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

to a bloodless spot beside the man on the floor, then said, “Looks like you knocked him colder than a log-splitting wedge in Montana, Custis. What’d he do to piss you off?”
    Longarm motioned toward the woman. “Son of a bitch slapped the hell outta this lady. Mighta been able to forgive such stupidity once. But hell, he did it twice. Don’t know ’bout anyone else, but I can’t abide a man who’ll abuse a woman like that.”
    Luke Short shot a bored, somewhat less-than-interested glance at the damaged lady. “Just can’t get away from those Southern-bred cavalier’s ways, can you, Custis? Always out to help defenseless women, old people, and children. As I’m a bettin’ man, I’d bet that some skirt-wearing twitch is gonna get you killed one of these days.”
    â€œYou know me, Luke. Have a right tender spot in my heart for the weaker sex. ’Specially when they have to defend themselves from the likes of that blockheaded, thick-skulled bastard.”
    Short took Longarm by the elbow. In a low and conspiratorial voice, he said, “Might wanta get her outta here, Custis. We’ll take care of her companion. I’ll have my bouncers drag him out into the alley, drop him in a nice pile of garbage, and let him sleep off that rap across the face you gave him. Maybe he’ll learn something from this experience, but I doubt it. Men like this one aren’t usually all that bright, and it’s been my experience that most are the kind who’ll carry a grudge around for a lifetime.” Short paused for a second, glanced down at the prostrate man again, then said, “Probably should have just gone ahead and killed him.”
    Longarm nodded. “Well, just couldn’t bring myself to impose on your hospitality like that, Luke.” Then he swung back around to the table and held out his hand. The shattered woman dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. “Think it’s best if you’d come with me, ma’am. We’ll take the air along Main Street for a few minutes. Give you a chance to clear your head. No need to stay here any longer.”
    As she rose, her trembling hand grasped his arm. He led her to the White Elephant’s door, and from there onto the boardwalk along Fort Worth’s busy Main Street. The broiling heat of the day had abated a bit with the setting of a molten sun. A breeze out of the north that felt almost cool stirred the dense, dusty air.
    The seething crowd on the boardwalk and in the streets and doorways appeared to have grown dramatically during Longarm’s meal in the White Elephant’s fancy restaurant. Gas lamps flickered atop iron poles on almost every corner, but offered little in the way of real illumination.
    The muffled popping of gunshots—from a busy shooting gallery named Blackwell’s located right next door to Luke Short’s sumptuous palace of earthly delights—sounded like the dampened explosions of fancy Chinese fireworks on the occasion of a festive celebration, or perhaps an election. Spent gunpowder laced the night air with an acrid smell that passersby could easily taste.
    Knots of exuberant cowboys, dressed in colorful bandannas and massive Boss of the Plains hats, jingled up and down both sides of the street in search of liquor, women, and entertainment. Horses crowded the hitch rails, switching their tails and stamping their feet to shoo enormous flies away. The carefree sounds of laughter and rinky-dink piano music rose and fell with the opening and closing of every door.
    Longarm guided his beautiful charge across the dusty thoroughfare, then stopped on the walkway in front of Merchant’s Restaurant long enough for her to cling to his arms, lean against his chest, and weep.
    As tenderly as possible, Longarm used his finger to lift the weeping woman’s face so he could gaze into her eyes. Flickering lamplight played across the flawless skin of her