Longarm and the Grand Slam Heist

“Put a pal in jail?”

The fellow shook his head.

“Broke up a gang you was fond of.”

“Huh uh.”

This was becoming damn-all annoying, Longarm decided. Piss on the guy. “All right then, I screwed your wife. Your virgin sister … no, that couldn’t of been it … you’d’ve screwed her first your own self, I’m sure. Okay, I screwed your mother and killed your father in the line of duty.”

The gunman barked out a sound that Longarm assumed was supposed to be a laugh, although it didn’t sound overmuch like one.

“Jeez, man, I must’ve done something to make you this hostile.”

“Not a damn thing,” the fellow assured him. “I just don’t like smart-ass United States deputy marshals.”

“Ah, that old reason. Now I feel better, knowin’ what this here is all about. Mind if I ask you something else?”

“I reckon a man ought to be allowed a last question, same as a condemned man gets a last meal.”

“Who the hell are you?” Longarm asked.

“William Beard. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Mister Beard, I hate to be such a complete disappointment to you, but I never in my life until this very minute heard anything about you, not even your name.”

“My point exactly,” Beard said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nobody has heard about me. I’ve killed eight men in standup fights, fair as fair can be, and no-damn-body has ever heard of me. I mean, it isn’t fair, is it? Some fool in Dodge City kills two, three men and he’s famous. Why? Because there are big city newspapermen who come to Dodge to write about stuff, and there’s a local newspaper of their own that writes stories and sells them to the big papers back east and in Kansas City and the like. But here? Dammit, I could shoot down half the men in this jerkwater bar and there wouldn’t be anybody ever hear about it outside this county. Might not pay attention in the county seat even if our good for nothing sheriff was busy getting laid that day. So what is a man to do, I ask you? It will take something big to be heard about here.” Beard smiled. “And here you are. Famous. Well, more or less. Most famous lawman that ever stopped in Sorrel Branch, I can tell you that. You’re a godsend, Long. I swear you are.”

“Mister Beard, I’m always happy to accommodate a man, but dying for the sake of your reputation seems a mite more than is reasonable to ask. I hope it’ll be all right with you if I demur.”

“I wouldn’t expect less, Longarm. Be a shallow victory indeed if you wasn’t to fight back, now wouldn’t it.”

“Shallow indeed, Mister Beard. Uh, how d’you want t’ go about this? Formal rules of the duel, maybe?”

Beard grinned. “And give you a choice of weapons, Mister Long? I think not. You see, I do know more than a little about you, and I suspect you would try to do something silly, like tell me you want to fight with sharpened tongue depressors or ass’s jawbones or something like that. something that would mock and make light of my triumph and my honor.”

“I got to admit, Mister Beard, I always been fond o’ the idea of a fight with the jawbones of some asses. I mean, it ain’t reasonable that this don’t happen all the time. You know? Asses an’ assholes bein’ so thick on the ground an’ all.”

“Don’t try to make light of this, Mister Long. I do sincerely intend to kill you in fair and open combat. Please understand that.”

“Oh, I do, Mister Beard. I surely do.” Longarm pushed the situation just a bit by reaching—with his left hand, however—for his mug and taking a swallow of the tepid beer, his eyes locked on Beard above the rim of the glass.

“As for the rules, I propose that Morris here count backward from, say, ten. On the word Go we draw and fire. Nothing could be fairer than that, I daresay.”

“He goes ten, nine, an’ so on down t’ one and then says Go?” Longarm asked.

“That’s right. Would that be all right with you?”

“What if I’d like him t’ count from twelve instead o’ ten? Or from four. Would four be good for you?”

“Goddammit, Long, you’re starting to piss me off now. You aren’t taking this at all seriously.”

“Sorry.” Longarm shrugged, drank another sip and put the mug down again. “I’ll try an’ get in the spirit o’ things.”

“Thank you.”

“Looka-here,” Longarm said. “If we’re going t’ do this we really oughta do it right. Honorable and aboveboard. You know what I mean?”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Beard admitted.

“No funny business with choice of weapons, mind. I mean, we both are carrying our own favorites. Be kinda dumb to take up anything else. But except for that, well, there’s something extra special honorable an’ right about a proper duel. Especially the part where the two men stand back to back an’ pace off a distance between them. Takes a perfectly honorable man t’ turn his back on a fellow who’s declared to kill him. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, Mister Long. By God, I do. Thank you for understanding.”

“I won’t say it’s my pleasure, Mister Beard, but I do understand.”

“You would do that, then? You would stand with me back to back and pace off the distance while Morris counts our steps?”

“That I would, Mister Beard.”

“Nobody could ever say a fight like that wasn’t fair, could they?”

“No man alive could make a false claim like that, Mister Beard. The victor would be above reproach.”

“I like it, Mister Long. Morris, you will count the paces for us. At the last number then we turn and fire at will. Is that the way you see it, Mister Long?”

“It is, Mister Beard.”

Beard frowned and looked from one end of the bar to the other. “Ten is the traditional number of paces if I remember correctly, but I don’t believe this room is big enough for us to take ten paces each.”

“A point well taken, Mister Beard.” Longarm looked into the crowd, selecting at random from a sea—well, a good-sized pond then—of faces he’d never seen before.

Almost a sea of strangers, that is. The Austin Capitals’ equipment boy was standing at the fringe of the onlookers. who, Longarm noticed, seemed even more numerous than they had been when this insanity commenced. Apparently the word was spreading and the gallery of spectators growing. Longarm hoped there were people still interested in the ball game afterward, although how could a mere baseball game compare with excellent drama—ahem—like this here.

“You,” he said, pointing to a man of medium height and build. “Would you be so kind, sir, as to pace off the length of the room starting from that wall and crossing to that one?”

“Shit, yeah, why not?”

The man, a farmer judging by his clothes and by the baked and wrinkled skin at the back of his neck, took the request seriously. He positioned himself with his back firm against one wall and extended his left foot first, reaching out quite far with it and sonorously counting, “One,” in a loud voice.

“Fourteen,” he announced to one and all as he reached the far wall.

“Fourteen,” Longarm repeated. “Seven paces each. But then it would be awkward if we were standing tight to the wall, don’t you think? Would you agree to five paces each, Mister Beard?”

“I would, Mister Long. Five paces it will be. Is that all right with you, Morris?”

“Jesus, Will, are you sure you …”

“Don’t provoke me, Morris. I intend to be here after the duel. Mister Long will not.”

“You will, of course, allow me t’ take a hand in my own defense before you reach that conclusion,” Longarm injected.

“Your pardon, sir. I meant to imply no less.” Beard bent over into a sort of a bow.

Jeez, Longarm thought, the idiot was really getting into the spirit of this French duel bullshit. Beard was acting stiff and formal and downright courtly all of a sudden.

“Right there for the starting point?” Longarm suggested, motioning toward a spot that looked like it was midway across the room.

“Perfect,” Beard assured him.

“Back to back and guns in the holsters, is that it then?” Longarm asked. “Or d’you want to have the guns already in hand when we turn an’ fire?”

“Oh, in the holsters, I should think. Don’t you?”

“Much more sporting that way,” Longarm agreed.

Beard smiled. “That’s it then. It couldn’t be better. And I have to thank you again, Mister Long. You honor me by standing with your back to mine. I know everyone will remember that part and talk about it for years to come. My biographers will write about it, too. I shall insist on that.”

“Are we ready, Mister Beard? Aren’t we supposed to share a cup before the combat?”

“Are we?”

“I think so.”

“Morris. Would you please?”

The bartender complied with fresh mugs of beer. Beard quaffed his practically at a gulp. Longarm barely sipped at his. Around them the crowd pushed and shifted, closing in tighter and tighter to the lane left open for gunfire until it was almost a certainty that a bullet the slightest degree off target would do damage to the cheering section as well as to the combatants.

“Ready, Mister Long,” Beard announced when his mug was empty.

“Ready, Mister Beard,” Longarm assured him.

“Morris?”

“If you’re sure-“

“Morris, please.”

“All right then. Gentlemen, take your places.”

Beard immediately turned around, presenting his back stiff and taut, his spine ramrod straight and his jaw firm.

Longarm nodded and moved up close behind him.

