm pulled aside the planks that covered the access hole to the attic, held Crockett’s shotgun down for the deputy to take, and lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands, then bent his knees a little and dropped the remaining way to the floor. And to breathable air. Hot as it was inside the closed building it was still a hell of a lot more comfortable at floor level than it had been in that cursed attic.