Longarm in Hell's Half Acre (7 page)

Longarm had noticed the woman sitting nearby within seconds of taking his own seat. Auburn-haired, petite, dark-eyed, ruby-lipped, and dressed in a high-necked, dove-gray dress with white ruffles at the throat, she was the kind any man would have easily described as a rare beauty. Dramatically striking and stately, he immediately recognized her as a distinct anomaly in most of the West, where life tended to be relentlessly hard on everyone, but destructive in the extreme when it came to the fairer sex. But more important than all of that, he took note of how she occasionally cast nervous, fleeting glances his way and, sometimes, appeared to allow herself a partial, tense smile when doing so.

All Longarm could see of the lady's combative companion, who was mostly hidden behind the glossy green leaves of a large potted plant, was a portion of the man's wide back and a flushed ear that peeked from a pile of stringy shoulder-length hair. But he didn't miss the snakelike arm that flicked out, or the broad, hard hand that smacked the woman across the mouth and drew blood to already crimson lips.

Appearing shocked and embarrassed by the vicious turn of events, the brown-eyed beauty ducked her head and tried to hide the consequences of the blow. Longarm grimaced. Nothing worse than being slapped in public, he thought, then took another sip from his recently refilled glass. That's the exact kind of stupidity that could get a man killed if he tried it on the wrong person.

The second lick sounded like a pistol shot and snapped Longarm's head back, as though he'd taken the forceful blow himself. He grunted like a teased circus bear on a thick metal chain, stood, then dropped a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table to cover the meal. He took his time and downed the last swallow from the fresh double shot of Maryland rye, slid the empty glass onto the littered table, then strode to the lady's side.

Tears streaked her reddened cheeks. Longarm could see the imprint of the hand on her face—each and every thick, stubby finger had left a mark. She glanced up at him as though pleading for help, but quickly let her gaze drop to the hands in her lap, where she absentmindedly twisted at a rouge-stained napkin.

Longarm stopped, tipped his hat in the woman's direction, then glanced down at the brute who'd twice slapped the hell out of the lady in a busy, popular restaurant filled with people. Square-jawed, beady-eyed, and obviously drunk, the woman's assailant snapped, “What the fuck you want, asshole?”

Longarm bowed slightly at the waist. “Couldn't help but notice this beautiful young woman's unnecessary distress. Thought perhaps I might be of some assistance.”

The bruiser leaned back in his chair. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his vest, then said, “I don't need no assistance from you, or any other cocksucker in this goddamn dump. So why don't you jus' shut the fuck up and hike your long, stringy ass on back to wherever'n hell you came from, 'fore I get up out'n this here chair and kick the shit outta you.”

“Bold talk from a man sittin' down, who's gonna have to get to his feet before I beat the hell out of him.”

The bruiser snarled, like a cornered cur. His lip peeled back over yellowed, canine teeth. “Well, then, don't do somethin' stupid enough to make me get up. If'n I have to get outta my seat, I'm gonna bust you out like a kid's paper bag full of horehound candy. Damn sure ain't gonna sit here much longer and listen to your kinda lip.”

Longarm smiled. He snapped a quick, concerned glance at the teary-eyed woman. “Do hope you'll pardon me, ma'am. This won't take but a moment.”

The Colt Frontier model pistol resting in Longarm's cross-draw holster flashed out. Its heavy barrel caught the drunken bully flush across the skull a few inches above the bridge of his nose. A pink spray of flying blood splattered the greenery sitting nearby.

The carefully applied blow knocked the thug backward nigh two feet. His chair legs squawked in protest on the polished hardwood floor. The wobbling seat went over and dumped the abusive bully on his back in a semiconscious, twitching heap. A deep gash sliced across the brute's rock-hard noggin, flowed freely, and leaked a wide pool of blood onto the floor beneath him. He pissed himself, then threw up.

