Longarm #431 (12 page)

“Come on out, Kurt. We got you surrounded,” Longarm shouted.

Most of the doors to the cribs along the hall were standing open after the occupants fled. Two remained closed. Longarm figured Kurt Tatum pretty much had to be inside one of those.

Temporarily. Longarm intended to have his ass out of there in another minute or two.

He stood in front of the first of the closed doors, hesitated for only a moment, then kicked the door open. Wood splintered and the latch was broken, and inside there were screams. Apparently this was the place where a number of the whores had taken refuge.

But there was no sign of Kurt.

Longarm touched the brim of his Stetson and nodded. “Sorry, ladies.”

He moved down to the last closed door.

“Kurt. I'm takin' you in. The question is, d' you walk out or are you carried by your pallbearers,” Longarm shouted.

A bullet came smashing through the flimsy door.

“Well,” Longarm murmured, “that answers that question. Now I know where the bastard is.”

He heard a crash from inside the room, followed by screams from the room next door.

With a grunt of effort, Longarm kicked the last door open, stepped into the doorway and triggered six quick shots from his “spare” .45, then dropped it and palmed his own tried and true Colt.

As he had more than half hoped, Kurt Tatum counted the shots and made the fatal mistake of thinking Longarm's gun was empty.

The man stepped into the hallway, emerging from the room next door after smashing through the paper-thin wall. He held a Remington revolver and wore nothing but a smirk as he prepared to gun down the lawman.

But instead of facing a man with an empty revolver, he looked into the muzzle of Longarm's Colt.

The .45 erupted, spewing lead and flame and smoke, all three of which flashed in the direction of Kurt Tatum's gut.

Longarm's first shot struck hard. The second doubled him over. A third, aimed with care, drove through Kurt's forehead and beyond. Tatum dropped as if he were poleaxed. He never got a shot off.

It took a few minutes for the smoke to clear and for people's hearing to return after the concussion of the gunfire indoors, but eventually heads began to appear inquisitively as the working girls came to look at the rivers of blood that had been spilled in their house.

“Someone best run get Marshal Hughes,” Longarm said.

“I already sent my maid to fetch him,” the madam responded. “Would you like a drink?”

“I would, come t' think of it,” Longarm said. He had a headache from the repeated explosions, but it was nothing that a shot of rye could not cure.

“Go on into the parlor then,” the madam told him. “There are decanters on the sideboard. Help yourself. Are you . . . that is to say . . . ?”

“No,” Longarm said, even though he knew good and well that the woman was asking if he was the law. “Just bad blood.” Which was true enough in a way. Those three had taken the life of a federal officer when they gunned down that mail clerk. That was more than enough cause for there to be bad blood between them.

Longarm got his drink. And his arrest. “We couldn't come to an agreement,” he said when Marshal Hughes showed up.

He grinned when they got back to the jail. “How much is it gonna cost me this time t' bond out, Wilse?”

Longarm was up early the next morning. Instead of going to Buck's café for breakfast he walked down to the livery and paid for a horse and saddle, then tied them on the street in front of the hotel before leaving the horse behind and walking to the café for a quick meal.

From there he hurried back to his room and sat at the window watching down the street to the town marshal's office. Melody Thompson showed up about eight thirty.

If the information Hortense gave him was correct, Melody would tell Hughes to wait a bit before he informed Longarm of Al Gray's supposed whereabouts. By then she would be in position to ambush him on his way to wherever that was supposed to be.

She was, he noticed, wearing riding clothes instead of her usual gown.

When she left the marshal's office, Longarm followed her, keeping well back and leading the rented horse.

The presence of the horse was actually a help to him and not a bother. He could walk beside the animal and use it to shield him from view if she happened to turn and look around.

The woman's confidence was such that she never bothered to look behind her, though.

Melody went to a small house on the edge of town and went inside.

Longarm loitered behind a tall, spreading lavender bush, his horse cropping grass beside him, while Melody was inside. Five minutes or so after she went indoors she reappeared. And this time Al Gray was with her.

