Longarm and the Great Divide

Choose Your Weapon . . .

The prisoner lashed out with his knife blade, swinging and slashing crazily. It must have been the way he attacked those men in the saloon. Longarm did not want to wind up the same way—lying on the saloon floor. Not only did he not want to, he had no intention of it.

He sidestepped another swing of the knife blade and went for his Colt.

The sound of the big .45's muzzle blast filled the small jail building and momentarily destroyed Longarm's hearing.

A lead slug driven by forty grains of black powder struck the farmer in the brisket and knocked him to his knees.

The man looked up at Longarm. His mouth formed a wide O but no sound came out.

He looked down at the knife he still held in his right hand. Then he toppled forward on top of the weapon.

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LONGARM AND THE GREAT DIVIDE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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ISBN: 978-0-515-15432-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63495-0

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / March 2014

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.

“We'll take the Denver and Rio Grande down to Colorado Springs, then an omnibus over to Manitou. I've already wired ahead for a room at Bailey's. It's a bed-an'-breakfast. Very nice. Come evening we'll eat on the pavilion at this French restaurant I know there. It's built beside the creek. You can hear the water chuckle over the rocks. They went an' placed rocks in the creek bed just for the sound, an' it's nice, no question about that. An' the food?” Custis Long rolled his eyes and smiled. Then he leaned a little closer and licked Deborah's left nipple.

“Then come morning, we'll send a boy over to the stable, tell them t' send a buggy for us. They'll drive us through what they call Garden of the Gods. You'll understand why when you see it.” He sucked briefly on the left nipple, then switched his attentions to the other pink protrusion. “Beautiful,” he said. “Prettiest damn tits in all of Colorado.”

“Have you looked at all of them to qualify yourself to make that statement?” Deborah teased.

“Almost,” he said with a laugh. “I'm workin' on getting a gander at the rest of 'em.”

“What time will you pick me up tomorrow?” Deborah asked as she nuzzled the side of his neck and poked her tongue into his ear.

“'Bout nine,” he said, reaching for her bush and sliding a finger into her. “The train leaves at ten forty-five, so that gives us plenty o' time to drive to the station.”

Deborah wrapped the fingers of her right hand around his cock. She squeezed affectionately and slipped her tongue into his mouth. “Oh, but that's tomorrow,” she whispered, pulling away an inch or so. “Right now . . . more interesting . . .”

An hour or so later, Long left the lady's bed. He stood and stretched to his full six-foot-plus height. Ran a hand over his dark brown hair and smoothed the points of his thick, handlebar mustache.

It always amazed him that the ladies seemed to find him attractive. He did not consider himself to be particularly handsome with his golden brown eyes and craggy features.

He was lean, with a horseman's narrow hips and long, powerful legs set beneath broad shoulders.

Long dressed quickly in brown corduroy trousers and a checked shirt, then sat on the edge of Deborah's bed to pull on black, calf-high cavalry boots. He stood and stamped his feet to settle them into the leather, then buckled his gun belt on, the double-action .45 Colt rigged for a cross draw just to the left of his belt buckle.

He buttoned his vest and reached for his flat-crowned, brown Stetson hat before bending down to give Deborah a good-night kiss. “Nine o'clock,” he reminded her.

“I'll be ready. You can count on me, dear.”

“Good girl,” he said with an affectionate pat on her ass.

The deputy United States marshal let himself out and hailed a hansom cab to take him back to his boardinghouse near Cherry Creek in Denver, Colorado.

When he got into his room and lighted his bedside lamp he found an envelope that had been slipped beneath his door.

“Shit,” he muttered aloud when he read the contents.

EMERGENCY. LEAVE CANCELLED. COME IN.

There was no signature but he recognized the scrawled initials as belonging to his boss, United States marshal William Vail. That meant the note had been written some time after the marshal's chief clerk left for the night.

