Free Longarm in Hell's Half Acre by Tabor Evans Page A

notice this beautiful young woman’s unnecessary distress. Thought perhaps I might be of some assistance.”
    The bruiser leaned back in his chair. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his vest, then said, “I don’t need no assistance from you, or any other cocksucker in this goddamn dump. So why don’t you jus’ shut the fuck up and hike your long, stringy ass on back to wherever’n hell you came from, ’fore I get up out’n this here chair and kick the shit outta you.”
    â€œBold talk from a man sittin’ down, who’s gonna have to get to his feet before I beat the hell out of him.”
    The bruiser snarled, like a cornered cur. His lip peeled back over yellowed, canine teeth. “Well, then, don’t do somethin’ stupid enough to make me get up. If’n I have to get outta my seat, I’m gonna bust you out like a kid’s paper bag full of horehound candy. Damn sure ain’t gonna sit here much longer and listen to your kinda lip.”
    Longarm smiled. He snapped a quick, concerned glance at the teary-eyed woman. “Do hope you’ll pardon me, ma’am. This won’t take but a moment.”
    The Colt Frontier model pistol resting in Longarm’s cross-draw holster flashed out. Its heavy barrel caught the drunken bully flush across the skull a few inches above the bridge of his nose. A pink spray of flying blood splattered the greenery sitting nearby.
    The carefully applied blow knocked the thug backward nigh two feet. His chair legs squawked in protest on the polished hardwood floor. The wobbling seat went over and dumped the abusive bully on his back in a semiconscious, twitching heap. A deep gash sliced across the brute’s rock-hard noggin, flowed freely, and leaked a wide pool of blood onto the floor beneath him. He pissed himself, then threw up.
    The hostess in the wine-colored dress, a waiter who appeared on the edge of apoplexy, and a muscular, thick-necked bouncer arrived at the table at almost the same instant. Longarm slid the long-barreled pistol back into its holster and raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance.
    â€œNo need to be concerned, folks,” he said. “Nothing to worry yourselves about. I’ll gladly pay to have the floor and wall cleaned, but would like to suggest you remove this heap of woman-abusing trash from my sight before I completely lose any control of my temper I have left and stomp the absolute livin’ hell out of ’im.”
    An elegantly dressed gentleman, whom Longarm immediately recognized, pushed his way through the growing crowd. His snow-white shirt, tailored suit, diamond stickpin, and highly buffed boots advertised his chosen profession as a sporting man. The bulge in a pants pocket Longarm knew to be leather lined gave away the presence of a heavy pistol. His diminutive stature ensured that even the least-informed visitor in all of Fort Worth would have recognized the White Elephant’s colorful, and dangerous, owner—Luke Short.
    Short’s face broke into a wide, moustachioed smile, and he extended his hand. “Well, I’ll just be damned. If it ain’t the one and only Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long.”
    Longarm shook Short’s immaculately clean, manicured paw, slapped the pocket-sized gambler on the shoulder, then said, “Been a spell, ain’t it, Luke?”
    â€œWell, yes it has. Two, maybe even three years, I’d venture. Silver City, I think.”
    â€œCoulda been. Yessir, coulda been.”
    Short glanced at the unconscious drunk lying on the floor of his restaurant in a puddle of piss, puke, and blood. “Hit him pretty hard, didn’t you, Custis?”
    â€œWell, he’s a big ole boy. Big enough that I figured it best not to let him get outta his chair, if possible. But, gotta tell you, my pistol bounced right off his thick head like I’d whacked an oak stump.”
    Short reclaimed his hand, stepped over