Longarm and the Whiskey Woman (19 page)

Colton stabbed out his finger at Longarm. He said, "I came to kill this son of a bitch, and I aim to do it."

Longarm said, "Well, let's just step out in front and see how well you do."

Mr. Colton said, "Boys, we can't have no shooting. You'll scare the women. They're all huddled back there in a room somewhere, scared to death. Is this any way for you to act, Mr. Long, right before you get married?"

Longarm said, "Mr. Colton, with all respect, I'd feel mighty skittish with this son of a bitch around. I'd rather get this situation settled here and now."

The old man sighed. He said, "I was afraid it would come to that." He looked at Morton Colton. "Is this how you have to have it?"

"You damn right this is how I've got to have it. And don't be telling me I can't come around my own kin anymore. I'll go where I damn well please."

Longarm said, "I'm going outside. I'll be standing there waiting. You come out when you have a mind. I've got a friend that's going to stay inside and make damn sure you don't shoot out from behind a door or a window. Understand?"

Colton looked at him with hate in his eyes. He said, "You get yourself out there in the clear. We'll see who comes back in here for a drink of whiskey."

Mark Colton stood up. He looked at Longarm and said with a smile on his face, "I think you're fixing to get a surprise, Mr. Big Britches. Maybe after this, my little sister will see just what you're made of. I'll bet you cut and run."

Longarm looked at him. "Are you offering me a bet? How about a hundred bucks?"

Mark Colton twisted his mouth. He said, "You ain't got a hundred dollars, and even if you did, I can take it off your dead body. I don't need to bet you."

Longarm smiled. He said, "That's fine with me." He looked at Morton Colton and said, "I'll be out there, Waiting." Then he turned and walked past Frank Carson, giving him a wink as he did. He knew Carson had heard him when he said that he had a friend who would be staying inside to watch and make sure no one fired out any windows.

As he walked through the house and out the front door, he thought he caught a glimpse of Sally peering in from the other room, but it was so quick and the light was so dim, he couldn't be sure. He walked across the porch and down the steps, flexing his right hand to loosen his fingers. He really didn't know how good Morton Colton was, but then there had been many other occasions when he hadn't known how good his adversary was. When he had put on the badge, he had taken on the task of dealing with dangerous people. It was all part of the job, as far as he was concerned.

He stood out in the bright sunlight, waiting. The house was about fifteen or twenty feet to his left. He was almost square in the middle of the yard. When Morton Colton came out, he would have to come down the steps and then turn to his left to put some distance between them. Longarm was curious as to how much distance the man would want. A longer distance between them would indicate that Morton Colton was either slow with the gun or that he was a very good shot. If he took a position within ten feet, it would mean that he was fast, but not a particularly good shot. Longarm didn't care either way, because he was both fast and a good shot. He also had an advantage that most men didn't: he shot as he pulled. There was never any hesitation. Most men would hesitate that tenth of a second too long. He had another advantage: the bullet went where he was looking. He never aimed. He made one smooth draw, cocking the revolver as he did, and firing where he was looking. His target was his adversary's chest.

Time was passing, and Longarm was starting to wonder. He got out a cigarillo and lit a match with the nail of his thumb. He had smoked down perhaps a half inch when the door finally opened and Morton Colton stood there. He stared at Longarm.

Longarm said, "You coming or not? I'm about to get a sunburn standing out here."

Colton started across the porch. He said, "You son of a bitch. You'll get yours soon enough."

Longarm said, "Keep that hand away from the butt of your revolver unless you want it to happen now. If I even think you're reaching for your weapon, you are a dead man."

Morton Colton came down the steps. "You talk big now. Let's wait and see."

Longarm said, "It ain't too late, Mr. Morton Colton. You can save your life if you get on your horse and ride out of here right now. This is the only warning I'm going to give you.

Colton kept walking until about twenty feet separated him and Longarm. He turned. He said, "You see how fast I'm running, don't you?"

Out the corner of his eye, Longarm could see John and the old man at the door. He wondered where Mark was. He'd been almost certain that Mark would be a spectator in hopes of seeing him shot down. But he could not keep his attention on the door for more than a second. Colton was taunting him.

Longarm said, "You gonna keep on talking, Colton, or are you going to do something with that gun?"

"You seem in a big hurry to get to hell. You better get on your knees and commence praying."

"Colton, I don't think you-"

His words were suddenly cut off by a scream coming from his immediate left. He cut his head half-way around and saw a figure at the corner of the house leveling a shotgun. The scream had come from one of the windows and he had no doubt that it had come from Sally. The instant he saw the figure, Longarm recognized it as Mark. He let himself go limp and fall. He was drawing his revolver as he went down. He heard the boom of the shotgun. It sounded like it was from far away. He felt the pain bite into his right shoulder, but by then, the revolver was in his hand and he had stretched his arm out. It was a long shot, perhaps twenty-five feet, but he fired and saw Mark Colton stagger. He cocked the hammer back and fired again and saw the man go down. Without a hitch, without a pause, he swung the revolver back, zeroing in on Morton Colton as he got a shot off that went just over Longarm's head. Longarm paused, steadied, and then fired. He saw the bullet take Morton Colton in the center of the chest. He saw it take him and flip him over on his back.

It suddenly got quiet. He was quickly aware of the pain in his right shoulder and then he was aware that a woman was screaming. He got slowly to his knees. John Colton and Frank Carson were running out the door and across the porch. Carson came toward Longarm, but Longarm saw John veer off and head for the end of the building where his brother lay. Then he saw Sally trying to get past her father through the door. He saw her struggling, but the old man had his arms around her. He pulled her back and then shut the door.

