Longarm 397 : Longarm and the Doomed Beauty (9781101545973) by Tabor Evans Page B

six-shooter,” the kid said, hurrying down the stairs, one hand on the rail. “It was right where you said it was . . .” The voice stopped suddenly, and he let his voice trail off. His eyes had found Longarm and turned sharp with fear.
    â€œDrop the gun, Junior,” Longarm ordered, aiming down the Winchester’s barrel.
    â€œAh, shit!” the kid intoned, crumpling his young face with fear and frustration. “Who the fuck are you?”
    â€œCustis P. Long,” Longarm said. “Deputy U.S. marshal out of Denver. Go ahead and set that pistol down nice an’ easy, and we can continue the conversation more friendly-like.”
    â€œYou a lawman?” the kid said, pulling his vest away to reveal the five-pointed star pinned to his shirt. “So am I!”
    â€œThat’s Leroy,” said the barman, still holding his hands above his head.
    â€œLeroy Panabaker,” the kid said. “Deputy town marshal of Snow Mound, Colorado Territory.”
    â€œJust the same, Leroy, you’ll wanna stow that pistol somewhere. You don’t need it now. The three curly wolves out yonder are as dead as the gray-suited gent on the porch.” The kid didn’t appear much over fifteen years old. He was short and so thin that even his snakeskin suspenders were having a hard time holding his trousers up on his lean hips. The big Colt holstered on his right hip looked far too big for him to carry around without falling over, much less for him to handle safely.
    Deputy Panabaker’s close-set eyes flashed in surprise as he wedged the Schofield behind his cartridge belt, all the leather loops of which, Longarm noted, were empty. “You got ’em?”
    Longarm lowered the rifle. “That’s right. But not before they got your boss, looks like.”
    The kid came slowly down the stairs, his gaze growing dark as his eyes found the sheriff lying dead on the floor. “Poor old Marshal Scobie. He took a ricochet just before I went upstairs looking for another gun and more ammo.” The kid deputy shook his head sadly. “He’s the one that give me this job, nigh on two years ago, now. He saw I had a callin’ and he give me a chance.”
    â€œTwo years ago?” Longarm said. “Good Lord—you must’ve been twelve.”
    â€œFourteen. No one else in town wanted the job, and I may not look like much, Marshal Long, but I can shoot the white out of a hawk’s eye at four hundred yards.” He glanced at the barman, who’d finally lowered his hands and was walking out from behind his bar, looking around with a stricken expression on his soft, pale, black-mustached face. “Can’t I, Al?”
    â€œLook at my place,” said Al.
    â€œWhere’s Miss Pritchard?” Longarm asked the kid as he shouldered his rifle and headed for the stairs.
    â€œRoom seven up yonder,” Leroy said. “She’s awful scared, but she’ll be glad to know we done took care o’ them gunnies.”
    Longarm gave a wry snort and climbed the stairs. On the second floor he stopped in front of the door with a brass number seven adorning its top panel. Hearing quick footsteps on the carpeted stairs at the end of the hall, Longarm rapped on the door.
    â€œUh . . . Marshal Long?”
    Longarm glanced back the way he’d come, saw the kid taking long strides toward him, an anxious look on his face. On the other side of the door facing Longarm, a pistol cracked. A slug hammered through the door’s upper panel.
    Longarm felt the air curl just left of his face as the slug continued on across the hall and into the red-papered wall on the opposite side. As the gun cracked again, chewing more slivers from the door, Longarm threw himself to the right and dropped to a crouch, scowling.
    â€œWhat the hell !”
    As though in reply, a female voice screeched on the other side of the door, “Go away, you savages! I have a gun, and I