“I will count to five, gentlemen,” Morris said in a voice loud enough for everyone in the place to hear. “You will take one pace forward with each number I count. When you hear me say five, but not a moment before, you are free to turn, draw and fire your pistols. If you are ready then …

Chapter 36

“Are you ready, Mister Beard?”

“I… I … yes, I am.”

“Are you ready, Mister Long?”

Instead of answering Longarm swung around, his Colt already in hand, and used the flat of the gun’s butt to whack the beejabbers out of Beard, hitting him—hard—just above the nape of his neck.

Beard went down like a pole-axed shoat. It was probably as complete and clean a drop as Longarm ever did see.

“Hey!” someone in the crowd complained. “That wasn’t fair.”

The cry was taken up by others, a good half of the men crowded into the saloon bitching aloud now that there would be no blood spilled.

“You lied,” another voice called out.

“Yeah, I sure as hell did, didn’t I?” Longarm agreed calmly as he first relieved Beard of the burden of his Remington revolver, then dragged the limp body aside a few feet so he could prop Beard up against the bar.

“Will he be all right?” the bartender leaned over and asked.

“Should be. I think it’s safe t’ assume that he has a pretty hard head.” Longarm frisked Beard while he had the chance but found no other weapons on him. Well, he hadn’t expected any.

“You really weren’t fair to him, you know.”

Longarm looked at Morris the barman and shrugged, feeling not the least lick of guilt for refusing to kill a man. “Guns ain’t fair t’ begin with, friend, an’ the only object in a death scrap is t’ win. Which maybe now Mister Beard will live long enough t’ learn. An’ that reminds me. Anybody here able t’ back up his claim that he’s killed eight men because I got to tell you I don’t think he’s ever before faced a grown man with a gun in his hand.”

No one spoke. Finally a smallish fellow wearing bib overalls pushed toward the front edge of the crowd and said, “I don’t know anything about that, but I can tell you that Will practices with that gun of his about every day. He spends hours and hours down in the gully that runs between our places, down there drawing and shooting, drawing and shooting. I’ve watched him, marshal, and I’ve never seen anything as quick as Will is with that gun of his. He’s quicker than any snake I ever seen strike, and that’s the truth.”

By now Beard was commencing to stir as he came back to consciousness. Longarm hoped the fellow was listening.

“Quick noises or even quick an’ accurate shooting ain’t enough when it comes to the real thing,” Longarm said. “An’ for that there’s no such thing as practice. The thing is different when the other fellow intends to shoot back. A man not only has to be good with his gun he has to have it in him to take the life of another human soul. Has to be willing to send a ball o’ hot metal inta the flesh of another man an’ take that man’s life away from him. Not many can do that. Not near so many as believe they can.”

“And Will Beard?”

“I hope he never finds out. Anyway, he won’t learn it from me. Not today he won’t.”

“You gonna arrest him, marshal?”

“Naw, no point. I sure as hell could o’ course. Half a dozen charges I could lay against him, but I got better things t’ do than haul him twenty-some miles north. As it is he’s gonna be woozy and hurting for the next couple days after a blow like the one I just gave him. Somebody … you there that’s his neighbor maybe … somebody drag him home an’ dump him into his bed. He got a wife or somebody t’ tend him? No? Well then he’ll just have to tough it out until he can walk without his knees turning t’ rubber and his skull feeling like it’s fixing to split apart. I’ll let the rest of it be for now.”

Most of the men in the place still looked disappointed. But no one seemed inclined to volunteer as a replacement in the jousting lists with a United States deputy marshal.

Longarm looked about but did not see Jerry, the Capitals’ equipment boy. Didn’t see the beer he’d left on the bar either. There wasn’t time enough for a fresh one. Not right now. He needed to find Jerry and have a word with him, make sure the boy understood that it wasn’t to be nosed around about “pitcher” Chet Short’s true identity.

After that, well, it was coming on toward lunch-time. Longarm figured to eat with the team and then find himself a good place where he could lie in wait for that gang of robbers in case this was his lucky day—and their bad one—and they tried to hit the Sorrel Branch post office safe.

Chapter 37

“Look, Jerry, I, uh, I enjoy your company an’ appreciate your interest, but I got work to do.” The clubfooted kid had been hanging around all big eyed and full of questions ever since the incident at the saloon. Longarm supposed he should be flattered and maybe he would have time enough to think so later, but for right now he was more interested in setting up an ambush for the robbery gang. And the only contribution young Jerry could possibly make would be to get in the way.

“Sure thing, marshal. I mean … Chet.” The kid grinned and winked conspiratorially, sharing that momentous secret with the tall man who turned out to be so much more than he’d seemed.

“Just mind you don’t let slip to anybody who I am, Jerry. Remember what you promised.”

“I won’t forget nothing that important, marshal. I won’t even mention it to Mr. McWhortle.”

Longarm wondered if he should reinforce that promise when it came to Nat Lewis, who was his only real suspect so far, then decided that to single out any one team member would only excite Jerry’s curiosity all the further. Better to let things stand as they were than to add fuel to the kid’s already blazing imagination.

“I’m counting on you, son.”

“And if I can he’p you in any way.”

“You have my word on it, Jerry. I’ll come to you if and when I need any help with this investigation.”

The boy beamed with childish pride. Childish. Jerry was probably seventeen or even older but he acted like a child in many ways and seemed, emotionally and perhaps mentally, younger than his age would indicate. Longarm felt sorry for him.

And immediately put him out of mind once Jerry backed away, assurances of secrecy pouring out of him as he did so, and went off down the street in the direction of the field where the ball game would soon be under way.

Longarm explored the crevasses between his teeth with a probing tongue tip and excavated a tiny scrap of pork loin that had been driving him nuts ever since lunch. He spat it out and in celebration lighted a fresh cheroot to help settle what had turned out to be an uncommonly good meal.

Now if the rest of the day went so well …

The makeshift ball field was only four blocks west of the mercantile-cum-post office where Longarm had posted himself. He could hear sporadic cheers—no doubt when the home team managed something good—and from time to time thought he could even detect the sharp crack of a pitched ball meeting a billet of fast moving wood. He almost wished he could see the game. Of course games are for children. Everyone knows that. But he was finding the essentially silly spectacle rather enjoyable for all its childishness. Fun, even. He hadn’t expected that.

He heard—he was sure of it this time—an exceptionally loud crack swiftly followed by a roaring shout of approval from the several hundreds of people who’d shown up, and paid good money, to watch. Damn locals must’ve hit a homer. If they got one off Jason Hubbard, there would be some sulking and tantrums on the train tonight. Jason was a terrible loser and didn’t mind who knew it.

Longarm shifted position. He was perched on the flat of an upended nail keg that had been discarded in the alley that ran behind the mercantile building. Longarm had dragged it behind a screening Jump of tall weeds—the greenery was too ugly to have been deliberately planted, and anyway who would plant shrubbery in an alley—and was sitting there waiting.

It wasn’t a bad place, but the iron-bound rim of the keg was cutting into the cheeks of his ass and threatening to put his whole hind end to sleep. And he couldn’t stand upright and move around any because the weeds he was lurking behind weren’t tall enough. Couldn’t smoke here either lest that serve as a tell-all and give his position away. Just in case someone happened to be alert for signs of the law. Which he damn sure hoped would prove to be the case here.

He stifled a yawn.

Then came alert and bolt upright on the keg, the miseries in his butt forgotten as there was a flicker of movement down at the far end of the alley.

A hint of motion. Then nothing and then …

A scrawny white and tan bitch with her jugs hanging down to knee level came stepping into view and began sniffing through the alley trash in search of something edible.

Dammit.

Longarm shoved his Colt back into its holster—he hadn’t consciously thought to draw the gun but had it in hand just the same—and once more allowed himself to slouch into a more comfortable position atop the miserable damned keg. If only he could have himself a smoke …

Chapter 38

Longarm sprang to his feet as three—no, four now—dull reports marred the clamoring of the baseball crowd.

Gunshots. Two, then one, then a pause of several seconds and the fourth shot.

The sounds came from down the street to the west. From the ball field. Longarm was almost positive that was where the disturbance was. He scowled. Dammit. Dammit!

Here he sat defending the post office, and some son of a bitch was down the street holding up the ticket booth.

