Longarm 397 : Longarm and the Doomed Beauty (9781101545973) (8 page)

“Ah, now, that ain't true, neither, miss,” Longarm said, gently rocking the girl and patting her fragile back. “That's what they sent me here to do—to see that you make it back down the mountains to your home in Pinecone—and that's exactly what I'm gonna do.”

He glanced over at Deputy Panabaker staring at him, the kid's brows furled jealously.

“Deputy, go pick me an' Miss Pritchard out two of the finest horses in town. Speedsters with bottom and hearts like Baldwin locomotives.”

The young deputy's expression turned incredulous. “Ain't you gonna wait on the train?”

“They clear the tracks yet?”

“Should be clear by tomorrow. We just got word this mornin'.”

Longarm shook his head. “Me and Miss Pritchard are lighting out this afternoon. We're gonna find a back way to Pinecone, and hightail it. If that gang is only five miles away—I don't care how much fun they're having, they'll be ridin' in to find out what happened to those three in the street real soon. Besides, as slow as the trains are in this neck of the mountains, they'd run us down before their horses broke out in sweats.”

Miss Pritchard lifted her head from Longarm's chest. “What are you proposing?”

“We're gonna make a run for it.”

“Me?” She pulled her body away from his and crossed her arms on her breasts as though to cover them. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I don't reckon it much matters. My assignment is to see you safely home, and that's what I intend to do. What're you just standin' there for, Leroy? Fetch those hosses—best ones in town. I don't care who owns'em—this is federal business and Uncle Sam will pay for 'em. And we're gonna need a bag of grub—whatever you can find. Coffee and jerky oughta do it.”

The boy stood in front of the door, looking indignant.

Longarm said, “Oh, and fetch me a few boxes of .44 shells, too, will you?” He scowled. “Leroy—have you gone deaf on me, son?”

The scowl lines deepened in the kid's face. “I . . . well . . . I ain't your errand boy, Marshal Long. Me—well, hell, I'm a deputy town marshal! And now I reckon, since Marshal Scobie done rode over the Divide, I'm head lawman of the entire town of Snow Mound.” He puffed up his chest a little and thrust out his chin. “Yes, sir! I ain't your errand boy.”

Longarm stood, trying to keep from blowing his stack. “I do apologize, ki . . . I mean, Marshal Panabaker. Seein' as how we're short on time and we want to get the young lady to safety as soon as possible, do you think you could maybe help me out? I don't know the layout of the town, you see, and . . .”

“Well, all right.” The kid stood ramrod straight and looked at Miss Pritchard as he said, “I reckon it beats you wastin' a bunch of time, stumblin' around lookin' for horses and grub an' such. I'll be happy to help you out, Marshal Long. But you federal boys have to understand who's in charge around here. And right now that's me, you see?”

“I see that, Marshal. And I am truly obliged you're helpin' me out of this pinch. When I get back to Denver, I'll make sure Chief Marshal Billy Vail writes you up a commendation.”

“No kiddin'?”

“I don't kid in situations such as this, Juni . . . I mean, Marshal Panabaker.”

“Do you think he could get the governor to sign it? My ma'd be awful thrilled to—”

“You bet your boots, the governor'll sign it. I'm sure he'd be happy to.” Longarm drew a deep, calming breath. “As long as me and Miss Pritchard here can get out of town
soon
. . . and in one
piece . . .
!”

“Oh, of course, o' course!” The kid jerked around, hitching his pistol belt higher on his hips. “I'll meet you out on the street with fresh horses, grub, and ammo in a half hour!”

Longarm turned to the girl, who stared up at him accusingly. “Marshal Scobie said he'd sent for U.S. marshals. Why is there only one of you?”

“'Cause that's all it's gonna take.” Longarm winked at the girl and sauntered over to the door, trying to look more confident than he actually felt. “Now, you'd best pack and get ready to go. We're pullin' out in a half hour.”

He went out and closed the door behind him.

“I'm doomed,” he heard the girl say thinly behind him. “This is the surefire end of little Miss Josephine Pritchard.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the lawman muttered as he headed for the stairs.

