Free Longarm 241: Longarm and the Colorado Counterfeiter by Tabor Evans Page A

quickly as he could, he took his two revolvers, holding them in one hand by the trigger guards, and then ran around and pulled his Winchester from the boot.
    He looked back over his shoulder. He could see riders in the distance, but they were too far away to tell if they were headed toward him or were simply patroling. He wasted no time. As fast as he could, he went back to his horse and shoved the Winchester home in its own boot. He pitched the two revolvers of the two men down on the ground. Then he put his spare back in his saddlebags and swung aboard the mare. He could tell that one of the men was dead. The one he had shot in the stomach, Charlie, was still alive. He was moaning for help.
    Longarm said, “I hope you get some, neighbor. Just like you gave me. No hard feelings, by the way. I was just following the orders of the man who pays me. Wasn’t that what you said? You were just doing your job. You were just going to march me up there in those rocks and shoot me in the back of the head. Wasn’t that about it?”
    On the ground, Charlie looked up at him with pleading eyes, his hands holding the spreading blood from his stomach wound. In a croaking voice, he said, “Need water. Water.”
    Longarm glanced back toward the horsemen. He couldn’t see any headed directly toward him. He rode over to the first horse he saw with a canteen and took it off the saddle horn. He unscrewed the cap and then leaning down, lowered it to Charlie, who caught it with one hand. He poured it in his mouth.
    Longarm watched him. “You know, you ain’t supposed to do that when you get shot in the stomach,” he said, “But then, in your case, I don’t reckon it matters much. I’ve got to tell you something, Charlie. You all have pretty well pissed me off. So has Ashton. I don’t take kindly to the way you have treated me, the whole bunch of you. And when it comes down to it, I might not forgive and forget, if you catch my drift.”
    Charlie made a gurgling sound. The water that was bubbling out of his mouth seemed stained with pink. Longarm wondered if the shot from the derringer had nicked a lung. It was amazing how much power that little gun had. It didn’t jump much in your hand, but it did slam back. You could hide the whole thing in your hands, fire between your fingers, and the man on the receiving end wouldn’t know what had hit him until it was too late.
    Longarm lifted his reins and said, “Well, Charlie, I’ve got to get going. I hope somebody finds you in time. I don’t reckon there will be anybody to tell the law that you and Ernie got shot by a man like me, but if there is, we’re going to have to have an investigation. I don’t think Ashton wants this place investigated too close, do you?”
    Charlie’s eyes were starting to glaze over. Longarm gave him a salute, not knowing whether he could see it or not. He touched the spurs to his mare and put her into a fast walk as he entered the little break in the rocks and began picking his way off Ashton’s property.
    When Longarm was clear of the mountain, he was out onto the level plain that he had crossed before. In the distance, he could see the town. He could see the smoke curling out of the chimneys and from the cooking houses. He put the mare into a trot, and then into a slow lope. She’d had about fifteen miles of work that day, and didn’t need to be used too hard. She also had not had any water. So far as that went, he hadn’t had anything to drink himself. He had not brought any of his Maryland whiskey along for the very good reason that he was afraid that he might have lost it—either getting spilled or shot, he didn’t know which.
    As he rode, he speculated on the chances of someone from the ranch lodging a complaint with the sheriff—if the town of Silverton even had a sheriff or any kind of law. For the reasons he’d told Charlie, he doubted such a