Longarm ran along the side of the mercantile and burst out onto the main street of Sorrel Branch just in time to see three horsemen riding low on the necks of their horses come sweeping toward him from the direction of the ball field.

There wasn’t a whole helluva lot of doubt that these were the boys he was interested in.

The flour sack masks they wore over their heads kinda gave them away. The sacks had red and black printing to advertise some brand of flour—Longarm was much too far away to read just what kind it was—and eye and mouth holes cut out. The masks were held in place by floppy hats jammed tight over them.

And the horsemen had revolvers in their hands.

They were riding fast but controlled and in fact seemed to be paying damned little attention to the street where Longarm had run into view.

At virtually the same time that he reached the street and saw them, the leader of the trio reached the cross street at the end of the block and turned to motion the others to follow as he reined his mount hard left into the side street.

Longarm had no time to aim and shoot before the last of them wheeled around the corner and out of sight. Cursing, Longarm started forward, then stopped again as the sound of flying hoofs once again seemed to be approaching.

But something did not seem right about it.

Then he realized. The riders were not on the next street over paralleling Main.

For some crazy reason the robbers were streaking through the alley behind the mercantile.

Longarm snarled and cursed his luck. If he’d stayed where he was to begin with they would have blundered right past him.

As it was, they were half a block away and …

About the time he figured out what the hell was happening the first of the men galloped past the narrow opening Longarm had just raced through to reach the street. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the first rider and close behind him each of the others as they ran their horses through the alley.

There was a booming of gunshots, the sounds trapped and reverberating between the buildings, as the men fired at something—Longarm couldn’t figure out what—back there in the alley.

He heard the shots and the tinkle of falling glass and then the hoofbeats faded as the riders reached the next cross street and turned north away from what little town there was to Sorrel Branch.

It was way the hell and gone too late for him to do anything now but Longarm couldn’t help but run to the end of the block and look north toward the dust the robbers left behind.

The riders charged out of town and across a field of oat stubble, then cut due east again just as they reached the screening line of crack-willow that grew beside a ditch to the north of town.

Damn them, Longarm thought. Damn them anyway.

Dispirited and grumpy as hell now, he shoved his Colt back into leather and started the long walk that would tell him how much the bastards got away with. Damn them.

Chapter 39

“We’re just about tapped out, boys,” Douglas McWhortle announced to his ball players at the railway station late that afternoon. “That’s twice we’ve had our pay snatched out from under us lately, and I’m frankly not sure if I have enough cash in hand to carry us. For sure there won’t be any game pay handed out. We don’t play again until Saturday so we won’t be paid again until then. Whether we can make it or not depends on whether we can get credit at the boardinghouse in Jonesboro. If anyone wants to cut loose and find his way home on his own, well, I won’t hold it against you.”

There were long faces at that suggestion but no takers. But then probably no one had enough money for a train ticket home even if that was what he would want, Longarm suspected. The robbery of the gate receipts had made this a glum crowd indeed.

“At least our fare to Jonesboro is paid,” McWhortle said on a slightly brighter note, “and the passage includes a box lunch for each of us. You won’t go hungry tonight.”

The team members filed silently onto the P and P passenger coach, leaving behind an equally solemn crowd in Sorrel Branch.

There was talk of getting a posse together, but with neither law nor organized leadership in the community that idea would likely remain in the talking stages. Regardless, it was already much too late to put anyone on the trail of the robbers. They already had several hours’ head-start and soon it would be dark. By now the trio of gunmen—it was only dumb luck that kept anyone from being wounded … or worse—could be considered long gone.

“Psst!”

Longarm glanced over his shoulder as he was preparing to climb the steel steps into the rail car. Jerry, who should have been back in the baggage car, was standing there.

“Psst. Sir.”

Longarm dropped back onto the platform and let Caleb Jones board ahead of him while Longarm made as if to light a cheroot and kind of accidentally moved closer to Jerry. “What is it, son?”

“Shouldn’t you … I mean, aren’t you going to do something about those awful people?”

“Like what?”

“Like … I don’t know. I heard some of the men in town say they’re putting a posse together. Shouldn’t you take charge of that? I mean, you are a deputy marshal and all that.”

“Which you are s’posed to forget all about, right?” Longarm said as he dipped the tip end of his cheroot into the flame of a Lucifer.

“Well yes, but …”

“Thanks for the suggestion, son, but let me take care o’ this.”

“I just thought …”

“I know. It’s all right.”

“I heard somebody else say we won’t be bothered by them robbers no more,” Jerry put in this time, obviously unwilling to let go of such an exciting topic of discussion. And with a real life federal lawman at that. The kid might not be able to brag and bluster his secrets around the other members of the Capitals, but Longarm was another story.

“Why’s that, son?”

“They said the robbers were seen heading east. We’re going west and by a fast train. There’s no way they could turn around and catch up with us again now.”

“Even though we’ll have three days in Jonesboro?” Longarm asked.

Jerry looked crestfallen. “I never thought … say, how fast can a horse run anyhow?”

“It ain’t a question of how fast they are. A train can outrun a horse any time. It’s a matter of how far a horse can travel one day after another.”

“And to Jonesboro?”

Longarm thought about it a moment, then smiled and reached out to tousle Jerry’s lank hair. “I reckon it’s far enough we won’t have to worry about seeing the gang there in just three days. They might come after us at the next stop or the one after that, I wouldn’t know. But I expect it’s fair to say we won’t have t’ worry about them in Jonesboro.”

Jerry looked considerably relieved after that assurance. “Thanks, Marshal.”

“Huh uh. I’m Chet. Remember?”

“Yes, sir. I mean … Chet.” The kid grinned and trotted—well, hippety-hopped would be more like it but it was what passed for a trot on his bum foot—back down the train in the direction of the baggage car where he always was stuck watching over the team’s things.

“Boooo-ard!” the conductor called as coupling pins crashed and steam whistles shrilled. The P and P train lurched and jerked into motion.

Longarm had to hustle to make it onto the train before the clattering monster built up speed.

Chapter 40

“Make yourselves comfortable,” McWhortle told his red-eyed and weary collection of baseball warriors. “We’ll be here until after the game Saturday. Plenty of time for you to sleep.”

“What’s today?” one of the boys asked. Which was not really the dumb question it might have sounded. On a trip like this the days as well as the towns all blended into one, and if Longarm hadn’t been paying close attention he likely would not have known either.

“Thursday,” McWhortle answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “One more thing before you make a run for the beds. I’ve already talked to Mrs. Mosely who runs the place. She knows we’re broke and she’s willing to work with us. But be nice to her, will you? No shenanigans, hear? No water fights in the hallway and no food fights at table. And don’t be wasting food, all right? The lady will probably go light on the meat and other expensive stuff when she feeds us. Don’t any of you say anything to her about it. She’s treating us right. I want you all to act like,” he grinned, “little gentlemen. All right?”

The ball players grumbled a bit but not too much. Longarm thought most of them would probably go along with the deal and put on their best behavior, at least until the team’s bills were paid and they could act like their own ornery, immature selves again.

“That’s it then,” McWhortle said. “Everybody try and get some rest and I’ll see you at lunch. Oh, yeah. One more thing. We’re doubling up in the rooms to save money. No more privacy, so mind you don’t step on each other.”

That brought a loud chorus of groans and mumbles, but by then the manager had ducked inside and was already out of sight and hearing alike. The rest of the bunch trailed unhappily indoors except for Longarm who hung back on the porch fingering a smoke.

“Aren’t you coming … Chet?” Jerry asked.

“Be right along, kid. I wanta stretch my legs after all night on those padded damn benches. I’ll take a stroll while I finish this cigar an’ join you inside.”

Jerry grinned. “You’re already too late to get a good choice of roomies.”

“That don’t matter t’ me.”

“You wouldn’t … I mean … you wouldn’t consider bunking in with me, would you?”

“Sure, why not.”

Jerry grinned big as a shit-eating possum hunkered down over a fresh pile of bear doo. “You mean that?”

“‘Course I do.”

“All right then, Mar … I mean, Chet. You go on and enjoy your walk. I’ll have your things all laid out in our room when you get back. And … and you can have the best bed too. I promise.”

