Longarm #431 Read Online Free Page B

mumbled as he stood, knee joints cracking, and stumbled over to the washstand.
    A splash of water on his face and chest helped. So did a long drink out of the pitcher. He still felt like someone had slipped in during the night and stuffed his mouth with cotton. But there was less of it now. He took another drink, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it into the enamelware basin.
    Finally he checked his pockets—a habit—and looked to see that all was right with his .45 before he stepped out into the hallway.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Long,” the desk clerk called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
    â€œGood morning.”
    â€œThere is a gentleman who has been waiting for you,” the clerk added, inclining his head toward the velveteen furniture at the side of the lobby. “He has been there for quite some time now. Very patient, he is.”
    â€œThanks.” Longarm yawned and ambled in the direction the clerk indicated.
    â€œOh, shit!” he barked when he saw who the visitor was. And what he held in his hands.
    It was that son of a bitch Timothy from the day before. And he was holding a shotgun.
    He and Timothy locked eyes at just about the same moment.
    Timothy reached for the hammer of his double-barrel, fumbled his thumb over it, cursed, and got the hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger.
    Timothy’s bad luck was that, as fast as he was to cock the shotgun, Longarm’s Colt was faster.
    Longarm’s .45 erupted with smoke and fire, its roar seeming louder than ever inside the close confinement of the hotel lobby, and a 230-grain solid lead bullet slammed into his upper chest, just about over the point where his heart should lie.
    The man was probably as good as dead right there, but Longarm did not take a chance. He fired again, this time his bullet striking Timothy square in the face.
    â€œJesus,” the hotel clerk shouted, clapping his hands over his ears.
    â€œIf you can get him here, it probably would be a good thing,” Longarm said as he shucked his empty cartridge cases and dropped fresh ones into the cylinder.
    â€œWhat? What’s that you said?” the clerk asked, working his jaw in an effort to unclog his ears.
    â€œNever mind,” Longarm said. “Reckon it’s too late anyhow. Now,” he said, smiling, “where’s the best place t’ get a meal in this town?”

Chapter 14
    Longarm was busy surrounding a plate of steak smothered in gravy when a pudgy fellow wearing a derby and a nickel-plated revolver slid onto the stool next to his.
    â€œI’m not interrupting your meal, am I?” the gentleman asked.
    â€œNot yet,” Longarm said around a mouthful of leathery beef. “D’you intend to?”
    â€œSorry, but I may have to.” He stuck a hand out to shake, so Longarm laid down his fork and shook with the man.
    â€œMy name is Wilson Hughes. I’m town marshal for Crowell City. Your name is Long?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Longarm said, thinking more about his steak than about Wilson Hughes.
    â€œYou’re the man who shot and killed Timothy Wright.”
    â€œIf that was the man’s name that I shot this morning, then yes, I’m the one as did that. Did anyone happen t’ mention to you that your man Wright laid in wait an’ tried t’ kill me? It was purely self-defense. I didn’t see that I had a choice,” Longarm said.
    â€œThen that will all come out at the inquest,” Hughes said, smiling.
    â€œInquest?”
    â€œOh, yes. We will have to have an inquest into the death of Mr. Wright,” Hughes said.
    â€œI was plannin’ on leaving t’morrow morning,” Longarm said.
    â€œYes, after your boots are repaired,” Hughes said.
    â€œYou seem t’ be mighty well informed.”
    â€œI try to be.” The marshal plucked a pickled pepper off the side of Longarm’s plate and popped it into his mouth.