Free Longarm 397 : Longarm and the Doomed Beauty (9781101545973) by Tabor Evans

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    â€œWell, all right.” The kid stood ramrod straight and looked at Miss Pritchard as he said, “I reckon it beats you wastin’ a bunch of time, stumblin’ around lookin’ for horses and grub an’ such. I’ll be happy to help you out, Marshal Long. But you federal boys have to understand who’s in charge around here. And right now that’s me, you see?”
    â€œI see that, Marshal. And I am truly obliged you’re helpin’ me out of this pinch. When I get back to Denver, I’ll make sure Chief Marshal Billy Vail writes you up a commendation.”
    â€œNo kiddin’?”
    â€œI don’t kid in situations such as this, Juni . . . I mean, Marshal Panabaker.”
    â€œDo you think he could get the governor to sign it? My ma’d be awful thrilled to—”
    â€œYou bet your boots, the governor’ll sign it. I’m sure he’d be happy to.” Longarm drew a deep, calming breath. “As long as me and Miss Pritchard here can get out of town soon . . . and in one piece . . . !”
    â€œOh, of course, o’ course!” The kid jerked around, hitching his pistol belt higher on his hips. “I’ll meet you out on the street with fresh horses, grub, and ammo in a half hour!”
    Longarm turned to the girl, who stared up at him accusingly. “Marshal Scobie said he’d sent for U.S. marshals. Why is there only one of you?”
    â€œâ€™Cause that’s all it’s gonna take.” Longarm winked at the girl and sauntered over to the door, trying to look more confident than he actually felt. “Now, you’d best pack and get ready to go. We’re pullin’ out in a half hour.”
    He went out and closed the door behind him.
    â€œI’m doomed,” he heard the girl say thinly behind him. “This is the surefire end of little Miss Josephine Pritchard.”
    â€œThanks for the vote of confidence,” the lawman muttered as he headed for the stairs.
    He headed on outside and took a close look around, making sure no more of Younger’s curly wolves were in the immediate vicinity. Spying no one but a few shopkeepers willing now to brave the outdoors in the wake of the lead storm, and the collie sitting proprietar-ily near the charred body of the man who’d intended to set fire to the hotel, Longarm tramped out behind the saloon and returned to the hotel with the big roan in tow.
    In the main saloon hall, while the barman dragged the dead marshal outside and laid him beside the dead Pinkerton, Longarm found one of the few lone, unbroken bottles behind the bar and poured himself a drink. He sat at a table with a good view of the street, propped his feet on a chair, and sipped the whiskey while he reloaded his weapons, taking the time to dismantle his Colt and clean it with an oily cloth from his saddlebags.
    Both weapons were going to come in handy if there were a dozen or so more gang members after Miss Pritchard, and if they were all holed up in a canyon only five miles from Snow Mound. If luck was smiling on Longarm, they were all down with the bottle flu or otherwise indisposed, and it would take them a while to come looking for their dead cohorts.
    As he slipped the cleaned and oiled cylinder back into his Colt with a satisfying click, and spun it, he wondered when the three dead men had been expected to report back with Miss Pritchard thrown over one of their saddles as a trophy of sorts.
    Longarm tipped back a bracing sip of the whiskey and turned his thoughts to the girl. He chuffed. Damn Billy. Longarm knew the lie about the girl’s age and her wooden leg was his boss’s way of indirectly—since directness had never worked in the past—warning his badge-toting underling to keep his mitts to himself, in spite of the girl’s incredible, green-eyed, pert-breasted beauty.
    Screwing around on the job was a might unprofessional. That wouldn’t likely be a problem