Damned if Longarm didn’t think he meant it. “Thanks, Jerry.” He turned and wandered away but headed not immediately down the street but around to the back of the boardinghouse first. He hadn’t had a chance yet this morning for the pleasure of a leisurely crap. First things first, after all.

Chapter 41

Longarm rinsed his hands and bent low over the basin, plunging his face into the chili water and washing some of the cobwebs out of his brain. Or so it felt like anyway. Two nights of trying to sleep on jolting trains can do that to a fellow.

He rubbed his eyes and behind his ears and scrubbed some at the bristling beard stubble that darkened his cheeks. It wouldn’t hurt to find a barber and treat himself to a good shave, he thought. Either that or risk cutting his own damn throat if he tried to do the job on his own.

Eyes closed against the sting of the soap residue floating in the wash water he straightened up and groped along the wall in the direction where he thought he remembered the age-gray towel hanging.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” The voice was feminine and soft. At the same time the woman spoke Longarm felt the coarse fabric of the flour sack towel being placed in his hand.

The first order of business was to wipe his face so he could open his eyes and …

Oh my, that was effort well spent.

The girl was pretty. Well, mostly. She had a complexion like fresh cream, eyelashes as long and curly as those on a Jersey calf, eyes as blue and sparkling as … as something mighty damned blue and sparkly whatever such would be, and tits big enough to suckle a troop of cavalry with milk left over.

She also had a jaw that would have looked in dainty proportion had it been slung from the face of a small moose.

But hell, with knockers like those feather-pillows of hers a girl could be forgiven a few minor faults.

“Thank you, Miss …?”

“You can call me Fancy,” the girl said, and giggled.

Longarm was commencing to suspect that something was afoot here.

“Fancy is the name and it’s fancy that you are,” he said with a deep bow. “My name is Chet.”

“Could you help me with something, Chet?” she asked.

“If it is within my power, Fancy, the favor is surely yours.”

“My, you do talk nice, Chet.”

“Not nearly so nice as you look, m’dear.”

She giggled again. “Could you come along and lift something down for me?”

“My pleasure, pretty girl.” He quickly dabbed the towel over his neck and behind his ears, then put it back onto the hook where the girl found it.

“This way, please.” She started off toward the back of the lot where the boardinghouse was situated, and for a moment Longarm thought she was taking him to the outhouse where he’d just completed his morning’s business.

Instead, though, Fancy led him through some scraggly shrubbery and on to a building that might originally have been intended as a carriage house. It was too big to be considered a shed, he decided, but was much too small to be a barn. A storage building of some sort now, he concluded. It had seen better days.

“In here, Chet.”

Fancy pulled one of the broad double doors open, ancient hinges offering a squeal of protest at that intrusion, and disappeared into a gloomy interior that was highlighted here and there by dust motes flitting through slender beams of light that crept through gaps in the curling roof shingles. Longarm blinked, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness as he stepped in behind the girl. “Where …?”

And then he knew right good and well where she’d gotten to.

Pressed tight against him, that’s where she was. And if he didn’t take care she was apt to suck the breath clean out of his lungs.

Fancy didn’t seem to know a whole hell of a lot about the fine arts and sciences of the kiss. But she was for sure willing to do what little she knew how with gusto. Mucho gusto.

Chapter 42

Ah yes, the delicate and lovely nuances of genteel courtship. Fancy’s version of courtship was on the same order of things as illustrating the proper techniques of the social call with Sherman’s visit to Atlanta. Flames and all. Damn, but the girl was hot.

He meant that literally, actually. The day was another scorcher and Fancy was sticky with sweat. Smelled of yesterday’s sweat, too. And maybe a somewhat more extensive collection as well although he’d rather not have to think about that at the moment.

There were, ahem, other matters to consider just now.

Like how to get those damned buttons … there, that was better.

He got the top of her dress open while Fancy was busy with his fly. It’d seemed something of a race that turned out to be a tie. Not that there was any harm in that.

She was wearing a thin chemise under the dress. That posed no problem for a man of Longarm’s experience. Especially as the material of the chemise was old and often washed. The pale cloth kind of disintegrated under his touch—he swore he hadn’t jerked or pulled or tried to tear it open—and her tits popped out into full, glorious view.

More than a mouthful? These melons were more than a half gallon. Each. An incautious man might could smother himself to death if Fancy leaned down over him. Which might not be the very worst possible way a man could happen to die. But still…

She had a little heat rash underneath the sag of those bazooms and would have benefited from some powder. But he wasn’t complaining. He bent down and gobbled in a mouthful of nipple on her left one while he gave the other a hearty squeeze, and Fancy went to moaning like she was already in ecstasy.

“Oh God, honey, do me, do me quick, sweetie.” She snatched the hem of her dress waist high, the wonders thus revealed being instantly and fully on display as she hadn’t bothered with pantaloons when she dressed earlier. A shy girl, Fancy. Demure and withdrawn. Yeah.

“Do me, honey.”

She waggled her butt, which set her tits to flopping, and Longarm bore down all the harder to keep control of the one he was trying to suck. He didn’t know but what he maybe should set his spurs and hang on or else back away fast so as not to get slapped silly by all the meat that was being slung. He settled for taking a firm hold with his teeth and squeezing even harder on the other one.

Fancy groaned and wriggled and subtly indicated that, uh huh, she liked that just fine. “Harder, baby, harder,” she moaned. “Bite it, honey. Hard.”

He complied, hoping he wasn’t commencing to draw blood, and Fancy let out a loose, satisfied little squeal and kind of shivered some. He would almost have sworn that she reached a climax just then.

He moved over to the other tit and bit it too, and Fancy went so far out of it that her knees buckled and for about half a second there he thought he was gonna have to support her full weight on the nipple he was gnawing. Fortunately she got her balance back after that brief scare and continued to grope and grasp him.

She’d been having trouble getting his cock out where she could enjoy it but now she ripped the thing out of its confines—damned lucky for him he wasn’t fully hard yet so there was still some bend and give to the poor thing; otherwise he’d have had to set the break and put it in a splint and then where the hell would he have been—and got a good look at it for the first time.

The girl cackled and turned loose of him long enough to clap her hands in glee. “Sweetheart, I think I’m in love.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he told her.

“Take whatever you want, honey, just so I can take that big beautiful thing inside me.”

Uh huh. Shy. He hoped she’d outgrow that trait someday.

Fancy grabbed him by the nuts—she only wanted to fondle him, but she was such a vigorous broad that he was gun-shy and would have leaped away from her except she was too quick for him. If he’d pulled back once she had hold of him, he likely would have left his cojones behind, and she dragged him with her as she backed up in search of something to lean against.

She backed into a dirt crusted and rotting barrel and leaned against it, spreading her ample thighs and drawing Longarm right onto—and into—the wet heat of her sweating body.

Ready? She couldn’t have been any more slick and greasy if she’d been bathing in a tub of snot. He slid inside easy as dunking a biscuit in gravy and mightn’t have been sure he was in her if it hadn’t been for the heat that surrounded him.

Ready? He hadn’t more than bumped his belly tight to hers than Fancy went to shuddering and buffing and turning all red in the face. She wiggled and moaned and the lips of her pussy contracted so hard that he could actually feel her around him. The girl was just plain big. Loose and sloppy and big enough so that even he, big as he was, had room left over.

Longarm knew that while Fancy might be having a helluva lot of fun this way he wasn’t likely to get much out of it. Not like this. He pulled out and turned her around, giving her a little push so that she leaned facedown over the top of the ancient barrel.

“You want me in the ass, sweetie? You go right ahead, honey. I like it there too.”

Interesting, he supposed, and a generous offer. But not exactly what he had in mind.

“Pull your legs together.”

“Make me,” she demanded.

He didn’t understand what she wanted at first. Then did. What the hell, it was her quirk not his. He slapped her butt a couple times, harder than he really wanted if not so hard as she would have liked, and Fancy climaxed again under this tender treatment. “Now put your legs close together,” he repeated.

This time Fancy did what she was told—hell, if she got balky he might refuse to spank her again—and Longarm stepped up behind her broad ass.

This time when he slid the meat into her locker she was tight enough that he could enjoy being there.

