Longarm and the Deadwood Shoot-out (9781101619209) (14 page)

He doubted his bullets came anywhere near the shooter. But he felt better about being able to shoot back anyway.

Finally he sat up and looked around. There was no sign of either Sensabaugh or Halley. And the near sorrel was down, the other animal stamping its feet and rolling its eyes in distress, probably at the smell of blood from its sorely wounded companion.

Longarm reloaded with the last of the cartridges he carried in his pockets, then risked standing in the phaeton. When no one shot at him again he stepped down to the ground and went to see to the wounded animal. It had been shot through the lungs and was dying in agony, its feet churning helplessly. Longarm put the beast out of its pain with another round from his .45, then he
looked around and called, “Where are you boys? Come on in. We have work t’ do.”

He knelt and began the difficult process of pulling the harness off a dead horse.

“Rig something up t’ pull this dead horse off the road, will you please,” he said to the two obviously unhappy stagecoach drivers. It had taken him several minutes to find them. Both men had been hiding well off the road and were not especially inclined to come out of their concealment even after he did locate them.

They stayed where they were until Longarm assured them that the hidden rifleman was gone. Not that he really knew, but it was a pretty good guess.

“What are you going to be doing while we do all the work?” John Halley asked.

Longarm glared at the man for a moment before he said, “First off, I’m the one as did all the work of getting that harness free. Secondly, I need t’ hike up on top o’ that bluff and see what I can see.”

“You can’t climb that face,” Sensabaugh put in.

“No,” Longarm told him, “but about a half mile down the hill ain’t so steep. I can get up there, I think.”

“That’s a long way to walk,” Halley said.

“An’ you ain’t the one as has t’ walk it,” Longarm told him. “I am. An’ it’s gotta
be done, so you two take care o’ this horse while I go take a look up there.”

“I don’t like this,” Halley said. “I think we should head back to Deadwood right away.”

“Well shit, man, I don’t like it, neither, but we’ll all do what we got t’ do. I won’t be too awful long.” He grinned. “Assuming we don’t all of us get shot dead by whoever was up there. An’ still could be.”

He rather liked the way Halley’s face went pale at the thought that the shooter could still be lying in wait up there.

Longarm fortified himself with a cheroot burning between his teeth, then started hiking. He had a long way to go.

Longarm grunted softly to himself. He had found the spot where the rifleman lay hidden. It was close to the rim of the bluff and avoided the prickly bed of juniper needles that would otherwise have seemed an even better location.

A pair of empty .44-40 cartridge cases gleamed in the midday sunlight. He cussed a little at that. The .44-40 was probably the most common chambering there was in all the popular rifles, Winchester, Kennedy, Marlin, and any other.

Out of habit he bent and picked them up. Just to make sure these were the shooter’s brass and not something left behind by a gent out in search of some venison for supper, he sniffed them. The sharp, acrid scent of burned gunpowder was strong in Longarm’s nostrils. The cartridges had been fired very recently. He slipped the empties into the coat pocket where his spare .45s had been.

He had not really expected to find anything of interest up here. And he had not. But he had had to look. Had to try.

Longarm turned and began the long walk back to where the very unhappy stagecoach jehus were waiting.

Come to think of it, he realized, the livery outfit was not going to like it much, either, what with losing a perfectly good horse in the deal. And the sorrels had been matched as to size and color, too. It would be a hard horse to replace.

He wondered if he could get one of the stagecoach lines to pay for the loss. If he had to put it on his expense report, some bean counter back east in Washington city would likely blow his top about it. Might get so agitated that he popped a sleeve garter, and wouldn’t that be a tragedy.

Longarm smiled a little at the thought. He pushed his Stetson back on his head to allow a little air to reach his scalp and slowed his pace. There was no hurry now. Unfortunately.

It was nearly dark by the time the lone sorrel dragged the phaeton back to town. Longarm stopped in front of the town marshal’s office where a lamp was shining in the window to suggest that Noogie was there.

He turned in the seat and motioned Clovis Sensabaugh up onto the driving box, then handed the driving lines to the jehu.

“Turn this outfit in at the livery, will you? I just don’t feel like facing them tonight.”

Sensabaugh chuckled and said, “I don’t blame you. Old man Gennovese can be hell on wheels when he gets his dander up.”

