Longarm in Hell's Half Acre Read Online Free Page B

your people, try to feel him out a bit before you started back to Hadleyville for help?”
    â€œSure. ’Course we tried. He can hear us just fine. Fact is, I’ve come to think that sound kinda creeps up his way, somehow. Echo in this place can be damned near deafening when we’re pourin’ lead in on him. Yeah, I figure ole Jack hears damned near everything we do and most of what gets said. Willing to bet you the piddling six dollars in my wallet he already knows someone else has showed up to help us bring him to book.”
    â€œWell, that might be stretchin’ it a mite.”
    â€œNo. Don’t think so, Marshal Long. We shouted up first chance that presented itself. Tried to get him to come out. Told him he’d be safe if he gave it up. Longer we talked, the louder the son of a bitch laughed. Pitched more and more lead our direction ever’ time I opened my mouth.”
    â€œHe never called out and said anything about a hostage?”
    â€œNothin’ ’bout no hostages. I swear it. Not a single word. ’Course, he swore at us in the ugliest kinda language he could lay his tongue to. Accordin’ to ole Jack, every one of us boys from Hadleyville is either a motherfucker or a cocksucker or a puss-covered anal sphincter of some kind or related by birth to some form of stinkin’ human waste.”
    A toothy grin spread across Longarm’s face. “Sounds like you boys got an earful.”
    â€œHell, that’s not the half of it. On top of the constant stream of scabrous lip, the murderin’ wretch musta fired off near a hundred rounds that first day we had him pinned down. Surprised the hell outta me he had that much ammunition available to burn up. We could hear him screechin’ and laughin’ like a loon, shootin’ off his guns and such, but I swear, he never offered to talk and there was no mention a’tall about other folks bein’ up there.”
    The tension appeared to drain from Longarm’s face. “Well, maybe we’re okay, Harley. But it might still be a good idea to try and feel him out a bit. Think I just might try and get him to come out and palaver for a spell. Can’t hurt.”
    The words had barely tumbled from Longarm’s lips when Rader and Potts cut loose and peppered the hilltop hideout with a hailstorm of lead. Longarm glanced up at the cabin’s heavy front facade and watched as flying chunks of splintered timber and dusty ricochets worked to obscure the posse’s view. Within minutes, the stagnant air at the bottom of the canyon reeked with the acrid smell of spent black powder. Dense gray clouds of drifting gunsmoke hovered overhead.
    The unhurried shelling continued as Longarm strolled back to the campfire, poured a cup of coffee from the posse’s pot, then sat down on a rock and pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket. He lit the cigar and took his time smoking it, while nursing the tin of overcooked stump juice. Marshal Court poured a cup as well, but spent his time moving back and forth from one of his men to the other. He talked, patted them on their backs, and encouraged their efforts.
    With his last drag on the smoldering, mangled cheroot stub, Longarm stood and called out to Rader and Potts, “That’s enough, fellers. Wanna let ole Jack chew on his predicament for a spell. If he don’t respond, call out or somethin’, then maybe we’ll start up again when Rudy shows himself on the canyon wall.”
    For about ten minutes, the inside of Wild Horse Canyon got quieter than a deaf-mute’s shadow. Then, all of a sudden, as though from the bottom of an enormous metal barrel, Longarm barely heard someone say, “That you down there, Long? Seen you come in. Watched everthang you boys done through my long glass. If’n I’d a had my Big Fifty in hand, couple of you fellers would already be dancin’ with Jesus.”
    Harley Court whispered, “See what I