And truth to tell there was something about Fancy that had him just damn near as hot as she’d been.

He stirred it around a few times and soon felt the swift rise of intense pressure building deep in his balls and flowing up into his cock.

He held back, trying to contain it, but it was like trying to hold back the spring floods. Just couldn’t be done.

When he came it was a flood sure enough. He pumped fluid enough to make a fire engine proud, and while he was doing that Fancy came again, too.

Longarm’s knees went weak and his eyes crossed—well, they almost felt like they might have—and he had sudden visions of soft beds that didn’t rock and jolt along a bunch of damned railroad tracks and long hours of uninterrupted sleep and things like that.

But then he was a United States deputy marshal here trying to do his duty.

Right.

He swayed backward, letting his limp, wet pecker flop out into the cooling air.

“Lawd’a’mercy, sweetheart,” Fancy said. Or something like that.

“Yeah,” Longarm agreed. He yawned and patted Fancy on the butt, which did not get a rise out of her this time. He supposed she must’ve been pretty well spent by now too, though.

“Excuse me, honey,” he told her, “but I gotta go see a man about a horse.”

Fancy made a face at him but didn’t object when Longarm went to tucking and buttoning himself into outward respectability again.

“Any time you want to talk some more,” she offered.

Longarm smiled and winked at her and leaned forward to plant a chaste, brotherly little kiss on the tip of her nose.

Then he turned and got the hell out of the close confinement of the old carriage house. Damn girl smelled like a goat, he swore she did.

Chapter 43

At some point not long before daybreak the P & P train had crossed the state line, carrying the baseball club out of flat, drab, and dreary Kansas and into a piece of Colorado that was … every damn bit as flat and drab and dreary as it’d been back in Kansas.

But at least this was familiarly flat, drab and dreary. Hell, it seemed practically like home after being stuck in Kansas so long. Not that Longarm had anything against Kansas. Far from it. But Colorado was home territory and he was pleased to be back.

He stood in the middle of the main street of Jonesboro—he didn’t exactly have to fret about being run over by the crush of onrushing traffic; at the moment the only thing he could see moving at ground level was a stray cat that emerged from an alley, took one look around and quickly retreated back into the shade of the alley it just came from—and took a deep drag on a cheroot while he peered around.

He’d been in Jonesboro before. Twice if he remembered correctly. And the truth was that it had grown some since the last he saw it.

There still wasn’t a tree to be found for fifteen or twenty miles in any direction, but here lately a forest seemed to’ve been growing anyway.

Windmills. The country had become of a sudden overgrown with brand-new windmills, each one of them busily pumping water into newly dug irrigation ditches. Jonesboro and environs was fast becoming farm country whereas the last time Longarm looked it had been devoted mostly to small-parcel livestock raising, like chickens, pigs, goats, and some sheep raised on a small scale.

Not now. Now everything around had been plowed, disked, dragged, and planted. The place would’ve been a vegetarian’s version of heaven, he was sure.

And somewhere in the unseen distance there was a salesman for the Aeromotor Company who surely must have a permanent smile stitched into both corners of his mouth. The man’s commissions from selling all these windmills would probably keep him in whiskey and women for the rest of his days, long may they be.

Likely too the P and P investors were excited. If only cautiously so. The last he’d heard the P and P had completed track only as far as Lamar, or maybe it was LaJunta, he couldn’t remember which, before they called a “temporary” stop to the construction. Temporary, that is, until they found enough money to build on the rest of the way west to Trinidad where they hoped to connect with General Palmer’s Denver and Rio Grande line and put the narrow gauge Plains and Pacific into a profitable situation.

This new-found growth in farming along the P and P route might be just what they needed. Or it as easily could be a pipe dream that would break a thousand backs and twice that many hearts when the wells ran dry or the locusts came or some other damn thing ruined the farmers who invested their hopes in this dry and unforgiving land.

Longarm wished them luck. And was damned glad that he wasn’t one of them.

He finished his cigar, then ambled off down the street toward a saloon he remembered as being a right nice place to visit.

A drink would help to settle his stomach, he decided, and maybe as well help him to forget how scorching hot the day was becoming.

After that, well, he would poke around a mite, then go back to the boardinghouse and join the rest of the Capitals in catching up on some of that sleep he’d been missing the past couple nights courtesy of the Plains and Pacific.

Chapter 44

“Chet. Mr. Short. Wake up, sir, it’s time to go down to supper.”

Longarm came awake with a groan and a curse. Jerry, his ever eager, always anxious roommate was leaning over him. Longarm gave the kid a scowl to tell him how welcome this wake-up call was.

He sat upright on the edge of the lumpy, boardinghouse bed and made a sour face, which wasn’t a patch on how sour the inside of his mouth tasted. The slime on his tongue tasted kind of like how cow slobbers look.

Worse, his head was pounding and felt like it had been packed in sand.

What was it about trying to sleep in daylight that so often made the cure seem less desirable than the original fatigue. He should have stayed awake through the afternoon. Of course now was a fine time to think about that.

“Are you coming, sir?”

“Yeah, yeah, leave me be, dammit.” Longarm tried to rub some of the sting out of his eyes although they felt like they needed more than a light massage, they felt like they needed to be taken out and thoroughly washed. Put them into a basin of soapy water and scrub them clean, maybe that would take some of the misery off them.

On that cheery thought he climbed onto his hind legs and stumbled over to the washstand where the thunder mug was stored underneath. He pissed in the porcelain mug. It was just too damned far to contemplate going out back right now. Besides, Fancy might be hanging around out there, lurking in ambush for the next poor SOB of a ball player to step outside. Longarm was in no humor for another piece of that. Later, maybe. Not right now.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yeah, sure,” Longarm lied.

“is there anything I can do to help you?” Jerry offered.

“No, there … wait a minute. You serious about that?”

“Yes, sir, just as serious as I know how.”

“I tell you what then.” Longarm plucked his coat out of the wardrobe and fumbled inside it for a cheroot and some matches. “Tell you what. I’m not feeling so good right now. Would you kinda keep an eye on one of the boys and tell me if he tries to slip out by himself this evening?”

The equipment boy lit up like Longarm had just ignited a set of candles inside his skull, like he was a living, breathing jack-o’-lantern. “You mean one of our own players is a suspect?” Jerry asked with so much excitement it was all he could do to form the words.

“I wouldn’t go so far as t’ say he’s a suspect, exactly. It’s just that I got a few questions I’d like t’ see answered. You know what I mean?”

“Whatever you say, marshal.” Jerry grinned and corrected himself. “I mean, Chet.” The boy chuckled and—Longarm saw him do it and would have sworn to it in a court of law—actually, by-God rubbed his hands together in anticipation of this great excitement. “Who is it, sir? Who do you want me to watch for you?”

“You won’t tell another soul? Swear to God you won’t?”

“No one, marshal. I promise.”

Longarm hesitated only long enough to get his cheroot alight, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Nat Lewis, son. I want you to let me know if Nat tries to sneak out alone t’night.”

Jerry looked purely fit to bust with the prospect of spying on a teammate before him. Longarm wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone quite so happy before. About anything.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, kid.”

“We better go down now or we’ll miss supper. And, sir?”

“Uh huh?”

“Don’t you worry about what you asked me to do, sir. I won’t let you down. I promise that I won’t.”

“Why, I trust you to that, son, or I wouldn’t have asked you t’ begin with.”

Jerry beamed with joy and pride. He practically floated down the staircase to the dining room below. Longarm clumped along at a considerably more sedate pace.

The whole team was gathered there for a meal that was long on starches and gravy but short when it came to actual meat. Still, it was hot and filling and there was plenty of it. Afterward most of the men drifted into the parlor where they broke up into small groups, most of them centered around nucleuses of cards and coins.

Longarm got into a penny ante game of stud with the pitching staff.

He had no idea what Nat Lewis and Jerry were up to and took some care not to go looking around for either one of them.

Chapter 45

“Psst! Sir. Mr. Short.”

Longarm looked up to see Jerry standing at the sliding double doors that led out to the entry hall and vestibule. The boy was hissing and beckoning for all he was worth. He might as well have waved a signal lantern and fired off some flares, but what the hell. Nobody cared anyway.

“I’m out. Do me a favor, Dennis?”