“Tell him Fremont will pay for the dead horse, Clo.” Longarm laughed and added, “An’ I’ll tell Bastrop that Fremont is paying an’ Fremont that Bastrop is paying. That should make things interestin’ for a while.”

Longarm stepped down off the phaeton and waited while Sensabaugh drove away. Then he crossed the street and stepped inside the marshal’s office.

Noogie was there, seated behind his desk with a cup of coffee and a stack of wanted fliers in front of him.

“Hello, Custis. I was just thinking about looking you up…”

“Look me up in the hotel? Or in them wanted posters?”

“Whichever fits,” DiNunzio came back. “Nah, in the hotel, asshole. I think my turn to buy supper.” With a wink he added, “Then we’ll go over to Terry’s place and see what we can see.”

“You like that spot, don’t you,” Longarm said.

“Hell, yes. What man wouldn’t. The girls are beautiful, and the price is right.”

“I’m game,” Longarm told him.

Over prairie dog stew and corn dodgers DiNunzio asked, “What did you find out this morning?”

Longarm frowned. “I didn’t learn shit. But I did get shot at.”

“Whoa! Shot? Tell me.”

Longarm told him, then shook his head. “What I can’t understand is why. I’m damn sure no threat to anybody up here. I haven’t really learned anything, don’t really know anything. So why would anybody bother taking a shot at me?”

“Could be unconnected with these robberies,” Noogie offered. “Could be somebody wanted for something else entirely. Could be somebody in that pile of posters I got back at the office.”

“Could be,” Longarm grudgingly agreed. “But I doubt it.” He sighed. “Oh, well. We’ll figure it out. Or not.”

Noogie dropped a coin onto the café table and shoved his chair back. “Are you ready? My balls are about to bust from thinking about Terry’s girls.”

“Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

The whorehouse was a little busier this evening. Two
gents were seated on the plush upholstery being fed free drinks. Probably, Longarm guessed, a policy designed to loosen the purse strings when they chose to go upstairs.

Noogie very quickly had a perky little Mexican girl on one arm and a tall blonde on the other. The man did not seem at all intimidated by being outnumbered.

Longarm did not have time to sit before he was approached by the same lovely redhead who had greeted him two nights earlier. “Good evening, Agnes,” he said.

The girl smiled. “You remembered my name.”

“How could I forget?” He kissed her hand and allowed the girl to lead him to a chair that was set a little apart from the others.

“Rye whiskey, yes?” she asked.

“Rye whiskey, yes,” he agreed.

Agnes flowed away—he swore the girls walked in such a way that it somehow did not seem that they were walking, more like they glided across the floor—to the sideboard. She returned moments later with a tumbler of rye and a plate of smoked oysters.

“Miss Theresa will be so very sorry to have missed seeing you again,” Agnes said.

“She’s away?”

Agnes nodded. “She and Dennis are at the casino this evening. With Miss Theresa’s friend Anne.”

“Ah. At the Golden Pick,” he said. “I’d forgotten. Are Miss Carter and Miss Bullea partners? Or just friends?”

“I don’t really know about their business arrangements,” Agnes said. He thought the girl was lying—and was not very good at it—but he could not see why she would bother. Surely there was no reason why he would care. “I do know they are very good friends.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “
Very
good friends. If you know what I mean.”

“You mean…?”

Agnes nodded. “Yes. But don’t tell anyone that I said so, I beg you. We aren’t supposed to know about that.”

“It don’t matter,” Longarm said. “There’s no reason I should care.”

Nor did he. It did not matter at all to him who, or what, Theresa Bullea liked to fuck. He knew she was awfully good at it. And that she especially liked to have her pussy licked. Perhaps Anne Carter had something to do with that.

And Dennis was with them? That conjured up all manner of interesting combinations.

“Tell me, Marshal,” Agnes said, drawing his attention back to her. “Would you like to see our upstairs rooms? I seem to recall you didn’t go upstairs when you were here before.” She smiled and took his arm.

Why not, he told himself. “Sure, honey. You just lead the way.”

He looked around, but Noogie and his pair of girls had already disappeared.

Longarm glanced down at his redhead and decided that he could make do with just one girl tonight.

