Longarm and "Kid" Bodie (9781101622001)

Take Dead Aim . . .

“Bodie!”

Bodie whirled at the sound of the voice just as a rifle's shot rang out. The kid took off running fast along the riverbank as two mounted riders angled to cut off his escape. Longarm leaned forward in his saddle and drew his gun. He had never had much success shooting accurately from a running horse and he didn't want to waste any bullets. But the horsemen were much closer to Bodie than he was and they were about to overtake the kid and shoot him in the back.

Suddenly, Bodie veered hard up the riverbank, disappeared behind a fallen tree, and opened fire. Longarm did the same, and his surprise attack caught the two horsemen off guard. Flanked on both the front and the back, the hired gunmen were caught in deadly cross fire. They tried to make a run for it, but Bodie and Longarm emptied their pistols and knocked them out of their saddles. One man splashed into the river and the other was thrown off his mount and smashed into a dead tree. Their frightened horses stampeded through the cottonwoods and disappeared.

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LONGARM AND “KID” BODIE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-62200-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / April 2013

 

Cover illustration by Milo Sinovcic.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Chapter 1

Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long stepped out of Denver's Federal Building anticipating a pleasant weekend. Denver's early June weather was mild, and he thought he might go to the horse races and place a few bets tomorrow. An even better idea occurred to him . . .

Perhaps he'd invite a young woman that he'd been keeping an eye on and see how that relationship went. Her name was Gloria Harmon, and she owned a popular dress shop just two blocks from his modest, three-story rooming house. They'd been visiting at a café a few days a week during lunchtime, and Longarm enjoyed both her company and her looks. Gloria seemed to be fun-loving and adventurous, and she was always asking him about the places he'd visited and the criminals he'd either arrested or shot. She seemed to take a vicarious pleasure in sharing his adventures, and Longarm had a strong suspicion that she would be a wildcat in bed. Gloria didn't seem to want to tell him much about herself, but that was fine with Longarm. He was sure she was lusty and lonesome, which was always a winning combination.

“Have any special plans for this weekend?” his boss, Billy Vail, asked as he exited the building to stand for a moment beside Longarm.

“Nothing special.”

“Well, my wife is cooking a pot roast and one of her prize-winning apple pies tomorrow afternoon, and you're welcome to come by for dinner.”

“Thanks, Billy, but I'm probably going to the horse races tomorrow and then out to dinner with a friend.”

Billy was not only Longarm's boss, but also his closest friend. They'd worked together for he couldn't even remember how many years and over that time a solid, mutual respect had developed between them. “Suit yourself,” Billy said, shrugging with indifference. “If you don't come over to join us, that simply means more apple pie for me.”

Longarm chuckled. “Billy, the
last
thing you need is extra servings of apple pie. What do you weigh now, two-thirty?”

“Naw!” Billy tried to look offended. “More like two hundred.”

“You haven't weighed two hundred pounds for years!” Longarm exclaimed, poking his boss in the gut and then drawing a cheroot from his coat pocket and lighting it. “I don't mean to be insulting, Billy, but you need to drop a few extra pounds.”

“And you need to put a few pounds on,” Billy countered. “That last assignment I sent you on really took a physical toll, Custis. When you came back from Montana, you looked as if you hadn't eaten in weeks.”

“I did lose some weight,” Longarm admitted. He stood six-foot-three in his stocking feet and normally weighed around two-twenty-five, but a recent hard chase across long, tough miles in the teeth of a bone-chilling wind had been a physical hardship. He'd tracked two outlaw brothers all the way to Helena, and the weather had been freezing, with snow flurries.

“Custis, instead of chasing women you need to rest up this weekend.”

“I get bored sitting around, Billy.”

“I know that you're a restless spirit.” Billy clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But just you remember . . . there might still be a slice of pie left for you on Sunday. And leftover pot roast tastes as good the second night as it does the first.”

“I'll try to come by and see you Sunday,” Longarm replied, knowing he wouldn't. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Billy and his wife's easygoing companionship; it was just that he enjoyed his own company after being cooped up in an office all week. And even more than that, he enjoyed the company of lovely women like Gloria Harmon.

“All right,” Billy said. “Get some rest, some sleep, and eat well.”

“I'll be sure and do that,” he replied as Billy headed on down the busy street. Longarm smoked his cheroot a few moments, said good-bye to several of his fellow office workers and marshals, and then headed for a nearby saloon, where he'd enjoy a drink before going to see if Gloria wanted to go out to dinner tonight and maybe—if they continued to hit it off well—to the horse races with him tomorrow.

Longarm was halfway home along Colfax when he stopped and looked up the street, having heard a gunshot and then loud curses. Two big men were beating a smaller, raggedly dressed man while a sandy-haired kid who looked to be about thirteen or fourteen years old was down on his knees cradling the head of a large and badly wounded dog. Suddenly, the smaller man pulled out a derringer and shot one of the bigger men in the chest, killing him instantly. Longarm bolted forward, but before he could intervene, the other large man drew a pistol and shot the smaller man three times. The man dropped his derringer and collapsed.

“No, Pa!” the kid screamed, throwing himself across his father's body.

The big man cursed and then viciously kicked the kid's dead father in the side of his head. The kid grabbed his father's two-shot derringer and screamed, “Damn you!”

Longarm was running hard, but still twenty feet away, when the kid fired the derringer at nearly point-blank range. The big man staggered backward, his face contorted with rage and disbelief. He raised his gun and would have shot the kid if Longarm had not skidded to a halt, whipped out his Colt revolver, and shot the man through the head.

