Tabor Evans - Longarm and The Branded Beauty

Longarm could hear the pack of hounds as soon as he turned off the main road and started down the narrow, winding lane toward the woman’s shack. The dogs sounded so mournful that the hair stood up on the back of Longarm’s neck. He forced his exhausted mount down the lane, and when he burst into the clearing, he saw Nick Huffington standing in the middle of the yard. Agnes was sprawled across her porch, lifeless hands clutching her shotgun. Longarm saw dead hounds scattered all over the yard, two of them howling in agony, gut-shot and slowly dying.

He saw no children’s bodies, and realized that they had probably scattered like frightened quail into the forest. Nick was preparing to go hunt them down and kill them too.

“You’re under arrest!” Longarm shouted, drawing his six-gun.

Nick unleashed a bullet that struck Longarm’s horse squarely in the chest. The running animal did a somersault that catapulted Longarm over its head. He hit the ground and tried to roll, but struck a rock. His Colt was knocked flying into the brush.

Nick fired again, and Longarm felt hot lead scorch the side of his head. He almost lost consciousness, and tried to scramble to his feet, but was too dazed. Longarm figured he was probably going to die in the next second or two. Lying on his stomach, he wormed his hand in under his coat and palmed the derringer that was attached to his watch fob and chain. It was a solid brass, twin-barrel .44 and it had saved Longarm’s bacon more than once. He prayed that it would save him again.

“You sonofabitch!” Nick swore as he advanced. “Gawdamn am I glad to see you.”

Longarm raised his head to see Nick standing over him with his gun cocked and ready to blow his brains out. There was no time to think so Longarm just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Nick, your father knows you had a hand in killing your brother.”

“No!” Nick actually staggered backward.

“Yeah,” Longarm gritted out, raising his chest a little so that he could move the derringer into a better firing position. “And I’ve got some more bad news.”

Nick extended the gun down toward Longarm’s head, his eyes burning with hatred, his lips twisted in a cold, triumphant sneer. “What are you going to say before I put a bullet in your head, Marshal?”

Icy fear prickled Longarm’s skin, but he kept his voice steady. “When your father found everything out, he killed Art Mead. He’s going to go to prison for murder.”

Nick blinked. “My father killed Art? How!”

“He beat his brains out against the jail cell wall. Mead had already told us that you were part of the murder plot.”

“You’re lying!”

“Every lawman in northern California will be looking for you,” Longarm said. “And your father’s money will be tied up forever in court. You’re coming out of this with nothing but a ticket to a hangman’s party.”

“I don’t believe you!” Nick raged, the Colt beginning to shake in his fist.

Longarm knew that he had run out of time, and he didn’t see how on earth he was going to save his life. Still, he could try, and …

The blast of a double-barreled shotgun cut across the clearing like the roar of a Kansas tornado. Longarm saw Nick Huffington take both loads of shot between his shoulder blades and slam forward, dead before he struck the ground. Longarm glanced toward the shack to see a barefoot boy who could not have been more than twelve holding his mother’s smoking shotgun. The boy dropped the smoking weapon and sprinted around the shack and into the woods. Longarm released his derringer and tried to gather his wits. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed dizzily over to the shack and collected the still-smoking shotgun. Then, he sat down on the broken porch and rested his head in his hands.

Let me see, he thought. Agnes is dead and so is Nick, Claude Blanton, and Art Mead. The two train robbers were hanged yesterday. I guess that wraps it up. But now what?

“Mister?”

Longarm raised his head, feeling the warm blood trickling down his cheek. A little girl with dusty, tear-stained cheeks was holding a filthy handkerchief out to him.

“Mister,” she said, “you’re awful hurt.”

Longarm took the handkerchief and pressed it to his throbbing scalp wound. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess I am, but I’ll feel better soon.”

“He killed Mommy!” the child wailed, and burst into fresh tears.

Longarm gently placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. She threw herself into his arms and cried as if there were no tomorrow. “Your mother was brave,” Longarm told her, “And God took her to heaven.”

“Is he taking us to heaven too?”

“Not yet. Not for a long, long time.”

“Then where are we going to go?”

Longarm stared out at the dead dogs, the dead horse, and that dead sonofabitch Nick. This was no place for kids. Never had been and never would be.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Denver?”

“No.”

“It’s in a state called Colorado. You ever hear of that?”

“No. Is it like heaven?” She sniffled and brightened a little.

“Well, sorta. That’s where we’re all going now.”

“But I don’t have no mommy no more!”

Longarm thought of Stella Vacarro. Stella with the heart of gold and a deep, abiding need to give and receive so much love. “I’ve got someone that will take real good care of you in Denver,” he promised, “someone as good and pretty as an angel.”

His words pleased and reassured the little girl. So much so that she hugged his neck tightly while Longarm watched her brothers and sisters slowly emerge into the yard like frightened forest elves.

“It’s all going to be all right now,” Longarm vowed in a voice that betrayed his powerful emotions. “And that’s a promise.”

_______________________

Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1998 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 0-515-12278-5

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Printing history Jove edition / May, 1998

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