Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) by Tabor Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

the buggy and back to his chair on the front porch. He tapped on the door and told Nell they were back, then returned to the buggy and drove it around to the little barn in back of the house.
    He stripped the harness from the mare and hung it, secured the horse in her stall, and parked the buggy under an overhang at the side of the barn. By the time he returned to the front of the house, there was a cup of steaming hot coffee waiting for him.
    â€œHerself wants to know if you will be back for lunch,” Tyler said, inclining his head toward the house—as if there were any question just who he meant by “herself.”
    â€œNo, I expect not,” Longarm said, taking a swallow that quickly turned into a careful sip of the very hot coffee. “I’ll get me a horse an’ then see how things go from there. Any idea where I can find these sheepmen an’ goatherds?”
    â€œEasy enough. Just ride up the valley. You’ll see their camps and their flocks scattered every damn place you look. There isn’t any one person in charge of either bunch, though. They are all independent as hell. And twice as ornery.”
    â€œAll right then.” Longarm sat until he finished the coffee, then got up and excused himself. “I’d set an’ visit awhile, but what I come here to do is serious stuff. Reckon I shouldn’t keep it waiting for my laziness.”
    â€œWe’ll expect you back when we see the whites of your eyes,” Tyler said, “whenever that might be.”
    â€œFair enough.” Longarm shook the man’s hand and headed for Dwyer’s livery.

Chapter 15
    â€œI’m looking for a fella name of Anthony,” Longarm said to the young man who was busy braiding horsehair.
    The young fellow looked up from his work. “That would be me,” he said.
    Longarm was surprised. Hostlers were generally older men who had decided to retire from the rugged work of a cowhand or wrangler but could not stand to completely give up the game. Anthony DeCaro was anything but that stereotype. He looked like a city boy—with the emphasis on “boy”—yet John Tyler had vouched for DeCaro’s knowledge and abilities.
    â€œI’ m the . . .”
    â€œI know who you are,” DeCaro said with a grin. “The whole town does. Probably the whole county by now.”
    Longarm could only shake his head in wonder. The town of Dwyer seemed to have faster communications than Denver’s telephone system could have offered. “I need . . .”
    â€œI know what you need,” DeCaro said. “You’ll be wanting a saddle horse to use while you’re up here.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Longarm said. “The sheriff said you know your horses and you’re honest. He suggested I get you to pick something out for me.”
    â€œI’ll be happy to do that,” the young livery stable owner said. “First though I have a question for you. Are you looking for a horse that’s fast or one that’s steady? That is, do you expect to be chasing after someone or will you be riding off the road and want a horse you can count on to not stumble?”
    â€œSteady,” Longarm told him. “If I do my job right, I won’t have t’ be running no horse races across bad country.”
    â€œThen I have a good one for you. He won’t win any races if you do get into any, but you can count on him to take you wherever you want to go without getting busted up like John was.”
    â€œThen drag him out here, son, and let me take a look at him.”
    The horse DeCaro brought in from a corral behind the barn was a light-bodied dun, perhaps fourteen hands tall or a finger less, with brown points and a small muzzle. The feet were so small and delicate Longarm wondered how the little horse would manage over rough ground.
    â€œDon’t be put off by his looks,” DeCaro said. “His blood is some foreign breed