Emergency, it said. If Billy Vail was calling it that, then it damn sure was an emergency. Billy was not much given to hysterics. The boss was no pencil-pushing political appointee. He was a former Texas Ranger and a salty gent when it came to gunfire. And if he said something was an emergency, well, Longarm was prepared to believe it.

He stripped and sat on the side of his bed. He was tired but before sleeping took the time to clean his revolver and replace the cartridges in it with ammunition fresh from a new box. Billy Vail's emergencies tended to need the application of hot lead to resolve them, and Longarm wanted to be prepared for whatever this one required.

In the morning he headed for the office early. He did not give a thought to Deborah and his plan to take her away for a long weekend, did not even remember her until the day was half gone, long after that nine o'clock promise to meet.

Longarm was at the office in the Federal Building on Colfax Avenue by seven, so early that Henry was not yet at his desk. But Billy Vail was, bent over his desk with papers spread out before him. Vail looked up in surprise when his best deputy walked in at that hour; Longarm was late more often than not. And now he was coming in at that hour.

“What are you doing here so early?” the boss asked.

“Your note said it was an emergency. So what's up?” Longarm asked in return.

“Oh, I didn't mean . . . I'm sorry if I misled you there. I didn't mean like an immediate, um,
emergency
sort of emergency. I mean something has come up and everyone else is already out on other assignments, so I have to postpone your leave.” Vail gave him a rather sheepish smile. “Sorry, Custis.”

“Hell, Billy, if I'd knowed that I would've slept another hour or so.” Longarm plopped into one of the pair of armchairs arranged in front of Vail's desk. “So what is this nonemergency emergency o' yours?”

Vail shuffled through a slim stack of papers, found the one he wanted, and pulled it out.

“This came in from a town called Valstone, Wyoming Territory. Frankly I'm not familiar with the community, but they are requesting federal assistance with their local law enforcement. That is entirely within their rights. Apparently they are not capable of handling whatever the problem is up there. They don't specify exactly what that problem is, but they are asking that a company of deputy marshals be sent as quickly as possible.”

Billy stood and turned to peer out of the window behind his desk. “Like I told you,” he said without looking around, “everyone else is already out on assignment. I know we owe you your accumulated vacation days, and I hate to ask this of you, but . . . I need for you to delay your time off. Go to this Valstone place. See what their problem is and take care of it, please, Custis.”

Please, Longarm thought. If the boss was saying “please,” then it must be serious.

There was no question of if he would comply with the request. For one thing, it was his duty, plain and simple. For another—and more important—if Billy Vail asked it, Custis Long would do it. He would walk through fire if that was what the boss wanted of him.

“You don't know what their problem is?” he asked.

Vail turned around to face Longarm and shook his head. “No, Custis, I don't. But Wyoming is a territory of the United States of America, and we are charged with preserving the laws of this country. Further, any duly incorporated town, village, or city within the bounds of the country can ask for our assistance. Which these folks have. Now it is up to us to help them.”

“Any idea where it is or how I'm t' get there?” Longarm asked.

Vail shrugged. “I was hoping you knew of it.”

“I don't.” He grinned. “But I reckon I will know soon enough.”

Longarm stood and stretched, yawning. “Seein' as how this particular emergency ain't as needful as an orphanage burnin' down, I think I'll go have me some breakfast before I grab my gear an' head up to Wyoming. The boys at the post office in Cheyenne oughta know how I can find Valstone since they'll be directing mail to it. Wherever the hell it is.”

“Thank you for doing this, Custis,” Billy said.

Longarm grabbed his hat and settled it onto his head. He laughed. “I'll let you know if I need the rest o' this company o' deputies, Billy.”

“Right,” Vail said. “Just tell me how many you need. I'll be sure to send them. Dozens if you need that many.”

“Excuse me now, Boss. I got work t' do. An' grub t' surround.” He turned and ambled toward the door at a pace much slower and more relaxed than his arrival had been.