Free Longarm in Hell's Half Acre by Tabor Evans

sir, won’t forget it for quite a spell. Ain’t many men who’ve bothered to treat me as well as you have this afternoon and this evenin’.”
    â€œMy distinct pleasure, Tater.” Longarm glanced over at the bartender again. “Give this gentleman anything he wants, barkeep. Just add it to my bill in the restaurant.”

    In the White Elephant’s sumptuously appointed ground floor eatery, Longarm took a brocaded seat at a corner table, next to a window that looked onto Fort Worth’s main thoroughfare. The street now glittered and glowed in the soft lamplight that poured from doorways and other windows like yellow-tinted waterfalls at the ends of strange, dark rivers.
    He scanned through a bill of fare that included “the best beefsteak in Texas, fresh fish, oysters, and game of all kinds.” The meal that came to his table that night included a sampling of almost everything available. And after nigh on two hours of overindulgence, he slapped his full stomach, felt gloriously satisfied, pleased with his choices, and more relaxed than he’d been in months. He slid down in his chair and closed his eyes for a second. Heaven, he thought. Absolute heaven. But then an argument at a nearby table bubbled up, got violent, and snatched him out of his pleasant reveries.

Chapter 7
    Longarm had noticed the woman sitting nearby within seconds of taking his own seat. Auburn-haired, petite, dark-eyed, ruby-lipped, and dressed in a high-necked, dove-gray dress with white ruffles at the throat, she was the kind any man would have easily described as a rare beauty. Dramatically striking and stately, he immediately recognized her as a distinct anomaly in most of the West, where life tended to be relentlessly hard on everyone, but destructive in the extreme when it came to the fairer sex. But more important than all of that, he took note of how she occasionally cast nervous, fleeting glances his way and, sometimes, appeared to allow herself a partial, tense smile when doing so.
    All Longarm could see of the lady’s combative companion, who was mostly hidden behind the glossy green leaves of a large potted plant, was a portion of the man’s wide back and a flushed ear that peeked from a pile of stringy shoulder-length hair. But he didn’t miss the snakelike arm that flicked out, or the broad, hard hand that smacked the woman across the mouth and drew blood to already crimson lips.
    Appearing shocked and embarrassed by the vicious turn of events, the brown-eyed beauty ducked her head and tried to hide the consequences of the blow. Longarm grimaced. Nothing worse than being slapped in public, he thought, then took another sip from his recently refilled glass. That’s the exact kind of stupidity that could get a man killed if he tried it on the wrong person.
    The second lick sounded like a pistol shot and snapped Longarm’s head back, as though he’d taken the forceful blow himself. He grunted like a teased circus bear on a thick metal chain, stood, then dropped a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table to cover the meal. He took his time and downed the last swallow from the fresh double shot of Maryland rye, slid the empty glass onto the littered table, then strode to the lady’s side.
    Tears streaked her reddened cheeks. Longarm could see the imprint of the hand on her face—each and every thick, stubby finger had left a mark. She glanced up at him as though pleading for help, but quickly let her gaze drop to the hands in her lap, where she absentmindedly twisted at a rouge-stained napkin.
    Longarm stopped, tipped his hat in the woman’s direction, then glanced down at the brute who’d twice slapped the hell out of the lady in a busy, popular restaurant filled with people. Square-jawed, beady-eyed, and obviously drunk, the woman’s assailant snapped, “What the fuck you want, asshole?”
    Longarm bowed slightly at the waist. “Couldn’t help but