Longarm 244: Longarm and the Devil's Sister by Tabor Evans Page B

He could have arranged any number of tragic accidents and wound up the sole heir in the catbird seat if money and bossing honest riders around was enough to satisfy his twisted soul.”
    Longarm nodded soberly and said, “You missed the drawn-out trial he just put us through in Denver. He was guilty beyond the shadow of a flea in the dark. But he had this team of high-priced Texas lawyers raising objections to everything including the weather outside on the day his other pals shot up the courtroom and lit out with him. I can’t see him having to rob because he’s from a poor family. He robs because he just plain enjoys the scenery along the owlhoot trail!”
    â€œWhen he ain’t holed up on his home ground,” the ranger grumbled.
    Longarm shrugged and said, “I never said any of ’em were college professors or even cowboys with common sense and natural habits. Who was Miss Connie showing respect to by following his hearse on foot? Some other local cattle baron?”
    The ranger smiled thinly and replied, “Not hardly. Just a greaser named Jesus. Jesus Robles. One of Miss Connie’s vaqueros. He rode his pony into bob wire in the dark and busted his neck. They had to shoot the pony and some say old ’Soos was riding fast and drunk.”
    Longarm lit the cheroot he’d stuck between his teeth before he shook out the waterproof waxed Mexican match to observe, “There you go. A lady who’d treat a drunken cowboy to such a handsome funeral after he’d killed one of her mounts would hardly hold out on her own flesh and blood.”
    Travis asked, “What if he asked for more than she and her momma could afford? Speaking from sad family experience I can tell you a heap of big outfits live on credit and credit alone between market drives, with the beef prices set by fine-haired sons of bitches from back East!”
    Longarm mentally studied the notes he’d taken in Denver and left there for safe keeping before he said, “It works either way. Old Devil Dave’s never pulled off a job that would have netted him more than a few hundred dollars after he’d split the swag with his sidekicks, and your point about cattlemen living on credit most of the time was well taken. I hear Uncle John Chisum lost a swamping amount from his bank account on that Lincoln County War. But the last time I had coffee and cake at his South Spring Ranch the coffee was Arbuckle Brand and the cake wasn’t stale. Uncle John has this pretty little gal, Miss Sally, keeping house for him these days. He introduces her as his niece. She may well be his niece. My point is that Uncle John keeps her gussied up pretty and I suspect she charges all the coffee and cake she wants to on the credit anyone with a lot of land and beef on the hoof can command. I know Miss Connie Deveruex can’t control as much land and beef on the hoof as Uncle John Chisum or Colonel Richard King, down where the Rio Grande flows into the Gulf. But her kid brother should have been able to charge or borrow enough to get stewed, screwed, and tattooed enough to kill him.”
    The ranger finished his tumbler and a half of suds and put his hand over the empty as he growled, “I wish it had, and I got to get on down the owlhoot trail. Ah, Crawford, I’ll tell my captain about this conversation. He’ll likely go along with you riding solo to your doom. Lord knows we’ve had no luck and you have a rep for being lucky. But have you forgot what happened to them two Pinkerton men who rode into Clay County alone after Frank and Jesse that time?”
    Longarm blew a thoughtful smoke ring and said, “Nope. I’ve often wondered how they gave themselves away as undercover riders. The one who gunned the two of ’em has never seen fit to say.”
    The ranger rose and held out a hand to part friendly. Longarm was too smart to glance around the crowded saloon as he quietly murmured he’d rather