“Sure.”

“Cash these out for me, please. I got an urgent call o’ nature to see to.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” The young pitcher pulled Longarm’s pile of pennies in front of him and grinned. “Now I can really run the pots up on these guys.”

Longarm left the table and grabbed his Stetson off the elk horn rack on his way out to join Jerry.

“It’s Nat Lewis, sir. He went out back like he was going to the shitter but he never. Instead he looked around … I was real careful that he couldn’t see me watching after him … and took off into town. I didn’t know what I should do then, sir. I mean, should I run back in to tell you and miss seeing where Nat went or should I follow after him. I decided to follow and see where he was going then come back for you. Is that all right, sir? Did I do good?”

“You did just fine, Jerry.”

The boy beamed and led the way outside and down the street in the direction of downtown Jonesboro, Longarm having to shorten his strides to keep from overrunning the hippety-hop gait of the youngster with the clubfoot.

“Back in there it is, sir,” he said once they were on Main next to Berman’s Pharmacy. “He went down this alley here and knocked on a door. I waited long enough to overhear that much, then I hurried on back to get you.”

“You did fine, Jerry. Couldn’t have been any better.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait for me here on the street now.”

“You don’t want me to come with you, sir?”

Longarm didn’t want Jerry getting in the way in a dark alley. Didn’t particularly want to hurt his feelings either. “What I need is for you to stay here so no one can sneak up behind me. I’ll feel better if I know there’s someone watching my back, see.”

“Oh. Right.” Jerry grinned, obviously pleased to have such an important part in the continuation of this mission. “I won’t let anybody come up behind you.”

“If anything happens, son, don’t try and fight. Just call out the warning and scoot out of sight.”

“But you …”

“I’ll be fine. Really. You ready now?”

“Yes, sir. I’m behind you. You can count on me, sir.”

“Okay, but remember to keep your eyes on the street, not down the alley here. You won’t be able to help if you’re watching me instead of what’s going on around us.”

“I never thought of that.” Jerry turned his back—reluctantly—on the alley and gave his attention to the completely empty city street.

For his part, Longarm simply sauntered down the middle of the alley. He could see lamp light in a window toward the back of the pharmacy and suspected that was where he would find Nat Lewis.

Longarm reached the window and had to go on tiptoes to see through the dirt-grimed panes of old, inferior glass. The poor quality of glass made everything inside appear wavy and slightly out of true, as if trying to look at something on the bed of a fast-moving stream, but the light inside was good and the visibility sufficient for Longarm’s purposes.

Lewis was in there all right, along with a young man Longarm had never seen before. The local fellow wore a white linen smock and white cotton gloves, sleeve garters and an eye shade. He was bent over a small table doing something that Longarm could not see while Nat Lewis paced back and forth nearby.

Whatever arrangement was being made here it wasn’t quite yet concluded, that was obvious.

After a minute or so the man in white stood, leaning backward and pressing a hand into the small of his back as if to try and alleviate a pain there. He said something to Lewis and picked up the thing he’d been working with, which turned out to be a small mortar and pestle. Longarm could see them clearly now that the man—pharmacist? likely—was out of the way.

Lewis bobbed his head in response to whatever it was the local said, then reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a thin sheaf of folded paper. Money, Longarm thought, although the poor visibility would not let him see that for certain sure, and handed it to the man in the white smock. The local took a careful look at the currency he’d been given—Longarm confirmed what it was when the fellow counted it—and pushed the bills into his pocket, then picked up the pestle and dumped something from it into an envelope which he handed to Lewis.

The ball player practically ripped the envelope open again in his haste to reach the contents. He pulled out a pinch of the powder and put the substance inside his mouth, pushing it into his cheek the way a man will sometimes use tobacco snuff, although Longarm was fairly sure that a body wouldn’t go to a pharmacist for anything so simple as ordinary snuff.

On the other hand …

Longarm went over to the alley door and was waiting there when Nat Lewis stepped outside with his precious envelope in hand.

It didn’t really matter to Longarm what it was that Lewis was up to here. Whatever it was it had nothing to do with post office robberies. Still, he was mildly curious.

“H’lo, Nat.”

The outfielder acted like he would have come clean out of his skin if it hadn’t been firmly closed on all sides. “Short. Jesus, man, what are you doing here?”

“I, uh, was looking for something else and couldn’t help but notice your little transaction in there. Mind telling me what it was about?”

“It’s … nothing. Really.”

“Nothing, Nat? It’s important enough for you to hide it from the rest of the team.”

“I just … nothing, dammit. Leave me alone, Short. Just leave me be about this.”

“I dunno, Nat. It kinda looks like the sort of thing as ought to be discussed with McWhortle.”

“God, Short, you son of a bitch. You’d tell, wouldn’t you? Don’t. I’m begging you. You want money? Is that it? I … I don’t have much left. When we get paid again maybe I can …”

“I don’t want your money, Lewis. I just want you to tell me what it is you’re doing. I mean, I saw you on the train one time taking delivery of something … or passing something along, I couldn’t tell which … and now this. What is it that you’re up to, Lewis?”

“I just … it isn’t anything illegal, Short.”

“Then why are you trying to hide it?”

“It’s Douglas. He’s dead set against … he’d kick me off the team if he found out, Short. I’d be ruined, my whole career shattered.”

“For what, Lewis?”

“It’s only coca powder. It’s perfectly legal, you know. It doesn’t harm anything, and it … it kind of helps.”

“I see,” Longarm said. And of course he did. The powdered coca was entirely legal just as Nat Lewis said. It was legal and it was cheap and it was used by many as a pick-me-up when they were tired or wanted a little boost of quick energy. Unfortunately the stuff could also be addictive and could lead, or so some claimed, to serious health consequences. Certainly it could affect one’s judgment. Those likely were the reasons Douglas McWhortle would not want any of his players using the commonly available stuff.

Nat Lewis, it seemed, was already addicted beyond McWhortle’s—or his own—ability to control.

The pharmacist must have overheard the voices outside his door because now he appeared there, this time without the smock and gloves. “Is everything all right out here?”

“Yes. No problem,” Longarm assured him.

“You are sure?”

“Really,” Lewis said.

“Good night then.” The pharmacist closed the door and rather loudly locked and chained it.

“Short,” Lewis said, his voice pleading. “You won’t …”

Longarm sighed. “No, Lewis. I reckon I won’t say nothing to McWhortle ‘bout this. But I think … no, never mind. You don’t want advice from me, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Chet. Thank you. You won’t regret it. I promise.”

The teammates left the alley in silence and proceeded back to the boardinghouse without speaking again.

There was no sign of Jerry on the street, Longarm noticed.

But then obviously the kid would have overheard everything that took place in the alley. No point in mentioning that to Lewis, though.

Two more days, Longarm thought. Two days and the Capitals would meet the Jonesboro nine.

And this game should not be marred by the presence of robbers. That was what he’d assured Jerry when the kid pressed him on the subject.

After that, well, after that they would just have to wait and see what happened, wouldn’t they?

Chapter 46

The morning of game day Longarm crawled unwilling into his baseball outfit. He managed to refrain from sniveling and whining about it, but he did snarl and spit just a little.

“Something wrong, Marshal?” his roommate asked.

“Flannel at this time o’ year, that’s what’s wrong.” It wasn’t yet mid-morning and already the sweat was pouring off him by the bucketful. And that was indoors. In the fierce glare of the sunshine this afternoon it was bound to be unbearable. “How come you never complain, kid? Surely you get as hot and miserable as the rest of us.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the heat so much,” Jerry admitted. “It’s worth being hot to be able to wear a fine uniform like this. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“When you’re out there on the field playing and all those pretty girls are cheering and then later they come up to you and … well, they do things with you … you know the sort of things I mean … is it, well, is it as grand as it looks?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Jerry.”

“I mean … those girls falling all over you and the other players … is it really, really neat?”

“I suppose so. Hadn’t given it much thought, actually, but I s’pose you could call it neat.”

Jerry blushed, then rushed on quick before he lost his courage. “You don’t have to pay them or … or anything?”

“Hell no, kid. Girls like that, they’re easy. They’d sleep with anybody.”

The equipment boy looked sad. “Not everybody,” he said.

