Longarm 242: Red-light by Tabor Evans

Garvin’s fist to pass harmlessly in front of his face. Then Day stepped in even closer and hooked a punch of his own into Garvin’s midsection. Day’s right fist didn’t move much more than a foot, but the blow packed enough power to make Garvin gasp and start to double over. He couldn’t bend, though, because Day’s left hand was still holding him up. Day chopped another right into Garvin’s face, striking so fast that it was difficult to follow his movements.
    Longarm started to grin as Garvin’s body sagged in Day’s grip. Appearances could sometimes be mighty damned deceiving.
    Then Longarm’s right hand flashed across his body and palmed out the Colt from his cross-draw rig. He had the revolver leveled and cocked in less than the blink of an eye. The barrel of the gun was pointed at one of Garvin’s cronies, who had started to draw his pistol behind Day’s back.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that, old son,” said Longarm quietly.
    Day glanced over his shoulder. Garvin was no longer a threat, being half-senseless from the clubbing blows he had received. Day smiled at Longarm and said, “Thanks. I was about to turn around, but you’ve saved me the trouble.” He started toward the front door of the saloon, hauling Garvin along with him. Garvin stumbled, but Day held him up with seeming effortlessness. He shoved Garvin out the door.
    The man who had been about to draw his gun stared at Longarm. He was pale, and he licked his lips nervously. He let go of the gun and allowed it to slide back into its holster.
    â€œThat’s better,” said Longarm. “Now leave it there.”
    One of the would-be gunman’s companions punched him on the arm and said, “You damned idiot! You’re lucky that stranger took a hand. If he hadn’t, Day probably would’ve killed you!”
    â€œYeah.” The man took a deep breath. He was positively ashen now as he thought about his close call. He looked at Longarm and added, “Sorry, mister.”
    Longarm let down the hammer of his Colt and holstered it. He had misjudged Everett Day, all right.
    â€œI don’t take kindly to backshooters,” he warned the men at the bar.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about us, mister,” one of them said. “We don’t want any trouble with the marshal.”
    Clearly, Day had a better grip on this town than Longarm had thought. He went to the door and stepped out into the frigid night. What Day had said earlier haunted him. If the men who had spotted Mallory had gone to the marshal instead of trying to confront the outlaws themselves, Longarm’s job might be over now. Mallory might be either dead or behind bars.
    And Amelia might still be alive.
    Longarm squared his shoulders and headed back down the street. The sound of hammering followed him. Somebody was already nailing boards over the broken window in the saloon.

Chapter 6
    A cold wind plucked at Longarm’s hat and coat the next morning as he stood on the small hill where Virginia City’s graveyard was located. The winds in these parts were called Washoe Zephyrs, he remembered, a term that was both a tribute to the Washoe Valley and an ironic comment on the strength of the winds. Despite the chill in the air, he reached up and plucked his hat off in a gesture of respect as he looked at the new grave marker and the mound of freshly turned earth.
    Amelia’s name was burned into the wood of the marker, along with the date of her death. That was all the undertaker had known about her. He hadn’t, known anything about her dissatisfaction with the life for which she seemed to be destined, or her thirst for adventure, or the way she laughed, or how sweet her mouth had tasted ...
    â€œI’m sorry, Amelia,” Longarm said aloud. “I wish I’d been able to keep my promise to come see you earlier. But I’m here now, and I’m making you another promise.