Longarm didn't blame him. He didn't want Sally to see the mess, either. It had gone all wrong, very wrong. He had just killed a man's son right before the man's very eyes, and in favor or out of favor, he had also killed another member of the clan. As he tried to struggle to his feet, he felt strong hands under his arms helping him. It was Frank Carson.

Carson said, "Let's go in the cabin and see about that blood on your shoulder." As they walked, Carson said, "I'm sorry; I didn't see it coming. They fooled me. I was keeping my eye on Morton, and Mark must have slipped out the back."

Longarm said through the pain, "Yeah, I figured something was up when Colton kept stalling like he did. He kept talking and also it took him too long to come out of the house. When he did, he was delaying, but I was slow. I didn't catch on to it in time, either. Was it Sally that screamed?"

"Yeah, she saw him out the side window or she must have seen him go out the back with the shotgun. I think they had it made up beforehand."

"It was planned, no doubt about that. I figure Mark's shot was not really intended to kill me. He was too far away for a shotgun. I think it was just to get me off my guard and make me look over that way and give Morton Colton a free shot at me. It damned near worked."

The two men went into the cabin, and Longarm sat down on a chair near the table. His right shoulder was already starting to stiffen up. There was a lot of blood on his shirt, but he didn't believe he was hurt very badly. He had been able to use the arm to get off three shots, good shots at a more than average distance. His eyesight, his ability to see better than most men, had once again saved his life.

Frank Carson helped him off with his shirt and they both looked at his right shoulder. There were three small holes.

"This don't look too bad. Looks like you caught the outer part of the shot pattern. You know that part of the blast ain't got that much power."

"I know," Longarm said.

Carson was pulling one of the holes open with his thumb and forefinger. He said, "Hell, Mr. Long, there ain't no use you taking on about this. This here piece of shot ain't much below the skin."

"That may be so," Longarm said, "but it still hurts like hell."

Carson said, "It ain't hurting nothing like it's fixing to when I go to digging that shot out."

Longarm said grimly, "I do hope you're on my side."

"Well, you'll soon know." Carson dug into his pocket and came out with a folding knife. He opened it, exposing a long, slim, sharp-pointed blade. He took a match out of his shirt pocket and then scratched it against the table and held the point of the knife in the flame. He said, nodding his head at the table, "You better get you a stiff jolt of that painkiller right there. This might smart a bit."

Longarm said, "I reckon I might as well. I don't think I'm going to be standing in very good stead around here. This may be the last whiskey the Coltons give me."

Frank Carson pulled up a chair beside Longarm and began probing in his shoulder for the shotgun pellets. It was hard for Longarm not to wince because the knife digging and probing around in his flesh was not exactly a pleasant feeling. He knew if he flinched the slightest, it would cause the knife to do even deeper work. He took several drinks of the whiskey as the operation progressed.

He said at one point, "Hell, what is taking you so long? I thought you said these things were just right below the skin."

Carson, busy at his work, said, "Well, maybe I stretched it a little bit. Maybe I was just trying to make you feel good."

"Well, hurry up, dammit. I've had more fun being run over in a stampede."

Carson said, "Aw, there." He laid a bloody lead pellet on the table. "There's one. Two more to go."

Longarm said, "You better pour me some more whiskey. I'm kind of feeling light-headed."

"You know, Mr. Long, one thing I'm curious about. You say you were in the land and cattle business back there in Arizona?"

"That's right."

"That Arizona must be a pretty tough place for a land and cattle man. You sure as hell handle yourself pretty well, especially with a gun. I've seen you with one in your hands twice, and you've come out on top both times."

"Just lucky."

"Yeah, I guess you could call it luck to fall down to keep from being hit by a shotgun and while you're falling, you put two bullets into one man and then just after you hit the ground, you plug another dead center in the chest from a pretty good distance away. I'd say that those shots you made were either awful damned lucky or showed considerable practice."

Longarm said tersely, "Like you say, Arizona is a rough place. A man needs to stay ready."

Carson removed another pellet and put it on the table. By now, the whiskey was beginning to take effect, and it wasn't hurting too bad. Carson said, "I reckon you know what this means?"

"No. What does it mean?"

Carson said, "I don't think there's going to be any wedding bells in the near future for you, not with Miss Sally."

"Will they feel that strongly about it?"

Carson pulled back and looked at him. He said, "Hell, Mr. Long, you just killed the man's son. How do you think he's going to feel about it?"

Longarm said, "Well, I don't know. I'll have to wait and see."

Carson said, "Well, here's the last one." He held the lead slug between the point of the knife and his thumb as he showed it to Longarm. He dropped it on the table. He said, "No charge. Happy to do it. The look on your face was payment enough."

Longarm said, "I can tell you're one of them kind souls that likes to go around amongst the poor and needy, doing good deeds."

"Oh yeah," Carson said. "But now comes the fun part. Let me have that glass of whiskey you're drinking."

"Get your own."

"I'm not going to drink it." Before Longarm could protest, Carson had raised Longarm's arm up parallel to the floor. Before Longarm realized what was happening, Carson was filling up the bullet holes with the fiery high-proof whiskey. It was all Longarm could do to smother a scream that started low in his throat.

Longarm said through clenched teeth, "Dammit! That hurts!"

"Well, it's better to smart a little bit now than to have to get me to cut your whole arm off when gangrene sets in."

"Hell, we don't need to sell this stuff to saloons. We need to sell it to hospitals. That stuff would cure pneumonia."

Frank Carson finished his work and sat down across from Longarm. He said, "You probably ought to let it alone for a while and let it bleed. We'll splash some more whiskey on it later on."