He headed on outside and took a close look around, making sure no more of Younger's curly wolves were in the immediate vicinity. Spying no one but a few shopkeepers willing now to brave the outdoors in the wake of the lead storm, and the collie sitting proprietar-ily near the charred body of the man who'd intended to set fire to the hotel, Longarm tramped out behind the saloon and returned to the hotel with the big roan in tow.

In the main saloon hall, while the barman dragged the dead marshal outside and laid him beside the dead Pinkerton, Longarm found one of the few lone, unbroken bottles behind the bar and poured himself a drink. He sat at a table with a good view of the street, propped his feet on a chair, and sipped the whiskey while he reloaded his weapons, taking the time to dismantle his Colt and clean it with an oily cloth from his saddlebags.

Both weapons were going to come in handy if there were a dozen or so more gang members after Miss Pritchard, and if they were all holed up in a canyon only five miles from Snow Mound. If luck was smiling on Longarm, they were all down with the bottle flu or otherwise indisposed, and it would take them a while to come looking for their dead cohorts.

As he slipped the cleaned and oiled cylinder back into his Colt with a satisfying click, and spun it, he wondered when the three dead men had been expected to report back with Miss Pritchard thrown over one of their saddles as a trophy of sorts.

Longarm tipped back a bracing sip of the whiskey and turned his thoughts to the girl. He chuffed. Damn Billy. Longarm knew the lie about the girl's age and her wooden leg was his boss's way of indirectly—since directness had never worked in the past—warning his badge-toting underling to keep his mitts to himself, in spite of the girl's incredible, green-eyed, pert-breasted beauty.

Screwing around on the job was a might unprofessional. That wouldn't likely be a problem up here, however. The girl might be an enticing little morsel, but both she and Longarm had more important things to think about than fleshly satisfaction.

Like, for instance, keeping their flesh free of lead.

Damn, where was that kid and the horses . . . ?

Longarm dropped his feet to the floor, stood, and walked over to the batwings. He looked around and saw the kid moving toward him from the east. Deputy Marshal Panabaker was riding a big, white-socked black gelding while leading a coyote dun and a claybank. Leroy's black was fully rigged with a bedroll, saddlebags, and the scarred stock of an old Spencer rifle jutting from a leather scabbard tied to the saddle beneath the kid's right leg.

Longarm heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Josephine Pritchard descending the stairs, a carpetbag in each hand. She wore gloves and a little straw hat with fake berries and leaves, black boots, and a short-waisted rabbit coat.

“Thanks for the horses, Marshal,” Longarm said, removing his saddlebags from the roan's back and slinging them over the back of the claybank.

“Yeah, these oughta do us.”

Longarm had his back to the kid. To his left, on the other side of the street, the barman and the whores stood outside the saloon, watching him and the kid with mute interest. Up and down the street he saw three other people—shopkeepers in shirtsleeves and aprons—standing like sullen sentinels on their stoops or boardwalks, watching, likely just wanting Longarm and the girl to get on out of Snow Mound and leave them to the peace and quiet of this high-mountain town.

He wished only to oblige them.

He glanced at the kid sitting the black. “No ‘us' in it, Marshal. Just me and the girl.” He glanced over at her standing on the boardwalk, casting wary glances up and down the street.

“You're gonna need help, Marshal Long,” the kid said, trying to pitch his youthful-raspy voice with authority. “I best ride along and make sure you make it safe. Like I said, I can shoot the white out of a hawk's eye—”

“With Marshal Scobie dead, you're needed here,” Longarm said, taking the carpetbags from the girl and hanging both by their braided leather lanyards over the coyote dun's saddle horn. “But I do appreciate the offer.”

The kid scowled as Longarm returned to the boardwalk, grabbed the girl's arm, and led her over to the coyote dun. When the young badge toter opened his mouth to press the matter, Longarm bit back a sharp retort and the urge to drag the kid out of his saddle and paddle the hell out of him, and said with a deferential smile, “I know the citizens of Snow Mound will be right happy to have you here when the Younger gang comes lookin' for the girl. I reckon they'll be too hard after us to cause much trouble, but I know my heart will feel lighter, having you here to sort of smooth things over.”