The hostess in the wine-colored dress, a waiter who appeared on the edge of apoplexy, and a muscular, thick-necked bouncer arrived at the table at almost the same instant. Longarm slid the long-barreled pistol back into its holster and raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance.

“No need to be concerned, folks,” he said. “Nothing to worry yourselves about. I'll gladly pay to have the floor and wall cleaned, but would like to suggest you remove this heap of woman-abusing trash from my sight before I completely lose any control of my temper I have left and stomp the absolute livin' hell out of 'im.”

An elegantly dressed gentleman, whom Longarm immediately recognized, pushed his way through the growing crowd. His snow-white shirt, tailored suit, diamond stickpin, and highly buffed boots advertised his chosen profession as a sporting man. The bulge in a pants pocket Longarm knew to be leather lined gave away the presence of a heavy pistol. His diminutive stature ensured that even the least-informed visitor in all of Fort Worth would have recognized the White Elephant's colorful, and dangerous, owner—Luke Short.

Short's face broke into a wide, moustachioed smile, and he extended his hand. “Well, I'll just be damned. If it ain't the one and only Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long.”

Longarm shook Short's immaculately clean, manicured paw, slapped the pocket-sized gambler on the shoulder, then said, “Been a spell, ain't it, Luke?”

“Well, yes it has. Two, maybe even three years, I'd venture. Silver City, I think.”

“Coulda been. Yessir, coulda been.”

Short glanced at the unconscious drunk lying on the floor of his restaurant in a puddle of piss, puke, and blood. “Hit him pretty hard, didn't you, Custis?”

“Well, he's a big ole boy. Big enough that I figured it best not to let him get outta his chair, if possible. But, gotta tell you, my pistol bounced right off his thick head like I'd whacked an oak stump.”

Short reclaimed his hand, stepped over to a bloodless spot beside the man on the floor, then said, “Looks like you knocked him colder than a log-splitting wedge in Montana, Custis. What'd he do to piss you off?”

Longarm motioned toward the woman. “Son of a bitch slapped the hell outta this lady. Mighta been able to forgive such stupidity once. But hell, he did it twice. Don't know 'bout anyone else, but I can't abide a man who'll abuse a woman like that.”

Luke Short shot a bored, somewhat less-than-interested glance at the damaged lady. “Just can't get away from those Southern-bred cavalier's ways, can you, Custis? Always out to help defenseless women, old people, and children. As I'm a bettin' man, I'd bet that some skirt-wearing twitch is gonna get you killed one of these days.”

“You know me, Luke. Have a right tender spot in my heart for the weaker sex. 'Specially when they have to defend themselves from the likes of that blockheaded, thick-skulled bastard.”

Short took Longarm by the elbow. In a low and conspiratorial voice, he said, “Might wanta get her outta here, Custis. We'll take care of her companion. I'll have my bouncers drag him out into the alley, drop him in a nice pile of garbage, and let him sleep off that rap across the face you gave him. Maybe he'll learn something from this experience, but I doubt it. Men like this one aren't usually all that bright, and it's been my experience that most are the kind who'll carry a grudge around for a lifetime.” Short paused for a second, glanced down at the prostrate man again, then said, “Probably should have just gone ahead and killed him.”

Longarm nodded. “Well, just couldn't bring myself to impose on your hospitality like that, Luke.” Then he swung back around to the table and held out his hand. The shattered woman dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. “Think it's best if you'd come with me, ma'am. We'll take the air along Main Street for a few minutes. Give you a chance to clear your head. No need to stay here any longer.”

As she rose, her trembling hand grasped his arm. He led her to the White Elephant's door, and from there onto the boardwalk along Fort Worth's busy Main Street. The broiling heat of the day had abated a bit with the setting of a molten sun. A breeze out of the north that felt almost cool stirred the dense, dusty air.

The seething crowd on the boardwalk and in the streets and doorways appeared to have grown dramatically during Longarm's meal in the White Elephant's fancy restaurant. Gas lamps flickered atop iron poles on almost every corner, but offered little in the way of real illumination.

