Longarm and the Great Divide by Tabor Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

out?”
    â€œHave you given them a deadline, Marshal?”
    â€œWhen will it be, Marshal?”
    Longarm would have found it almost funny, both sides saying the exact same things. Except they were serious, and there was the strong possibility of a war breaking out here.
    Which was probably why someone, some soul with a clearer head on his shoulders, put together this request for the assistance of a federal deputy.
    Everyone knew about the request and now about the presence of the deputy they had asked for. Yet no one seemed to know exactly who proposed the idea and sent for help. He wished now that he had looked at the message Billy Vail received requesting that help, but he had not thought it important at the time and now it was too late.
    There was not even a telegraph line connecting Valmere and Stonecipher—or Valstone if one preferred—to the rest of the world, so he could not use that method to ask Billy about the signature on the request. If there was one and if the signature was real or simply a fabrication that someone made up to get him there.
    For good or for ill, then, he was on his own here and would remain that way until he worked this out.
    If
he worked the towns’ problems out. That was a very big “if,” considering that neither side seemed to want to work it out. They just wanted the other side gone.
    And after that random bullet into the café this morning, it was possible that someone—someone on either side of the divide—wanted him gone as well.
    There were times when he wished he had stayed back in West by-God Virginia and spent his days staring at the ass end of a mule and walking along behind a plow.

Chapter 22
    â€œFight! There’s a fight behind the livery.” The cry rang out in the street. Longarm threw down the stub of the cigar he had been smoking and broke into a run toward the livery. A dozen men up and down the street ran with him.
    He burst into the livery barn and ran on through to the corrals in back where he could hear shouts of encouragement.
    When he got there he discovered at least a score of men already perched on the top rails of one of the smaller corrals, lined up there like so many birds decorating a telegraph wire.
    Inside the enclosure there were two men, both liberally decorated in dust and blood. The two circled each other slowly, each crouching and with fists upraised.
    â€œAll right, damnit, break this up,” Longarm barked.
    No one paid the least bit of attention to him, so he repeated the demand. And once more. Finally one of the spectators turned and informed him, “These boys been working up to this for a month, Marshal. Time they work it out betwixt themselves.”
    â€œI thought Wyoming boys and Nebraska hands didn’t mix none,” Longarm said.
    The cowboy who had spoken gave Longarm an odd look and said, “Hell, Marshal, these is both Wyoming boys, Dave there works for the MCX and Charley is a XL Bar rider. But Dave, he used to ride XL Bar, too. That’s where them two got crossways. They just don’t like each other.” The fellow spoke while looking over his shoulder at the two combatants. He winced as one of the men landed a solid left hook that split the cheek of the other man and brought even more blood.
    â€œThey came back here deliberate?” Longarm asked. But by then he was talking to the backs of the crowd atop the fence. No one was paying attention to him.
    Since this was what might be considered a “friendly” fight, Longarm exercised a little discretion. He crawled up onto an empty bit of fence rail and he, too, watched the fight progress below him.
    Longarm had no idea which man was Dave and which was Charley, but it was clear that neither one was an accomplished fighter. For the most part they were more enthusiastic than effective. They threw roundhouse punches that rarely connected. Grappled often. Grunted and swore. And hit hard as hell on the rare occasion when