Longarm glanced down toward the kid’s twisted foot, then paid attention to Jerry’s boyish but rather homely features and complexion. “Your time will come,” he said.

Jerry brightened a little. Or pretended to. “Sure it will, marshal. One of these days I’ll be rich. Maybe even famous, sort of. Then all the girls will want to be with me. Even more than with guys like you and the players. You wait and see. It will happen, sir.”

“I believe you, Jerry. I bet it really will happen that way for you.” It was a lie. But not a bad sort of lie.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure, anything.”

“You said you don’t expect those robbers to be here in Jonesboro. Does that mean you’ll be playing today?”

“I’ll play if the manager wants me to.”

“But you’ll be there with us at the ball field, is that right?”

“All day long,” Longarm assured him, checking to make sure all his buttons were buttoned and all the tail ends tucked in. Damn but he would be glad when he didn’t have to wear this clown suit any longer.

“If there’s anything you need, sir, or anything I can do.”

“I know I can count on you to be close by, Jerry. In fact, I am counting on that.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Longarm gave his gunbelt and Colt a looking over, but there was no help for it. Those particular items would be distinctly out of place in conjunction with a baseball uniform.

“You want me to carry those for you, marshal? Just in case, like? I could hide them on my cart. In the bat bag or better yet I could put them in my first aid box. It wouldn’t be no trouble.”

“Thanks, Jerry, but I won’t need them. Not today.”

Carefully he rolled the belt, gun, and holster into a compact bundle and stowed them away in his carpetbag.

“I’m ready to go now if you are, marshal.”

“Let’s go do it, son.”

Chapter 47

To Longarm’s immense relief the manager did not want Longarm to start in right field. It was hot enough sitting on the bench along the third base line. It would have been even worse if he had to be running around out in the damned field.

“Stay ready though, Short. I expect to need you to hit for me later on.”

“Is there somethin’ I don’t know about? How can you tell before the game even starts that you’ll be needin’ a punch hitter?”

“The term is pinch, not punch. And I’m anticipating it because as you may not have noticed, it’s a very hot day today. The pitchers especially will be feeling that. I’ll start Jason Hubbard, but later on I’ll want to put in Dennis Pyle and possibly will replace him later, too. When I think it’s time to make the move, see, I’ll wait until it’s Jason’s turn to bat, then put you in long enough for that one at-bat. A matter of simple strategy you see, not collusion.”

“Damn. I guess maybe there’s reasons for all the stuff that goes on on that field, huh?”

McWhortle smiled. “Sometimes. Not always.”

“Let me know when you want me t’ hit,” Longarm said.

“Relax. I won’t need you for a spell.”

“Thanks.” Longarm looked rather longingly toward a tent—the shade was reason enough to yearn for it—where an enterprising soul was selling lemonade, apple cider or beer, fifteen cents a glass for whichever one you chose. Expensive, Longarm thought, but worth it.

“Go ahead,” McWhortle told him. “Just don’t dip too heavy into the beer if that’s your pleasure.”

“Lend me a dollar?” Longarm asked. “I didn’t pack my wallet in these tight britches.”

McWhortle forked over, and Longarm made for the refreshment tent.

He wasn’t more than into the shade of the canvas canopy when he ran into a friend. Sort of.

“Ma’am,” he said, reaching up to touch the brim of his Stetson only to realize too late that he was instead wearing that ridiculous, floppy baseball cap. Better to tip that than be rude, though. He removed it and smiled at the girl he knew as Fancy—which surely was not her right name—and at the much prettier lass who was with her.

“Geraldine, this is Mr. Short.” Huh. She must’ve been asking after him then. They hadn’t bothered with much in the way of introductions the last he saw Fancy. “Mr. Short, this is Miss Flowers.”

“And pretty as a flower you are too, miss,” Longarm said politely. It was not a lie. Geraldine was blonde and lovely, with a shapely figure and a dimpled smile. He couldn’t help wondering if Geraldine Flowers had the same habits as Fancy did when it came to being, uh, hospitable to visiting baseball players.

Not that he could come right out and ask.

“May I offer you ladies a beverage?” Longarm asked.

“Cider for me, please,” Fancy said. “A lemonade would be lovely,” Geraldine added.

“I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The girls moved out of the crowd to the fringe of shade on the far side of the canopy while Longarm pushed his way through the sweating, smelling press of humanity to fetch the drinks. It was a good thing McWhortle had given him more than the price of a single beer, bless that man’s heart.

Out on the field the game was already in progress. Both young ladies seemed to be actually paying attention to it.

“What position do you play, Mr. Short?” Geraldine asked.

Longarm gave her the standard lie about the sore shoulder that kept him from pitching.

Fancy, meanwhile, was looking over the visiting players like a matron in the butcher shop examining a tray of pork chops prior to making her selections.

“Who’s that on first base?” she asked.

Longarm was paying more attention to Geraldine than to Fancy at the moment and only half heard. He thought she’d said something about that being Hoosier on first.

“That’s right,” he said.

“What?” Fancy asked.

“Levi … that’s Watt’s name … is on second.”

Fancy blinked. Then shrugged. “And what’s the name of that man over there on third base?”

“No, I already told you. Watt is on second.” He glanced briefly toward the field. “The guy on third? I don’t know.”

“Thanks. I suppose.”

Longarm didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with Geraldine. And anyway his mind really wasn’t focused on her. Nor on the ball game, for that matter.

He was really only waiting.

A couple innings later Jerry came running—or as close to it as he could manage—to fetch Longarm.

“The manager wants you to pinch hit now, Chet.”

“Thanks, Jerry. Say, why don’t you take my place answering these ladies’ questions. Girls, this is Jerry. Ask him whatever you want to know. He knows more about this baseball club than anybody.”

Jerry preened under Longarm’s praise. Longarm was pretty sure he could come back any time that afternoon from now on and find Jerry glued to Fancy and Geraldine.

“If you’ll excuse me now, ladies,” he touched the brim of the stupid little cap, “I have some work t’ do.”

Chapter 48

What Longarm still couldn’t figure out no matter how often he worried it over in his mind was: What did these baseball players find to be so difficult about taking a stick and hitting a ball?

It was a simple matter of hand and eye coordination. The eyes saw the ball coming. The hands whacked it with the stick. The ball flew into the air. Simple as that. Yet the ball players, guys who actually got paid real money for playing a kid’s game, these guys made out like hitting the stupid ball was supposed to be difficult.

Even more amazing to them, most of these same fellows really couldn’t hit a ball more than, say, one time in three or four. Hell, they even kept records of such things. Batting averages, they called it, although Longarm hadn’t bothered to learn what was considered good and what was bad or how a batting average was arrived at.

He just wasn’t that interested in keeping track of something so easy.

Now if these guys wanted difficult they should try shooting rabbits with a handgun while riding a running horse over rough ground.

That was difficult.

Hitting a thrown baseball was dead easy. All a fellow had to do was get the rhythm of the thing and let ‘er rip.

Douglas McWhortle went out to tell the umpire that a pinch hitter would be coming in to replace Jason Hubbard and a man with a megaphone announced to the crowd that Chet Short would be batting.

Longarm found a reasonably clean towel to wipe his face and neck, lifted his cap to let a little air reach his scalp for half a second and then used the towel to swab off the grip of the bat he’d picked up.

Most of the boys were particular about what bats they used, but Longarm couldn’t much tell one from another. He just picked up whichever one was closest to him. It kind of pissed some of the fellows off that his indifference worked so much better than their superior knowledge and general fussiness.

The Jonesboro pitcher, the third they’d used so far in the game, was a short, fat old boy who looked even hotter and more miserable in this weather than Longarm felt. Which hardly seemed possible but appeared to be true nonetheless.

Longarm took his place in the batter’s box and stood there watching while the fat boy threw a few past him. He wanted to size up the aim and speed of the fat boy’s throws before he hit the ball.

With the count at two balls and two strikes Longarm figured he’d better pay some attention this next toss. He waggled the bat a few times like he’d seen the others do, spat once for luck and waited.

The fat boy reared back and wound up like he was setting a spring, then flung the ball right down the middle.

Huh. It seemed hardly sporting the way the ball sailed along smooth and steady.