The muffled popping of gunshots—from a busy shooting gallery named Blackwell's located right next door to Luke Short's sumptuous palace of earthly delights—sounded like the dampened explosions of fancy Chinese fireworks on the occasion of a festive celebration, or perhaps an election. Spent gunpowder laced the night air with an acrid smell that passersby could easily taste.

Knots of exuberant cowboys, dressed in colorful bandannas and massive Boss of the Plains hats, jingled up and down both sides of the street in search of liquor, women, and entertainment. Horses crowded the hitch rails, switching their tails and stamping their feet to shoo enormous flies away. The carefree sounds of laughter and rinky-dink piano music rose and fell with the opening and closing of every door.

Longarm guided his beautiful charge across the dusty thoroughfare, then stopped on the walkway in front of Merchant's Restaurant long enough for her to cling to his arms, lean against his chest, and weep.

As tenderly as possible, Longarm used his finger to lift the weeping woman's face so he could gaze into her eyes. Flickering lamplight played across the flawless skin of her face and heightened an already stunning beauty. When she leaned against him, her head hit him in the middle of his chest. But while tiny in stature, he noted all the female attributes that would easily attract the attention of any red-blooded male. High, firm breasts were enhanced by a narrow waist and a beautifully shaped caboose.

“You needn't worry, ma'am. He'll not bother you again. I'll personally see to it.”

She released her grip on his arms, leaned away, reached into a pocket somewhere in the folds of her gray dress, then dabbed at red-rimmed eyes with a tiny square of white cloth. “I barely knew the brute. We met on the stage from Jacksboro this very morning.”

“I'm sure you're aware that such casual meetings can sometimes prove most unfortunate in this day and time. Evil men roam the countryside like hungry animals.”

“But he was most gracious. And when we arrived in town, he insisted that I accompany him to dinner. I tried to explain that my stage east would leave before we could possibly finish, but he would not listen. He grabbed my arm and virtually dragged me along with him.”

“Why didn't you call out? I'm confident there are plenty of men who'd be more than willing to help a beautiful woman—even in a place like Hell's Half Acre.”

She sniffled, then said, “He told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I caused any problem, the consequences would be most severe. Given the circumstances, I believed him.”

“Well, I must admit that your response was more than understandable.”

“As soon as we got seated inside the White Elephant, he started drinking. His personality changed so quickly. I've never before witnessed such an amazing, and frightening, transformation. And worse, I found the ill will that came out of the man impossible to fathom.”

Longarm turned the girl and pointed her north toward Second Street. “Let's stroll a few blocks, take in the evening air. You can catch your breath. Sure it'll help settle your nerves.”

As they passed the glass-paned, carpeted entry to the Centennial Theater, she said, “I heard that dapper, well-dressed little gentleman in the White Elephant call you Marshal Long.”

“Yes.” He bowed slightly, tipped his hat, then said, “Forgive my ill-mannered negligence, ma'am. The heat of the moment appears to have left me a bit inattentive, I think. Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long, your obedient servant.”

She stroked his arm. “Please don't call me ma'am, or missus. Those terms make me feel so old. My name is Matilda Wayland. My friends know me as Mattie. I'd be pleased if you called me Mattie, as well, Marshal Long.”

“Mattie?”

“Yes.”

“I like it.”

At the corner of Fort Worth's Main and Second, she leaned against him as though they were lovers, then let her head rest on his upper arm. “Wish I'd never spoken to the man. My mother taught me better. My God, what must I have been thinking?” she mumbled.

“Say you met him on the Jacksboro stage?”

“Yes, I'd made the connection from Wichita Falls on my way to visit family in Tyler.”

As they stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the El Paso Hotel, Longarm said, “Quite a long trip for an unescorted lady, don't you think? Wouldn't it have been better to travel in the company of an attendant or relative?”

“No,” she said. “I've never considered my solitary travels as any immediate threat to my person. I've made this exact same journey a number of times before, and met many other men on the coach without incident.”