Longarm #396 : Longarm and the Castle of the Damned (9781101545249) by Tabor Evans
Authors: Tabor Evans
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conscious memory of drawing it.
A wisp of white smoke hanging in the air above an outcropping of gray granite showed him clearly enough where the shots had come from, but the distance was impossibly far for a handgun.
A little too far for a rifle too, at least for a rifle aimed by whoever it was who shot at him. Obviously the shooter was not a marksman.
A really good shot might have been able to score a solid hit at that distance. Longarm estimated it to be a little more than two hundred yards. That range was certainly doable with something like a .50-100 buffalo gun, but with a .44 cartridge in a saddle carbine, a cartridge designed to be used in revolvers, shooting at that distance was a matter of wishes and luck.
This time the luck was on Longarmâs side.
He lay there, tight against the seat of the saddle where he would be protected, waiting for the shooter to come down to admire his handiwork, but that did not happen. Instead the sun sank lower and lower, eventually striking Longarm directly in the eyes.
And then it was gone, taking the lingering daylight with it. Once the light was gone the night chill settled in. Longarm shivered and, disgusted, shoved his Colt back into leather.
The shooter, whoever he might have been and whyever he wanted a deputy United States marshal dead, was long gone now, and Longarm had not gotten so much as a brief glimpse of him.
Longarm stood, leaned down, and brushed himself off, then set about the rather unpleasant task of pulling the old liverymanâs saddle and bridle off the dead horse.
Chapter 16
Longarmâs feet hurt. Hurt like hell, in fact. He hated to think how they would have felt had he been wearing the tall heels and high arches of the boots normally favored by cowhands and wranglers. His cavalry boots were intended to allow troopers to fight dismounted and thus made the pain considerably less than it might have been.
Even so . . . his feet hurt like hell, and he would have been very pleased to one more time run up against the bastard who shot at him.
Longarm was not striding out quite as comfortably as he had to begin with and his feet were kicking up dust, as he made his way up the lane from the gate to the Birdwell place. It was just as had been described to him back in Medicine Bow: a set of tall gateposts with a board mounted overhead. There was just enough light from the stars and moon to let him make out the stylized bird burned into the board, flanked by Flying B brands on either side.
The ranch headquarters consisted of a large and handsome two-story main house, barns and sheds on one side of the ranch yard, and the cookhouse and a low-roofed bunkhouse on the other side. Longarm wearily headed for the ownerâs home.
No lights showed anywhere on the place. But then it was probably well past midnight now. Sensible folks would be abed.
Longarm mounted the steps onto a porch that ran across the front of the Birdwell house. He chose a wicker-back rocking chair and settled into it, tipping his hat over his eyes and crossing his arms. With any sort of luck he should be able to catch a little sleep before the familyâand perhaps this mysterious Nettyâwoke up.
Longarm heard stirrings inside the house before any lights came on. Through the open window close to his rocking chair he could smell a hint of baking bread and coal smoke. Obviously the Birdwell cook was up and busy.
He stood, his knee cartilage popping, and carefully made his way down the steps in the near-dark of an approaching dawn. He was fairly proud of himself; he only tripped twice as he went around to the back of the house.
There was a small utility porch on the back with a stand and washtub andâamazinglyâa hand pump where the cook and washwoman could draw water. Longarm could see a little better by the time he got to the back of the house, either because his eyes were better adjusted or because of the increasing light. He climbed the three steps onto the porch and
A wisp of white smoke hanging in the air above an outcropping of gray granite showed him clearly enough where the shots had come from, but the distance was impossibly far for a handgun.
A little too far for a rifle too, at least for a rifle aimed by whoever it was who shot at him. Obviously the shooter was not a marksman.
A really good shot might have been able to score a solid hit at that distance. Longarm estimated it to be a little more than two hundred yards. That range was certainly doable with something like a .50-100 buffalo gun, but with a .44 cartridge in a saddle carbine, a cartridge designed to be used in revolvers, shooting at that distance was a matter of wishes and luck.
This time the luck was on Longarmâs side.
He lay there, tight against the seat of the saddle where he would be protected, waiting for the shooter to come down to admire his handiwork, but that did not happen. Instead the sun sank lower and lower, eventually striking Longarm directly in the eyes.
And then it was gone, taking the lingering daylight with it. Once the light was gone the night chill settled in. Longarm shivered and, disgusted, shoved his Colt back into leather.
The shooter, whoever he might have been and whyever he wanted a deputy United States marshal dead, was long gone now, and Longarm had not gotten so much as a brief glimpse of him.
Longarm stood, leaned down, and brushed himself off, then set about the rather unpleasant task of pulling the old liverymanâs saddle and bridle off the dead horse.
Chapter 16
Longarmâs feet hurt. Hurt like hell, in fact. He hated to think how they would have felt had he been wearing the tall heels and high arches of the boots normally favored by cowhands and wranglers. His cavalry boots were intended to allow troopers to fight dismounted and thus made the pain considerably less than it might have been.
Even so . . . his feet hurt like hell, and he would have been very pleased to one more time run up against the bastard who shot at him.
Longarm was not striding out quite as comfortably as he had to begin with and his feet were kicking up dust, as he made his way up the lane from the gate to the Birdwell place. It was just as had been described to him back in Medicine Bow: a set of tall gateposts with a board mounted overhead. There was just enough light from the stars and moon to let him make out the stylized bird burned into the board, flanked by Flying B brands on either side.
The ranch headquarters consisted of a large and handsome two-story main house, barns and sheds on one side of the ranch yard, and the cookhouse and a low-roofed bunkhouse on the other side. Longarm wearily headed for the ownerâs home.
No lights showed anywhere on the place. But then it was probably well past midnight now. Sensible folks would be abed.
Longarm mounted the steps onto a porch that ran across the front of the Birdwell house. He chose a wicker-back rocking chair and settled into it, tipping his hat over his eyes and crossing his arms. With any sort of luck he should be able to catch a little sleep before the familyâand perhaps this mysterious Nettyâwoke up.
Longarm heard stirrings inside the house before any lights came on. Through the open window close to his rocking chair he could smell a hint of baking bread and coal smoke. Obviously the Birdwell cook was up and busy.
He stood, his knee cartilage popping, and carefully made his way down the steps in the near-dark of an approaching dawn. He was fairly proud of himself; he only tripped twice as he went around to the back of the house.
There was a small utility porch on the back with a stand and washtub andâamazinglyâa hand pump where the cook and washwoman could draw water. Longarm could see a little better by the time he got to the back of the house, either because his eyes were better adjusted or because of the increasing light. He climbed the three steps onto the porch and
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