Free Longarm #431 by Tabor Evans Page A

intend to.
    For the moment, though, it was the Wright brother he wanted to lay hands on.
    If he found the son of a bitch—
when
he found the son of a bitch—Longarm intended to beat the shit out of him and then break that shotgun. Preferably by smashing it over the man’s head.
    But first he needed to find Wright, and that was proving to be more difficult than it seemed.
    Eventually he decided that Wright must have fled the city. His ambush attempt failed and he surely knew that Longarm would be hunting him, so it was logical that he would run away. After all, he was not really a gunman. A miner, perhaps, but not a gunman.
    After being shot at Longarm was in no mood for a night on the town. Besides, some of the shot pellets that Wright fired at him had struck thin cloth as well as the stiff tweed that he favored, and his belly felt a little itchy. He suspected some of those pellets had gotten through to his flesh.
    He stopped at an apothecary for some bandage cloths and a small bottle of alcohol, changed his mind, and went next to a saloon and bought a bottle of rye whiskey. After all, it had alcohol in it, too, and unlike wood alcohol intended for medicinal use, after he was done using it outside the skin he could pour some inside, too.
    Longarm carried his purchases back to his hotel and upstairs to his room.
    The door to the room stood slightly ajar.
    It was not impossible that Wright and his shotgun could be inside.
    Longarm transferred his bandages and the bottle of rye to his left arm and palmed his .45.
    If someone was in there, the son of a bitch was as good as dead, for Longarm was in no mood to be fucked with.
    He took a deep breath.
    And kicked the door open.

Chapter 37
    â€œYou startled me,” Melody Thompson said. The lady was lying in Longarm’s bed. She was, he noticed, rather completely—and prettily—naked.
    Longarm grinned. “Now that’s somethin’ to come home to,” he said.
    He walked into the room, shoved his .45 back into the leather, and closed the door. He reached up and shot the bolt closed to lock it behind him.
    He deposited his purchases on the bedside table, leaned down, and gave Melody a long, lingering kiss.
    â€œYou smell nice,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t,” Melody accused him. “You smell like a goat. Get naked so I can give you a bath.”
    â€œNow that’s the nicest thing anybody’s said to me all day,” Longarm told her. But he started pulling his clothes off, as instructed.
    When he removed his shirt, Melody let out a subdued shriek. “Custis, what are those wounds?”
    â€œUh, shotgun pellets,” he said. “I had a little problem a little while ago.”
    â€œThat is terrible. Let me take care of those. Lie down here. Do you have any bandages?”
    He pointed to the paper wrapped package on the table. “Bandages an’ antiseptic, too. That’s what I got ’em for.”
    Melody changed places with him and opened the package of bandage cloth. She tore off a small piece and soaked it with whiskey, then carefully cleaned the blood away from the punctures on his stomach.
    She felt each wound to make sure there was no lead still inside and found two where the pellets were embedded. “Do you have a knife? I need to dig these out.” She laughed. “No, don’t look at me like that. They’re really just superficial, but I don’t want to leave them in. Now tell me, where is your knife?”
    Longarm pointed to his trousers, lying on the seat of his chair. Melody retrieved Longarm’s pocketknife, opened it, and wiped the alcohol-laden cloth over the blade before she bent close and very gently probed each of the two wounds until she was able to extract the lead pellets.
    â€œYou act like you done this before,” Longarm observed.
    â€œThat is because I have. Never mind where or for who,” she said, still concentrating on the five small punctures in