So was a long, fringed buckskin rifle scabbard. So far everything Hortense had said was right on the money. Longarm mouthed a silent thank-you to the little girl with the big heart. When he got back to town, he thought, he wanted to give that girl and her children whatever reward was posted for Gray. It seemed only fair.

As for Wilson Hughes, Longarm simply did not know what to do. He knew perfectly well what he
wanted
to do. He wanted to throw the son of a bitch behind bars.

But Hughes so far had done nothing that was against federal law. If Hughes had indeed sent Longarm on the trail where Al Gray and Melody Thompson would be waiting to kill him, Longarm could have arrested the man on a charge of conspiring to murder a federal officer. By bypassing that and following the lethal duo on his own, Longarm would not have that meeting with the marshal and so he could not prove the conspiracy.

It seemed a shame, he thought.

On the other hand . . .

Melody and Gray acted like they did not have a care in the world. Certainly they did not worry about anyone trailing them. They rode side by side, holding hands like a pair of lovers, on the road toward Wildwood, Gray astride and Melody on a sidesaddle. As if she were a virgin and needed to protect that cherry.

Custis Long kept out of sight as much as he could and followed.

The pair turned off the road two miles or so out of town and rode into an aspen grove on a low hill flanking the road.

Longarm's smile was grim as he looked for a place to leave his horse.

He intended to give them a little time up there—perhaps they could find some way to pass the time together while they waited for the fly to enter their trap—then, well, then they would just have to see who did what to whom.

Fucking amateurs,
Longarm thought. He had been over this road, back and forth, just days earlier and he could think of at least two other ambush sites that would have been better. Not that he was complaining.

They had chosen the place closest to town. Lazy bastards. Did they think he would be that easy to take down?

Longarm grunted softly to himself. Apparently yes, they indeed did think he was that easy. Hell, he had been the last time. Melody's bullet had missed by less than an inch that time or he would now be dead.

But then the last time he had not been expecting to be gunned down from ambush.

The difference was that this time he knew what he was up against.

He tied the rented horse—it was a good thing that the creature was a lazy, stumbling bum; it would not likely jerk free and run home—but took the stubby little shotgun with him.

He had four spare shotgun shells in his coat pocket, each of them loaded with a full ounce of no. 2 goose shot, and his two .45 Colts. He had thought about borrowing a rifle from Wilson Hughes, but that would have given the game away too soon. Hughes might well have found a way to warn Gray and Thompson about what Longarm was up to. It was a risk he did not need to take.

He checked the loads in his guns, stuffed the spare Colt into his waist at the small of his back, and began stalking the deadly duo.

There was no brush close beside the public road, but there was more than enough scrub oak and fans of spreading juniper on the string of low hills—mounds, really—on the side of the road where Gray and Melody were hiding.

Keeping out of sight from them as much as possible, Longarm took his time with the approach.

Whether deer or man, there is no trick to stalking them. Just take your time, think about how slowly you need to go and then go even slower. And watch where you put your clumsy damn feet. Of those, going slowly is the most important.

And Longarm did go slowly.

A tortoise could have outrun him, and he would not have minded in the slightest. He was careful to avoid letting the brush snag his clothing and even more careful about placing his feet where they would make the least noise.

They did make some noise. That was unavoidable. And in his ears those very faint cracklings of dried leaves sounded like drums pounding or signal guns booming.

Neither Al Gray nor Melody Thompson heard any of it.

He was able to creep up onto the hill behind them and then descend, slowly and carefully, until he was within nine or ten yards and at their backs.

Al Gray was the one who seemed to be nervous. Gray fidgeted. Picked a scab on his hand. Dug a fingernail into his ear. Stood up every minute or two to look back along the road Longarm was supposed to be following.

Melody was calm and businesslike. She had swept the leaves and twigs away to make a nest in the grass and stretched out there with the rifle beside her. She placed a low pile of flat rocks in front of her and padded them with a blanket she removed from behind her saddle. With a good rest to shoot from, he had no doubt she would be able to clip the ears off a housefly.

Her rifle was a custom outfit. A Schuetzen with double-set triggers, hooded sights, an odd-shaped stock, and a palm rest. He had no idea what the caliber would be. That could be a custom job as well.