Come morning Longarm’s mouth felt like someone snuck in during the night and stuffed it with cotton. With dirty cotton, at that.

He was almost pissed off that Agnes looked as fresh as when he arrived the evening before. He gave the girl a hug and a kiss on the forehead, having forgiven her for looking so cheerful at such an hour.

“What time’zit?” he mumbled, looking at the daylight coming through the bedroom window.

“Does it matter?” Agnes asked.

Longarm thought about that for a moment but had to conclude that it really did not matter at all. “No,” he said, “reckon not.”

“Come downstairs,” Agnes said, lifting her gown and pulling it over her head. A quick tie of her sash as she was fully dressed, or at least as much so as she needed to be. “We have breakfast, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Oh, yes. For special gentlemen only.”

“An’ I’m a special gentleman?”

Her smile was kittenish. “I certainly think so. Come now. Get dressed and we shall go down to see the others.”

“Nice touch,” he said.

“Miss Theresa says we should always treat our gentlemen as if they were our own dear fathers or brothers,” the pretty girl said.

“I hope you didn’t…uh, never mind that thought.” He pulled on his clothes, stamped into his boots, and collected his Stetson. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Then come. We will join the others.”

The smell of bacon and sausage greeted them in the stairwell. It was good enough to get his stomach to rumbling, and he was sorry now that he had not stayed over the last time he was here. Although come to think of it, he had not been invited that time. Apparently he was now officially a “special gentleman.”

They went back to the big dining room where Noogie, Tom Bligh, and one other man were seated in comfort, surrounded by Theresa’s girls and obviously enjoying more than the hotcakes, eggs, and breakfast meats that were being offered on silver salvers.

Theresa Bullea was seated at the head of the table. She wore a frilly gown and looked every inch the lady of the manor. “Good morning, Marshal,” she said with a smile. “I am so very sorry that I was not here to greet you last night. Did my dear Agnes make you comfortable?”

“Very,” he said, taking the chair that was offered. Agnes held it for him although he somehow thought that was supposed to be the other way around.

The redhead quickly served him, piling his plate first
with hotcakes and eggs, then offering bacon, sausage patties, and slabs of ham.

“What, no fried taters?” he joked.

“Oh, I am sorry. I shall have Cook make you some at once.” She started to turn away but Longarm grabbed her by the wrist. “I was jokin’, honey. Set down an’ have your breakfast.”

“If you are sure…”

“I’m sure,” he said.

“Longarm,” Noogie said. “Now aren’t you glad you came to Deadwood?”

“Noogie, I’ll get glad when I have those stagecoach robbers behind bars where they belong.”

“Do you have a good prospect of that, Marshal?” Bligh asked around a mouthful of biscuit and red-eye gravy.

“Well, sir, I can’t really say about that,” Longarm told the banker.

“Oh, really, Marshal, we are among friends here. Just us and the ladies.”

“As you say, sir. But the truth is that I don’t know anything more now than I did when I first got here. I wish I could tell you somethin’ positive, but I just don’t have anything positive t’ tell.” Longarm reached for a biscuit and the bowl of sweet butter. Damn, but Theresa knew how to put on a feed.

“Where next, Custis?” Noogie asked.

Longarm shrugged. “Reckon I’ll go interview everybody again.” He looked at Bligh and said, “That includes you, Tom. I’ll come by later this mornin’ and talk t’ you about it.” He shook his head. “Damnit, there’s a leak someplace. Has t’ be. That’s the only way those sons o’ bitches could know what coaches to hit.” To Theresa he
said, “Thank you for this breakfast. Best one I can remember in ever so long.”

“I am pleased that you enjoy it, Custis.”

“Would somebody please pass that there platter o’ham?”

On a whim Longarm walked over to the investment bank to speak with them there. When he entered the quiet building his reception was like he was trying to intrude on a very exclusive gentleman’s club. And unlike at Theresa Bullea’s whorehouse, he most definitely was not regarded as a gentleman here.

The fellow who hurried to meet him just inside the door had the air of a man who was rushing to put out the trash. The cheeky son of a bitch even took Longarm by the elbow and tried to steer him back toward the door.

“Whoa up, old son,” Longarm said with a patently phony smile as he set his weight to resist the tug on his arm. “I’m goin’ in that way, not back where I just been.”