away, and went outside. Supper at Dottieâs, he figured, then over to the saloon for a friendly game and a nightcap before heading back to the lonely silence of Normâs little house.
He was halfway to Dottieâs cafe when the fellow with the gun stepped out in front of him.
Chapter 13
âHowdy,â Longarm said.
The manâhe was more boy than man, actuallyâresponded with a wild-eyed look.
Longarm tried again. âSomething I can do for you, son?â Smiling, he reached inside his coatâwith his left hand; the right remained unencumbered as a precaution, not that he saw any particular need for worryâand pulled out a cheroot. Keeping his eyes on the boy in front of him, Longarm bit off the twisted tip of the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and then dipped two fingers of his left hand into a vest pocket for a match. He lowered his chin, but not his eyes, when it came time to light the smoke.
Through all this the boy was standing there so tight and nervous, it was a wonder he didnât vibrate and thrum like a damned violin string.
Longarm guessed his age to be eighteen, nineteen, somewhere in that neighborhood. There were some youngsters who could count themselves grown and responsible at that age, but this one had an air about him that said he still should be in knee pants. He looked, in truth, as if his belfry wasnât quite full, as if somebody had shorted him half a peck when brains were being portioned out. Not that Longarm was in any position to pass judgment on short acquaintance. If that was what this was.
The boy continued to stand there, giving Longarm a vacant, open-mouthed stare.
He was towheaded, with hair like sun-bleached straw that had gotten wet and was commencing to mold. His hair should have been trimmed two, three weeks ago. He had blue eyes that darted nervously, and a twitch or habitual tic that made the left side of his cheek flutter. A few wisps of pale hair dangled from his chin. Longarm guessed this kid hadnât ever had to shave.
The boy wore a tattered bib overall that was near white from age and countless washings, and was worn out at the knees where several patches had been applied long ago and now needed to be done again. Underneath the bib was a pink pullover shirt that might once have been red. It too was ancient and worn thin. He was barefoot, the bottom ends of his pant legs stopping four or five inches short of his grimy ankles and filth-encrusted feet. He was bareheaded.
The oddest thing about him, though, was neither his appearance nor his attire. A body might see that in any young half-wit.
The thing that captured Longarmâs attention most was the gun the boy clung to. It was an old Remington revolver, a brass-framed model, so it almost had to be of the old cap-and-ball design from back before Remington received patent rights to offer cartridge guns. There was no loading lever visible on this one, so Longarm assumed it had been converted for cartridge use at some time in the past, most likely to the once-popular .44-rimfire cartridge that worked so nicely in the old Army .44-caliber loose-powder shooters. From the distance, which Longarm judged to be eight or ten yards, he couldnât tell any more than that.
Even from so far away, though, Longarm could see that the boy clutched his gun with a grip so tight it made his knuckles white.
The boy was breathing hard, and sweat plastered strands of hair across his forehead.
âIs there something you want, son?â Longarm tried again. âAnything I can do for you?â
âI want . . . I want....â The voice was practically a croak. The boy licked his lips and tried again. âIâm supposed . . . in the back... canât.â He shook his head wildly from side to side and spoke again. âCanât do that, canât.â
âCanât what, son?â
âNot right. From the back. Canât.â
âCanât do what from the back,
He was halfway to Dottieâs cafe when the fellow with the gun stepped out in front of him.
Chapter 13
âHowdy,â Longarm said.
The manâhe was more boy than man, actuallyâresponded with a wild-eyed look.
Longarm tried again. âSomething I can do for you, son?â Smiling, he reached inside his coatâwith his left hand; the right remained unencumbered as a precaution, not that he saw any particular need for worryâand pulled out a cheroot. Keeping his eyes on the boy in front of him, Longarm bit off the twisted tip of the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and then dipped two fingers of his left hand into a vest pocket for a match. He lowered his chin, but not his eyes, when it came time to light the smoke.
Through all this the boy was standing there so tight and nervous, it was a wonder he didnât vibrate and thrum like a damned violin string.
Longarm guessed his age to be eighteen, nineteen, somewhere in that neighborhood. There were some youngsters who could count themselves grown and responsible at that age, but this one had an air about him that said he still should be in knee pants. He looked, in truth, as if his belfry wasnât quite full, as if somebody had shorted him half a peck when brains were being portioned out. Not that Longarm was in any position to pass judgment on short acquaintance. If that was what this was.
The boy continued to stand there, giving Longarm a vacant, open-mouthed stare.
He was towheaded, with hair like sun-bleached straw that had gotten wet and was commencing to mold. His hair should have been trimmed two, three weeks ago. He had blue eyes that darted nervously, and a twitch or habitual tic that made the left side of his cheek flutter. A few wisps of pale hair dangled from his chin. Longarm guessed this kid hadnât ever had to shave.
The boy wore a tattered bib overall that was near white from age and countless washings, and was worn out at the knees where several patches had been applied long ago and now needed to be done again. Underneath the bib was a pink pullover shirt that might once have been red. It too was ancient and worn thin. He was barefoot, the bottom ends of his pant legs stopping four or five inches short of his grimy ankles and filth-encrusted feet. He was bareheaded.
The oddest thing about him, though, was neither his appearance nor his attire. A body might see that in any young half-wit.
The thing that captured Longarmâs attention most was the gun the boy clung to. It was an old Remington revolver, a brass-framed model, so it almost had to be of the old cap-and-ball design from back before Remington received patent rights to offer cartridge guns. There was no loading lever visible on this one, so Longarm assumed it had been converted for cartridge use at some time in the past, most likely to the once-popular .44-rimfire cartridge that worked so nicely in the old Army .44-caliber loose-powder shooters. From the distance, which Longarm judged to be eight or ten yards, he couldnât tell any more than that.
Even from so far away, though, Longarm could see that the boy clutched his gun with a grip so tight it made his knuckles white.
The boy was breathing hard, and sweat plastered strands of hair across his forehead.
âIs there something you want, son?â Longarm tried again. âAnything I can do for you?â
âI want . . . I want....â The voice was practically a croak. The boy licked his lips and tried again. âIâm supposed . . . in the back... canât.â He shook his head wildly from side to side and spoke again. âCanât do that, canât.â
âCanât what, son?â
âNot right. From the back. Canât.â
âCanât do what from the back,
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