Whatever, the rifle was a thing of beauty. Some gun maker somewhere should be justifiably proud of his creation despite the low purpose Melody was putting it to these days.

Longarm took a deep breath and dried his palms on his trousers, then stepped out of the brush behind and slightly above the two.

“Afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “Nice day for a walk, ain't it?”

They looked to him like they nearly shit their pants at the sound behind them. Both rolled onto their sides and stared behind them, wide-eyed with surprise.

And fear. The sight of a sawed-off shotgun staring down at you can do that.

Al Gray in particular looked like he might piss himself. Melody Thompson did not take the shock exactly in stride, but she did not look as worried as Gray did.

“Stand up, you lovebirds. An' keep your hands where I can see 'em,” Longarm said, motioning encouragement with the barrels of his shotgun. “An' you, Al, you can leave your six-gun on the ground there. You won't be needin' it, or at least you won't be havin' it, where you're going. Melody dear, same thing with your rifle. Which I admire, by the way. It's handsome.”

Both stood. Reluctantly, but they stood. Both raised their hands, too.

“No need for that,” Longarm said. “Put your arms down. You'll tire yourselves t' no purpose if you try and hold 'em up like that. Now in a minute I'm gonna toss you some handcuffs. Melody, you can put 'em on your partner there.”

Longarm held the shotgun aimed generally downhill while he dug in a pocket looking for some handcuffs.

“You son of a bitch,” Melody snapped. “You changed hats. That's why I didn't recognize you. You were wearing a brown hat when I shot you. But I swear I thought I'd killed you. Now you have on that gray hat, damn you. How's come I didn't kill you that day?”

“Yeah,” Gray said. “I saw you on the ground. I thought you were dead.”

“Close,” Longarm said, “but no cigar.” He did not particularly feel like complimenting Melody on her marksmanship or telling her how very close she did come to killing him. “What was the deal there? Freeing your partner, were you?”

“At least that worked,” Melody said.

“For a little while,” Longarm agreed.

“You bastard,” Melody snarled.

“Now, darlin', that's not the way you were talking to me the other night. You were cooing like a lovebird when you had my dick in you,” Longarm said with a sarcastic smile.

“What!” Al Gray exploded. “You fucked him? You told me you didn't do anything with him.”

“Oh, close your yap, Alton. I'm a whore. What would you expect me to do with him?” she returned.

“But the son of a bitch is a marshal. He's taking us to prison. And you, you bitch, you fucked him. If that wasn't bad enough, you lied to me about it afterward.”

“At least he's a complete man, Al. You can't even get it up to fuck me,” Melody said, contempt twisting her features.

“You bitch!” Gray dipped his hand into a pocket and came up with a tiny .22-caliber revolver. He pushed his hand forward. Pressed the little gun beneath Melody's left tit and pulled the trigger.

The explosion, small to begin with, was almost completely muffled by her flesh.

Melody looked down at herself, aghast, and fell.

Longarm's shotgun exploded and the left side of Al Gray's hip and belly were turned into red mush. Worse, one or more of the pellets ripped his stomach open. Gray coils of intestine spilled out.

The man collapsed. He fell on top of Melody, the coils of gut covering her pretty face.

By the time Longarm reached them Gray was dead. He pulled the man away from Melody and swept the shiny, gray coils off of her.

“At least,” she whispered, “you won't get me into no damn courtroom to be stared at like a monkey in a cage. So fuck you, Long.”

Longarm cleaned her up as best he could and sat with her until she was dead. Then he marked the spot so it could be easily seen from the road below. He found their horses and rode down to where he had left his animal.

The liveryman was going to be unhappy, Longarm knew, when he reclaimed the Remount Service's borrowed horses. And the gear that had been on them.

Hortense, on the other hand, should be pleased with the reward Longarm intended to see that she got. The money would go a long way toward taking care of her children.

As for that bastard Wilson Hughes, there was nothing Longarm could do about him. Longarm had no authority when it came to state law. But oh, he wished he could come up with some federal charge against the man.

He intended to ask Billy Vail to look into that when he got back to Denver.

Which would not be soon enough.