Free Longarm Giant #30: Longarm and the Ambush at Holy Defiance by Tabor Evans Page B
Book: Longarm Giant #30: Longarm and the Ambush at Holy Defiance by Tabor Evans Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tabor Evans
beer? The Swede don’t keep it cold, but he makes a right malty ale.”
“No, thank you,” she said with her customary, strained tolerance as she sat back in her seat and crossed her long, fine legs under her dress.
Longarm indulged in a quick look, for it was hard not to look and keep on looking at a beauty as radiant as she,despite how much trouble she’d likely turn out to be. He pinched his hat brim to her, turned into the aisle, and left the coach car via its rear vestibule.
He stopped to stretch on the halved-log platform.
To his left, the engineers were maneuvering the wood-and-canvas spout into place, swinging it over the locomotive from the water tank that stood on stilts near a scraggly cottonwood that was currently being thrashed by a mean wind. The four crude board buildings that comprised Jerkwater lay straight out from the train, across a wide freight road. The wind was blowing dirt and sand and tumbleweeds every which way, and it was causing shingle chains to dance and squawk beneath porch awnings.
As Longarm headed on past the little, privy-sized shack that served as a depot here in Jerkwater toward the saloon, Longarm saw that most of the passengers appeared to be heading into the Mexican lady’s café sitting just left of the Swede’s saloon. She was deservedly reputed for her burritos, but she didn’t serve beer or allow it on her premises, so Longarm continued on up the saloon’s porch steps and through the batwings that the wind was flapping raucously.
“Swede, does the wind ever not blow here?” Longarm asked the big, blond-haired, blond-mustached gent slicing what appeared a deer or possibly an antelope quarter on the cottonwood planks that served as his bar. The lawman batted his hat against his whipcord trousers, causing dust to billow.
“Every night around midnight it settles down for about five minutes.” The Swede grinned his rosy-cheeked grin as he regarded the big lawman, who always asked the same question as he walked through the Swede’s doors, to the Swede’s customary reply. “You on the hunt for curly wolves again, Custis?”
“What the hell else would I be doing out here on this blister on the devil’s ass?” Longarm grinned. He always said that, too. The Swede didn’t take offense; he was only herebecause his wife’s father willed him the store and he’d had his fill of the big city Denver had become since the War Between the States.
It might be windy and ugly out here, but he was making a living, by God, and it was better than the stench and crowds farther north.
“Thought maybe you rode out here for my beer, got tired of that swill they serve up on Larimer Street.”
“Serve it up, Swede.” Longarm gazed at the meat the man had been slicing onto a big tin plate. “Any of that for sandwiches?”
“You betcha,” the Swede said. “Shot that antelope buck last night just before dark. Good dark meat—dark as a Norwegian’s soul!”
The Swede guffawed.
Longarm looked around. There were only two men in the place. He thought he recognized the two—a half-breed and an Anglo—from the group that had been paying such tribute to Agent Delacroix earlier. Vaguely, he supposed the others had gone over to the Mexican lady’s café.
The Swede drew him a beer, scraped off the cream foam with a flat stick, and set the frothy schooner on the cottonwood planks before going to work on Longarm’s sandwich. The lawman leaned against the planks and sipped the beer slowly. It was room temperature, but the Swede had a special way of making it—thick and malty, with just enough of an alcohol kick—to make it a welcome treat that tempered the tedium of the long, slow ride into New Mexico south of the formidable Raton Pass.
“Damn, that’s good,” he said. “You know, Swede, you should bottle that and…” He let his voice trail off and turned to gaze through the window left of the fluttering batwings.
He could see the train stretched out along the far side of
“No, thank you,” she said with her customary, strained tolerance as she sat back in her seat and crossed her long, fine legs under her dress.
Longarm indulged in a quick look, for it was hard not to look and keep on looking at a beauty as radiant as she,despite how much trouble she’d likely turn out to be. He pinched his hat brim to her, turned into the aisle, and left the coach car via its rear vestibule.
He stopped to stretch on the halved-log platform.
To his left, the engineers were maneuvering the wood-and-canvas spout into place, swinging it over the locomotive from the water tank that stood on stilts near a scraggly cottonwood that was currently being thrashed by a mean wind. The four crude board buildings that comprised Jerkwater lay straight out from the train, across a wide freight road. The wind was blowing dirt and sand and tumbleweeds every which way, and it was causing shingle chains to dance and squawk beneath porch awnings.
As Longarm headed on past the little, privy-sized shack that served as a depot here in Jerkwater toward the saloon, Longarm saw that most of the passengers appeared to be heading into the Mexican lady’s café sitting just left of the Swede’s saloon. She was deservedly reputed for her burritos, but she didn’t serve beer or allow it on her premises, so Longarm continued on up the saloon’s porch steps and through the batwings that the wind was flapping raucously.
“Swede, does the wind ever not blow here?” Longarm asked the big, blond-haired, blond-mustached gent slicing what appeared a deer or possibly an antelope quarter on the cottonwood planks that served as his bar. The lawman batted his hat against his whipcord trousers, causing dust to billow.
“Every night around midnight it settles down for about five minutes.” The Swede grinned his rosy-cheeked grin as he regarded the big lawman, who always asked the same question as he walked through the Swede’s doors, to the Swede’s customary reply. “You on the hunt for curly wolves again, Custis?”
“What the hell else would I be doing out here on this blister on the devil’s ass?” Longarm grinned. He always said that, too. The Swede didn’t take offense; he was only herebecause his wife’s father willed him the store and he’d had his fill of the big city Denver had become since the War Between the States.
It might be windy and ugly out here, but he was making a living, by God, and it was better than the stench and crowds farther north.
“Thought maybe you rode out here for my beer, got tired of that swill they serve up on Larimer Street.”
“Serve it up, Swede.” Longarm gazed at the meat the man had been slicing onto a big tin plate. “Any of that for sandwiches?”
“You betcha,” the Swede said. “Shot that antelope buck last night just before dark. Good dark meat—dark as a Norwegian’s soul!”
The Swede guffawed.
Longarm looked around. There were only two men in the place. He thought he recognized the two—a half-breed and an Anglo—from the group that had been paying such tribute to Agent Delacroix earlier. Vaguely, he supposed the others had gone over to the Mexican lady’s café.
The Swede drew him a beer, scraped off the cream foam with a flat stick, and set the frothy schooner on the cottonwood planks before going to work on Longarm’s sandwich. The lawman leaned against the planks and sipped the beer slowly. It was room temperature, but the Swede had a special way of making it—thick and malty, with just enough of an alcohol kick—to make it a welcome treat that tempered the tedium of the long, slow ride into New Mexico south of the formidable Raton Pass.
“Damn, that’s good,” he said. “You know, Swede, you should bottle that and…” He let his voice trail off and turned to gaze through the window left of the fluttering batwings.
He could see the train stretched out along the far side of