Longarm was seated in his chair as usual, at the side of the table, the chair tipped back against the wall at a comfortable angle. The position was a natural one from which Longarm’s boot snapped straight up at the same time the ex-con was dragging iron. The toe of Longarm’s boot slammed into the ex-con’s knuckles just below the protection of the trigger guard on the old Colt. There was the muted, faintly brittle sound of bone breaking, and the ex-con cried out in sudden pain as his revolver went spinning end over end across the room. It landed in fresh sawdust and skittered to a halt.
By then Longarm was out of his chair with the ex-con’s good hand pulled tight behind the man’s back. Longarm pulled up on the arm, and the fellow had the choice of coming onto his tiptoes or standing firm and letting his elbow break. Sobbing, although probably more in rage and frustration than in pain, he gave in to the pressure.
“Y’know, old son, what I prob’ly ought to do here is give you a lesson in manners the old-fashioned way. You know how I mean. Take my handcuffs and whip your face an’ head with them until I’m too worn out to whip on you anymore. That’s the sort of lesson you an’ your kind understand. But I reckon I’m too soft for my own good. So I’ll do this by the book an’ hope you learn something from it anyhow. Mind, though. if you go an’ disappoint me I won’t have much choice but to Put a bullet in your belly. You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was what they taught them when they were inside. The Man was always Sir. Every con knew that.
“Yes, sir,” this con docilely repeated.
“That’s fine then. Bring your other hand behind you. That’s right. Now hold it there. That’s fine, thank you.” Longarm cuffed the stupid SOB’s hands behind his back and told the bartender, “Don’t let anything happen till I get back, hear.”
Then he led his prisoner out of the saloon and up the canyon toward Harry Bolt’s Cargyle jail. Not that Longarm wanted to owe Harry any favors, but his was the only jail around. He had no choice but to lodge his man there until he could make arrangements to have the poor sonuvabitch hauled up to Denver so he could be charged and tried for assault on a federal officer.
Chapter 24
If the crowd Longarm drew had been willing to drink while they watched, Clete Terry would forever have been in Longarm’s debt. But for some unspoken yet almost inviolable reason the men who gathered in the saloon were somber, quiet, and nearly completely dry.
Longarm doubted the place sold two dollars worth of beer and liquor that evening, and the gambling tables were empty. The whores stayed out of sight too, and presumably had the night off to spend with their families. Or off somewhere sulking about the lack of income if they had no families in town.
The night bartender—there was no sign of Terry himself—tried to limit the free dinner spread to those who bought and paid for at least one beer. Even that was not enough to promote the sale of any beer. Nor, for that matter, to curb the appetites of those who wanted to help themselves to the free food. The bartender eventually solved his problem by taking the free dinner away and posting a hand-lettered sign offering a beer and sandwich for ten cents. Longarm didn’t see any takers for that deal, which everyone was used to getting anyway for the nickel price of the beer.
“You know, mister, things sure were better around here before you came along,” the bartender told Longarm at one point, a note of exasperation plain in his voice.
“I got no problem with you, friend. You go right ahead an’ do whatever you generally do.”
“Mister, I’m generally busy selling beer.”
“I wish I could help you. I truly do.”
“You could go away.”
Longarm sighed. “Your boss knows what this is about.”
“Look, maybe I can talk to him.”
“Go ahead.”
“If you’d just tell me what it is you want …”
“Restitution,” Longarm said.
“Pardon me?”
“The word is …”
“Oh, I know the word. I just don’t understand you using it in connection with this here. Whatever has Clete done that you’re wanting him to make restitution?”
“He knows. I’m sure he’ll understand if you tell him what I’ve said.”
“Mister, I’d be willing to memorize a bunch of nonsense from you if that would get things back to normal.”
“Then all you need to tell him is that one word, friend. Restitution. He can take it from there if he wants.”
“I’ll sure try it.” The bartender looked indecisive for a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell. He said I was to take charge.” The fellow raised his voice and called out, “We’re closing again, boys. Everybody go on now. We’re shutting down for the night.”
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock.
Longarm waited until everyone else was out, then stood outside and watched while the place was closed down and locked. He would check again later, of course, to make sure they didn’t reopen once he was gone. What he was figuring, though, was that Clete Terry was a man who couldn’t stand to lose money too many days in a row. And for the time being he would be spending more to keep his saloon afloat than he was taking in from the few paying customers.
Before very long, Longarm figured, Terry would be wanting to reach an accommodation. Or square off in a last-ditch fight. One or the other. The truth was that Longarm didn’t much give a shit which way Cletus Terry decided to go.
He left the dark and silent saloon behind and went to see about a dinner for three that he could carry back to the Fulton house.
Chapter 25
Longarm was proud of himself. Angela had had Buddy change the sheets on her bed this afternoon, and Longarm had been able to get all the way through the meal without slopping any broth, clabber, or honey-sweetened tea onto the clean bedding. He considered that an accomplishment of the first water.
“You look a lot better this evening,” he said as he piled the dirty dishes onto the tray he’d brought from the cafe.
“You’re just saying that,” Angela protested. “I’m sure I look a perfect sight.”
He grinned. “If you’re feeling up to fishin’ for compliments, ma’am, then I reckon you’re on the mend for certain sure.”
“Compliments? Why, I intended no such thing.”
“Huh. So you say. But I been around a while, y’know. An’ any time a pretty lady goes to mentioning how bad she looks, it’s for sure she wants a gentleman to correct that statement by telling her how good she looks. Mind you remember that, Buddy. It’s a truth every man should oughta know.”
The boy grinned. Angela tried to, but ended up wincing as the expression pulled at the corners of her mouth where her scabs were still mighty tender.
“I can take them dishes back, Mr. Long,” Buddy offered.
“Those dishes,” his mother corrected.
“Yes M.”
“Thanks for the offer, son, but I have to go right past there anyway.”
“Could I help you carry them then? I’m strong, you know. I can help.”
“All right. That sounds fair.” Longarm figured the boy probably wanted to help pull his weight. Possibly his mama had spoken to him about that before Longarm returned that evening. Whatever, there was no reason why he couldn’t carry some of the stuff if he wanted to. “That all right with you, Miz Fulton? I’ll send him right back in case you need anything before I come in for the night.”
“I’m fine here. Really.”
“Good. Buddy, you can go ahead an’ gather up the rest of the things. I’ll take the tray an’ you can carry that pail there.”
Not the least bit shy about the open display of affection, Buddy kissed his mother goodbye, then he and Longarm took the soiled containers and whatnot that Longarm had brought from the cafe, carrying them out into the young night.