Free Longarm 245: Longarm and the Vanishing Virgin by Tabor Evans

Or if they didn’t steal the cattle themselves, they bought rustled herds that had been driven across the border.
    Longarm wasn’t after rustlers on this trip, though. All he wanted to do was find Nora Canady. That would mean pushing the horses as hard as he dared and riding at night so that he could reach Tucumcari not far behind the stage.
    The day grew hotter as it went along. During one of the breaks when he was resting the horses, Longarm took off his coat, vest, and tie and tucked them away inside one of the bags of supplies. He stopped at midday just long enough to build a small fire and fry some bacon. That would have to do for now. Tonight, when he would call a halt for a couple of hours before riding on, he would cook some biscuits as well as more bacon.
    During the day, Longarm saw a few riders in the distance, probably cowhands checking on the herds that roamed this vast, unfenced wilderness. None of them paid any attention to him. He didn’t encounter any traffic along the road, which was a little surprising. He had thought he might run into a pilgrim or two. Obviously, not too many people traveled between Raton and Tucumcari, and those who did must usually take the stage.
    What was a young woman like Nora Canady doing traveling through this country that was pretty much the ass-end of nowhere?
    By late afternoon, Longarm’s balls were aching again from the seemingly endless hours of riding. He was determined to push on as long as he could stand it, however, and a little later, as the sun sank beneath the western horizon and dusk began to gather, he spotted lights twinkling up ahead in the distance. Had to be a settlement, he decided. There were too many lights for it to be a ranch headquarters.
    Longarm’s brain commenced to waging war with itself. After a long day in the saddle, it would do his injured privates a world of good to spend the night in a regular bed. There might be a hotel in that settlement, even if it wasn’t fancy. On the other hand, he had planned to stop for just a couple of hours, eat some supper and grab a little sleep, then resume his pursuit of Nora Canady. Save some time or take it easy on his aching balls? That was the question, thought Longarm, and at this moment, it seemed every bit as profound a dilemma as anything that fella Hamlet had chewed the scenery over in that old play.
    Well, there was bound to be a saloon in that town, he told himself. He’d have a drink first and then decide what to do.
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    But instead, he had walked into more trouble, because that kid with the Dragoon Colt had taken one look at him and pulled that hogleg, and then Longarm had been forced to kill him, and now Longarm found himself standing at the bar in this nameless saloon in a little New Mexico town that was evidently called Ashcroft.
    â€œA bride?” repeated the bartender, snapping Longarm’s thoughts back to the present. “Did you say you’re looking for a bride, mister?”
    Longarm shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he said.
    â€œWell, I don’t know that there’s anybody here in town you’d actually want to marry, but there’s a gal or two who’d be glad to pretend to be your wife for an hour or so. Of course, it’d cost you.”
    Longarm smiled faintly. “So does getting hitched, from what I’ve heard.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. A scraping sound made him look around. A couple of men were dragging the body of the kid out of the saloon. The sound came from his boot heels dragging along the floor-boards. They went out, and the bat-wings flapped back and forth for a few seconds as if waving farewell to the dead man.
    â€œThe stage that runs from Raton to Tucumcari comes through here, doesn’t it?” Longarm asked the bartender.
    â€œSure does. You’ve missed it for this week, though. It came through day before yesterday, won’t be another one for three