Suddenly, it was over. The boy fell to his knees next to his father's body, and then he crawled over to his wounded dog and cradled its head in his lap.

“Sweet Jesus,” Longarm whispered to himself as he knelt beside the boy and his dog. “What a hell of a thing this is.”

It had all happened so fast. An initial shot, probably the one that hit the dog, then quick shots and three men were dead. Since Longarm couldn't do a thing for the men, he leaned close to the kid and whispered, “What's your dog's name?”

“Homer,” the boy managed to say. “He bit that first man and got shot for it. Then my pa . . .”

“Never mind all that,” Longarm said quietly. “What was your father's name?”

“John. John Stock.”

“And your name?”

“Bodie.”

“Bodie Stock?”

“No,” the kid said, “I never knew my
real
pa or last name so I just go by the name of Bodie, which is where I was born and mostly raised. John Stock was my stepfather, I guess, and I liked him well enough.”

Longarm frowned, but there wasn't time for a complete explanation, so he carefully removed the empty two-shot derringer from the kid's clenched fist. “I'm sorry that we can't do a thing for your John, but maybe your dog still has a chance. I know a doctor that owes me a favor or two. Do you want to see if we can save Homer?”

Bodie scrubbed the tears from his eyes and cheeks. “He's all I got now, mister. If Homer dies, I'm finished.”

“Let me take a look at your dog,” Longarm quietly offered. “Maybe he isn't shot that bad.”

The boy nodded and rolled over to his father's side. He was still crying, but quietly now. Bodie was big-boned and sunburned, with freckles across his nose. He was a good-looking boy, but thin and ragged like his dead father.

Longarm knelt beside the dog and said, “Easy, Homer. We're just going to see how bad you've been shot.”

A low rumble sounded in Homer's throat. He was nearly the size of a winter-starved timber wolf, and Longarm figured that if he'd bitten one of the dead men, he'd bitten the man hard.

“Bodie,” Longarm said, after a quick inspection, “I think that your dog might make it if we can get him to a doctor and stop the bleeding before it's too late.”

“Mister, I ain't got any money for a doctor. Ain't any money in my step-pa's pockets, either.”

“Like I said,” Longarm repeated, “I know a doctor nearby who owes me a couple of favors for all the business I tend to bring him in my line of work. So tell Homer that I'm going to pick him up and I don't want him to take a big chunk out of me.”

Bodie needed something to distract him from the dead men, so he scooted over to his dog and leaned close to the wounded beast and whispered something. Homer stopped growling, and Longarm slipped his arms under the dog and managed to stand.

“If you want to stay here with John Stock,” Longarm said, “do it.”

People were already gathering around, and Longarm told someone to get a lawman and a mortician. “I'm taking Homer to Doc Winslow's office just up the street. I'll be back to talk to you, and we'll take care of John.”

“I'm coming with you and my dog Homer,” the boy declared, jaw muscles tight with resolve.

Longarm shook his head. “Bodie, you need to stay here with your John Stock. After all, he died trying to protect you.”

“Like I said, he was a good man, but he wasn't my real pa or any blood relative, and now he's stone dead,” the boy said solemnly. “Ain't any good in me staying here with a dead man. But my dog Homer is alive and I'm going with you.”

Longarm stared into the kid's pale blue eyes. They were wet with tears, but there was a fierceness and hardness in those eyes that shouldn't have been present in a boy his young age. “Suit yourself, Bodie.”

The dog was huge, but he was all muscle and rib bones and probably didn't weigh more than eighty or ninety pounds. Longarm headed up the street.

“Hey!” someone yelled. “You can't just leave dead people lying by the street!”

Longarm paused and turned to see a well-dressed businessman and a whole lot of people gathered around the bloody scene. “Why not?”

“Because there are
three
bodies, lots of blood, and I saw
you
shoot one of them to
death
.”

Longarm raised his voice so that not just this man, but everyone in the gathering crowd could hear him. “Listen, everyone. I'm United States Marshal Custis Long. When a regular policeman arrives—and he will soon—tell him what you saw and that I'll be over at Doc Winslow's office when he needs to talk.”

The businessman nodded uncertainly. “I didn't see anything until the kid shot the second man in the chest. I can't believe a kid could do such a terrible thing.”

“Well,” Longarm said, moving on, “I saw everything, and I'll tell an officer of the law exactly what happened when he catches up with me.”

A large and aggressive woman stepped into Longarm's path, and she was pale and shaking with either outrage or shock. “Mister, there's something wrong in the head with a boy who would shoot a man to death and then leave the body of his father lying in the street still warm to the touch.” Her mouth twisted and she glared at Bodie. “Boy, I think you're the devil's own child! Yes I do!”

“Get away from him!” Longarm spat. “You've no right to judge that boy! No right at all.”

“I seen what he did with my own two good eyes.” She turned to the crowd. “And most of you saw the same as me—that boy just put his father's pistol up to a man's chest and blew out his heart!”

Some of the onlookers nodded, also glaring at Bodie.

Longarm was getting angry. “It seems to me that there's a passage in the Holy Bible that says, ‘Judge not lest you be judged,' and from what I'm hearing, a whole lot of you folks are gonna be judged, and I hope just as unfairly as you're judging this boy. To tell you the truth, lady, if someone had shot my dog and then gunned down my father and kicked him in the head, I'd have done the same as Bodie!”

The woman started to open her mouth to argue, but Longarm pushed past her and, with the big dog dripping blood all over his coat, hurried up the street to see if the animal could be saved so that the boy had something left to love in his grim and already violent life.