Longarm and the Arapaho Hellcats by Tabor Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

windows, but the fire was contained. The buildings around it were doused and men were posted on all sides of the bank to make sure that no cinders sparked another fire.
    Longarm walked back to where he’d left the carriage though the carriage and the Hanoverian were gone. The bodies had been carried out of the street, as well. An old black man was sitting on a loafer’s bench out front of the Silver Spur Saloon, on the opposite side of the street from the ladies’ dress shop, near where Thrum McIntyre had been shooting from.
    The old black man had one blind white eye. He wore a straw hat, a ­time-­worn chambray shirt, and suspenders. “I took the ladies’ ­carriage—­and some carriage it is, ­too—­over to my livery barn on Wyoming Street yonder. Right across the street from the hotel the ladies got ’em a room at. Said to tell you where they was when you got done fightin’ the fire, Mr. Lawman Suh.”
    Longarm walked over to the ­old-­timer. “Name’s Long. Custis Long, deputy U.S. marshal.”
    â€œYes, sir, I heard you was comin’. I’m Wendell Calhoun.” He shook his head, whistling under his breath. “That was some fine shootin’. Wish you woulda got here a little earlier. Sheriff McIntyre was a good lawdog in his time, but, just like the best of us, he done got old.”
    Longarm set one boot on the boardwalk near Calhoun and looked sadly over his shoulder at where McIntyre’s son had lain. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, too.”
    â€œWouldn’t have done the boy no good. He was dead as soon as them jaspers come runnin’ out of the bank. Just happened to be walkin’ by with his pretty girl.” Calhoun shook his head and adjusted his dentures. “Shore is sad. ’Bout the saddest thing I ever seen since the war.”
    â€œYou know how the sheriff is, Mr. Calhoun?”
    â€œFeelin’ poorly I’d say. I seen the doc headin’ for his suite in the ­Arapaho—­the same hotel them ladies is roomin’ at. Doc’s prob’ly with him now. The doc was out at the Leaf Ranch all night, deliverin’ a newborn. One dies, another’s born. Ain’t that how it is?”
    â€œI reckon.”
    â€œI hope you can save the girl, but I ain’t holdin’ out much hope. That Drummond ­bunch—­they’re jaspers of the first water. ­Low-­down, dirty scum is what they is. Now that Colt is out of the pen, I just figured hell was gonna pop!”
    â€œWell, you were right, Mr. Calhoun. Now, it’s time for me to have a shot of whiskey and hit the trail. Where did you say that hotel was?”
    Calhoun pointed east with the stem of a corncob pipe he held in his hand. “One block that way. You’ll see the sign for Wyoming Street. Just south on that. Hotel’s on the left, my barn’s on the right.”
    â€œMuch obliged.”
    Longarm started walking east along the street.
    â€œYou need a tracker, Marshal Long?”
    Longarm stopped. The black man studied him ­wide-­eyed, eager. “I was General Custer’s best tracker up until the time o’ the Washita . . .” The black man gave a sour look then dipped his chin resolutely. “You let me know if you could use the best tracker in Wyomin’ Territory scoutin’ them killers’ trail.”
    â€œI’ll do that, Mr. Calhoun.” Longarm pinched his hat brim to the man.
    â€œCall me Wendell.”
    â€œLongarm!” the federal badge toter returned as he jogged east along the street.
    The hotel couldn’t have been missed by a blind donkey. It was a large, ­three-­story, ­green-­and-­pink Victorian with a sprawling, white wraparound porch with several rocking chairs. Longarm had heard that Arapaho was growing, and that more wealthy ranchers were moving herds into Platte County from Texas and