“Yeah, I . . . I reckon,” the kid said noncommittally, glancing around at the barman and the whores and the shopkeepers all staring toward him, Longarm, and the girl. “I reckon someone needs to stay here an' take charge . . . with the marshal dead.”

Longarm leaned down, picked the girl up in his arms, and set her in the saddle. The hem of her dress drew taut.

“We're gonna have to rig you a ridin' dress,” Longarm said, producing a folding barlow knife from his pants pocket. “Don't be alarmed.”

He opened the blade, pulled the girl's dress out away from her fine, long, left leg, and quickly slit it with the knife. No, that leg wasn't wooden, he saw, a cold stone of desire dropping in his belly. Not long by a shot!

He didn't look at Marshal Panabaker, but he thought he heard the kid groan.

The girl gasped and quickly reached down to pull the cut material over her naked thigh. “You enjoyed that!” she hissed.

Longarm turned away from the girl to cover his guilty smile. He swung up into the claybank's saddle. “Now, Juni . . . I mean, Marshal Panabaker—if you'll just point out the best route down the mountains to Pinecone, me and Miss Pritchard will be on our way.”

The kid did, albeit reluctantly and while staring at the girl, whose main concern was the Younger gang. Longarm and the girl rode at spanking trots out of town. Just beyond the little settlement, and as they headed into a narrow canyon mouth, Longarm glanced behind to see the young marshal of Pinecone still sitting the black, staring after him and, likely, the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

After an hour's hard ride up a meandering trail through a narrow canyon and then along the shoulder of a steep mountain, Longarm crested a saddle, and reined in the claybank. He stepped out of the saddle as the girl galloped up behind him.

Her hat had blown off, and her hair was a silky tumbleweed after the long, hard pull up the canyon. She was rosy-cheeked, and her eyes were glazed from fear and the chill breeze, but he'd been happy to see she could ride. Having to give her a crash course on horsemanship would have wasted precious time.

“Wait here,” the lawman said, dropping the claybank's reins. “I'm gonna check our backtrail.”

He strode up a rocky rise and dropped to a knee. Instantly, his belly drew up in a knot. On the other side of a secondary ridge, black smoke rose into the clear, blue vault of the Colorado sky. As he watched, he saw that there were actually three separate smoke plumes rising to form one billowy, black cloud over the canyon in which Snow Mound sat.

“Shit.” Longarm raked a frustrated hand down his jaw. “Why in the hell'd you have to do that?”

“Do what?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Holding her skirts above her black boots, the girl was striding up the knoll behind him. “I told you to stay there.”

“Why did they have to what, Deputy Long?” she insisted, moving up to stand beside him.

Longarm rose and grabbed her arm. “Don't stand up there like that. You're liable to get spotted.”

She pulled her arm loose and hardened her jaws angrily. “Why did they do
what
?” She stared out over the rolling, pine-carpeted ridges. He saw her back tighten. Her shoulders rose and fell as she breathed. The wind blew her hair back. Suddenly, her knees buckled and hit the ground.

“Oh, no!” she cried.

Longarm lunged for her, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her back to her feet. “It's not your fault.”

She was shivering as he led her back down the knoll toward the horses. “Whose is it, then?” she said weakly, her voice brittle with self-recrimination.

“It's the fault of those who torched the town,” he said, rage burning through him. “They'll pay. Maybe not now, but they will soon. You get back on your horse. They're likely working up behind us now, and we need to hightail it.”

She was sobbing, shoulders jerking, as she stood facing her horse, one hand on the stirrup fender, the other on the cantle. “I never should have testified!”

“You did testify.” Longarm lifted her into the saddle and gave her the dun's reins. “And it was the right thing to do. Now, unless you wanna give in to those killers, let 'em kill you and me, too, you have to follow me and keep up. You understand, Miss Pritchard?”

She was squeezing her eyes shut, and tears welled out from behind them to stream down her cheeks, glistening in the cool, brassy sunshine. The wind dried them before they reached her straight, delicate jaws.