Legend With a Six-gun (9781101601839) by Tabor Evans Page B

Calaveras County?”
    â€œYes. That’s the place Mark Twain wrote about in that amusing piece about the jumping frogs, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYep. I read it, too. The last time I was up there, though, they weren’t betting on frogs worth mention. Uh, do you have kin or something up in Calaveras County?”
    â€œI’m joining my brother,” she told him. “He’s a mining engineer interested in some properties near Manzanita.”
    â€œOh? Did he come out ahead of you, then?”
    She looked down, avoiding his eyes as she murmured, “I hadn’t planned to come at all. But Ralph is the only family I have now. You see, our parents are gone and . . . well, if you must know, I just divorced a man I never should have married. Ralph told me he was no good, but would I listen?”
    Longarm nodded, understanding her snooty act better now. Divorces were legal enough, but still shocked a lot of people, despite the changes that had rocked the world since Victoria had been in the catbird seat of proper society. Sylvia Baxter was acting as if her armpits smelled of violets because she’d probably had a few snide remarks spit at her. To comfort her, he said, “I’d say divorcing a skunk is more civilized than shooting him or putting flypaper in his coffee.”
    She looked startled and said, “Flypaper? In coffee?”
    â€œCoffee, tea, or whatever. That sticky stuff on flypaper is a mix of honey and arsenic. You’d be surprised how many mean husbands have died young since flypaper was invented.”
    She laughed, for once not stiffly, and said, “I should have met you sooner. The papers I paid for cost much more than those I could have bought in any general store.”
    He laughed with her and said, “We live and learn. Maybe next time.”
    She said, “I’m not sure there’ll be a next time. I’ve had all of marriage I care for, thank you very much.”
    â€œDon’t thank me; I wasn’t proposing. You’ll be taking the Wells Fargo stage up to the Mother Lode, won’t you?”
    â€œI don’t think so. My brother wrote that there’s a narrow-gauge railway winding up from Valley Springs. I think I have to transfer from the main line at a place called Lodi, and—”
    â€œIt’s the long way around, but likely more comfortable than the stage,” he cut in. He was disappointed in one way, but relieved in another. Ordinarily he had an eye out for a well-turned ankle, but there was something about this woman that made him as broody as an old hen on a cold glass egg. Besides, he hadn’t come all the way out here to spark divorcees. He’d been on the case nearly a week and, up to now, hadn’t even managed to get within hailing distance of the goddamned mine he’d been sent to investigate.
    He took another sip of wine, gagged, and suddenly knew he was going to throw up!
    Without a word, he got up from the table, moved off at a trot, and just made it out to the promenade deck in time. He leaned out over the rail and gave everything he’d eaten in the past couple of years to the croaking frogs protesting in the tule reeds they were passing through.
    He heaved at least five times before a couple of dry retches told him he’d hit bottom. A male voice to his left said, “If you taste hair, swallow fast, or you’ll be throwing up your asshole!”
    Longarm turned to the amused deckhand and asked mildly, “Can you swim, sailor?”
    â€œDon’t take it personal, cowboy. I’ve been seasick myself. Though, come to think of it, it was out at sea. Ain’t the waves in this delta a caution?”
    Longarm wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand and said, “I ain’t seasick. I suspicion I’ve been poisoned. You have a sawbones on this tub?”
    The deckhand shook his head and said, “Not in the crew. If you’re really sick, I can