Longarm was in no hurry. He judged the timing of the throw, took half a step forward with his left foot … and waled the beejabbers out of the horsehide.

The ball left the bat with a rather nicely satisfying crack and took off like it was fixing to punch holes in the nearest cloud.

No doubt about it. Longarm knew he had another of those home run hits before his bat ever connected. Hell, this one seemed high and far even to him.

There was a mighty groan from the crowd—it was natural enough that they would all be rooting for Jonesboro, all but a few locals who’d been sensible enough to place some money on the visiting professionals—and Longarm started to trot down to first base.

He wasn’t halfway there when he heard the first gunfire from the direction of town.

One shot, two more close behind, and then a regular fusillade so thick and fast it was impossible to tell how many shots were fired.

Longarm sorted the sounds into categories. There were the sharp, light thumps of revolvers, a few cracks of rifle shots and, ending the fury, a succession of the dull booming reports of shotgun blasts.

Without needing to think about what had to be done he veered hard left and ran across the baseball diamond toward the refreshment canopy.

Chapter 49

As he’d expected, he found Jerry still hanging close to the ladies’ skirts. The boy with the clubfoot looked worried.

“What was that, Chet? What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay if you want t’ call me Longarm now, Jerry. The masquerade is over and I can be myself again.”

“What’s that? I don’t understand.”

Longarm shrugged and said, “That gunfire was your friends being brought to justice, Jerry. Either they’re in custody or else they’re dead. We’ll know how it turned out when the town marshal gets here.”

“I don’t understand,” Jerry repeated.

“Sorry, kid, but the game is over. Your pals are under arrest and now so are you.”

“May I ask what this is about?” Fancy injected.

Longarm reached under his shirt and extracted the badge he’d been carrying—and none too comfortably either if the truth be told—hidden there since morning. “I’m a United States deputy marshal, ma’am. The name is Custis Long, not Chester Short. Sorry to’ve deceived you.”

If anything Fancy looked rather pleased. Like she’d managed to count coup over her girlfriends who merely screwed baseball players while she had herself a real live federal lawman in the sack.

“Don’t go sidling off like that, Jerry. You’re under arrest, remember.”

“I still don’t-“

“Hell, boy, you tipped it off your own self the other day. Remember back in Sorrel Branch when your buddies made their break after robbing the ticket booth? Afterward I got to asking myself a couple questions. One of them was why those boys, prepared as they obviously were, would bother to hit a lousy ticket booth when the pickings at the post office in town would certainly have been a hell of a lot better. Didn’t make sense. Unless they somehow already knew there was an ambush waiting for them in that little no-law burg.

“Then I asked myself why a bunch of fleeing felons would go out of their way to detour through an alley and shoot hell out of the very bush I’d been sitting behind until the shooting tolled me out onto the street.

“The answers to both those questions just had t’ come back to you, Jerry. After all, you’re the only person in this whole wide world that knew the post office was being covered. And where I was setting t’ do that job. Those friends of yours hit the booth because it wasn’t guarded, and they swung by and tried to kill me so as to get me off their backs. And the only way they could have known to do either one of those things, Jerry, was if you told them to change the plan. Because you were the only one who could tell them.”

“But I thought you agreed with me that no one could ride from Sorrel Branch to Jonesboro in time to pull a robbery here,” Jerry said. “I thought you weren’t expecting there to be any trouble here.”

“I did tell you that, didn’t I? When you kind of insisted that I come t’ that conclusion. O’ course what I remembered, an’ I know you did too, is that if one bunch can take a train from Sorrel Branch to Jonesboro, so can another.

“I had my old friend Jonesboro Town Marshal Hugh Bullen watch the depot looking for three riders coming in. We didn’t know what the men would look like since they’d been wearing those flour sack hoods back in Kansas, but I guess it must not’ve occurred to them that you can’t hardly disguise a horse. I just told Hugh what horses t’ look for, and the part about the riders just kinda fell into place along with those mounts.

“Your buddies unloaded just past dawn yesterday and went into camp a little while later. Some of Hugh’s people been watching them day an’ night since. And o’ course your friends knew to place their ambush wherever I wasn’t. Because that’s where you would’ve told your gang to hit this time. I reckon if I’d stayed in town, your boys would’ve robbed the gate receipts again.”

Longarm shrugged. “You almost got away with it, Jerry. Almost.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Now, Jerry,” Longarm admonished sadly. “You oughtn’t to talk that way in front of ladies.”

Jerry let out a sob. And lunged to grab Geraldine Flowers by the throat.

The boy pulled a tiny, nickel-plated revolver out of his pocket and shoved the muzzle into Geraldine’s ear. “Don’t make me shoot her, Longarm. I will if I have to. I swear that I will unless you back off and give me a fair start. Fair, that’s all I’m asking. Just a head start.”

Longarm sighed and shook his head. Why’d the stupid kid have to go and grab the pretty one, dammit. What a waste. This would have been easier if it was Fancy that Jerry was threatening.

“Kid, grow up, will you.”

“I’ll kill her, Longarm. I will.”

“All right, Jerry. Then what will you do?”

Jerry blinked. “Huh?”

“What is it with you amateurs that you think taking a hostage makes you all of a sudden bulletproof? It was a simple question, kid. All it needs is a simple answer. So you have Miss Flowers for a hostage. You shoot her. So then what d’you do?”

Jerry looked confused by the question, simple or not.

“Look, kid, you can’t accomplish much by shooting Miss Flowers. I mean, once you kill her you got no hostage any more, and I kill you in return. Sure she’d be dead but so would you. That’s the trouble with a threat, son. You got no place to run once your bluff is called. Think about it. You can surrender to me nice and peaceable or you can kill Miss Flowers. Which I got to tell you would piss me off pretty thoroughly. If you do that I will shoot you dead just as sure as you and me are standing here. No, what you got to do, Jerry, is give yourself up. You’ll get a fair trial and a prison term, but at least you’ll still be alive when your time is done. You can get out and go make a start toward getting rich like you said you intended t’ do.” Longarm smiled gently. “Which, by the way, I understood at the time what you really meant. You were laughing UP your sleeve at me, but I didn’t mind. I knew Hugh and me had it under control.”

“Damn you,” Jerry moaned.

“Give it up, kid. Nice and peaceable.”

“You’re a nice lady,” Jerry said to his hostage. “I’M sorry if I scared you. Longarm?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“You can’t shoot me. Your gun is back in the boardinghouse. I’ll let Miss Flowers go, but you got to let me get away. You just got to.”

“Sorry, kid. I’ve already told you you’re under arrest. That’s the way we got to play it now.”

Jerry bit at his underlip and seemed to think things over for several long seconds. Then he took his pistol away from the girl’s head and gave her a little push in the back that sent her tottering into Fancy’s arms a few paces away.

“Longarm, you got to promise me …”

“No, kid. I’m taking you in. All your chances are used up.”

“Don’t make me shoot you, Longarm. Please.”

“Lay your gun down, Jerry. I’ll see they treat you decent in jail.”

The boy looked like he was fixing to cry.

But he wouldn’t back down. He had gone too far now for that.

The muzzle of the little gun swung toward Longarm’s chest and belly.

Longarm couldn’t risk waiting any longer. The stupid kid hadn’t been listening. Or else maybe he had. Either way, Longarm had no choice.

Longarm hooked the derringer out of his waistband where he’d been carrying it along with the badge. The little .41 rimfire was small, but it packed man-sized power.

The report, exceptionally loud from such a short barrel, filled the space beneath the refreshment canopy to overflowing. And a small red indentation appeared, as if by magic, roughly in the center of young Jerry’s forehead. A pink mist filled the air behind him, and both Geraldine Flowers and Fancy screamed as the young robber gang baron collapsed in a heap like last week’s soiled laundry.

Dammit, Longarm thought. Dammit anyway.

Behind him he could hear Douglas McWhortle and the manager of the Jonesboro team arguing about whether Longarm’s homer should count since he hadn’t completed running the base path.

Longarm hoped the two of them were able to work that out between them. Personally he didn’t much give a shit.

He turned and headed down the street toward town. He needed to see how Hugh and his people made out with the robbers, then he would have to get a wire off to Billy to tell the boss he was done playing children’s games. Dammit.