Free Longarm and the Missing Husband by Tabor Evans

man’s offer—of the whiskey, not the woman—and had another drink himself. The first drink had been fiery, the second a little raw, this third drink went down smooth and nice. “Now that’s good liquor,” Longarm said, almost meaning it.
    â€œFinish it if you like. I’ve had enough. What did you decide about the squaw?” Trydon said.
    â€œMaybe later.”
    â€œOh, I get it. You’re fucking the little widow woman.”
    â€œYou think she’s a widow?” Longarm asked.
    â€œI’m thinking exactly the same as you are. Man disappears in this country, it usually means one thing and that’s that he’s dead. It happens. The Indians are mostly tame but there’s bronchos among them. You know that as well as I do. Then there’s bad horses that can fall and bust a man up, bad water that will twist his guts into knots, bad critters of one sort or another that can tear him apart and eat whatever’s left over.
    â€œNo, this is hard country up here, Marshal, not like the soft city living down in Denver and such. My thought and I’m sure yours, too, is that the little lady is a widow.” Trydon winked. “And you know what they say about widows. Once they get used to having it regular, why, there’s no need to keep their legs together any longer. They come to like a good fuck as well as anyone.”
    â€œThat’s what they say, all right.”
    â€œAre you tapping that?” Trydon asked over the neck of the whiskey bottle.
    Longarm shook his head. “Wish I was, but no, I ain’t.”
    â€œGive her a little time. Once she gets used to the idea of being a widow, she’ll spread ’em for you,” Trydon said with a nod to affirm his own wisdom.
    Longarm retrieved the bottle. The more he had of the stuff, the better it tasted. Right then it was about the finest whiskey he’d ever had. And it wasn’t even rye.
    â€œMeantime,” Trydon said, “there’s the Indian. Hell, for you, as good a fellow as you are, I’ll knock her price down to fifty cents.” He laughed. “On tick if you don’t have the wherewithal on you. I know you’d be good for it.”
    â€œI’m still thinking about it,” Longarm said.
    â€œNo hurry about the woman, but hand the bottle back, will you?” The stationmaster laughed again and took a drink that nearly drained the bottle. “Don’t worry,” he said, returning it to Longarm. “I’ve got more where that one came from.”
    When finally they staggered off to bed, Longarm’s head was spinning. But that had been awfully fine whiskey. The best.
    He fell asleep thinking about Bethlehem Bacon’s nicely rounded ass.

Chapter 34
    Longarm slept fitfully, very much aware of Beth sleeping just on the other side of a muslin partition. Trydon and the Shoshone woman had disappeared into a side room. With a wooden door, which Trydon closed. Presumably if the man could not make a dollar by peddling the woman’s ass, he would fuck her himself instead.
    In the morning Longarm was awake early. He sat and drank coffee with Trydon while the woman made breakfast and Beth continued to sleep.
    â€œGot any machine oil I could borrow?” Longarm asked at one point.
    â€œSure thing.” The stationmaster found a metal can containing a light sewing machine oil. Longarm quickly unloaded his .45 and cleaned it, then reassembled the revolver and replaced the cartridges.
    â€œExpecting trouble?” Trydon asked.
    â€œNot so much expecting as wantin’ to be ready in case it comes,” Longarm said.
    Beth came out from behind the cloth room divider, her hair tousled and her eyes still sleepy. She was following the delectable aroma of frying bacon and browning biscuits. “Oh, good. Food.” She sat across the table from Longarm and asked Trydon, “When should that coach get here?”
    â€œIt varies. Likely