Longarm and the Diamondback Widow by Tabor Evans Page B

Longarm said, trying to sound jovial. “You can house this old cayuse for me. I tell you—I’ll be plenty happy to get us both out of the sun. Damn, it’s hot!”
    â€œIt shore is!”
    â€œTell me—where’s the best place to wet one’s whistle around here?” Longarm said, handing the kid his reins.
    â€œAh, I wouldn’t know.” The kid took the reins and poked his shabby hat back off his forehead as he gazed toward the main street. “My folks don’t let me drink nothin’ but milk an’ sarsaparilla, but most of the fellas seem to like the Dragoon best.”
    â€œThat’s the busiest, usually?”
    â€œYeah, usually, but you won’t have no trouble gettin’ a drink in there now. On Saturday night is when you’d best get there first thing, I hear.” The kid looked around cautiously, as though to make sure no one else was in earshot, and then leaned toward Longarm, closing one eye deviously. “Old Walter Tattermyer’s got him some girls that I hear . . . well, they’ll do about anything a man wants . . . if you get my drift, mister.”
    The kid snickered, showing his long, white horse teeth.
    â€œNo, shit?” Longarm said. “You mean, even . . . ?”
    â€œYep, that’s what I hear. For only two dollars, too! Me—I’m thinkin’ about savin’ up and then goin’ in the back way one of these nights, so word don’t get around.” The boy frowned suddenly and looked up at Longarm skeptically. “Say, you wouldn’t tell no one what I just said, would you, mister? If my ma ever found out, she’d crack me over the head with her broom handle!”
    â€œYour secret’s safe with me.” Longarm laughed and stuck out his hand. “I’m Custis Long, but you can call me Longarm.”
    â€œI’m Ronnie Brown,” the boy said, jerking his chin toward the big sign nailed to the barn. “My Pa and his brother Wilfred own this place, but I’m about the only one who works here. I bust my butt feedin’ horses and shovelin’ shit and polishing the rental buggies, and all they do is fish or play horseshoes.”
    Quickly, so as to try and catch the kid off guard, Longarm said, “Say, Ronnie, you wouldn’t happen to know where my old friend Des Rainey is, would you? I rode all the way out here from Denver, and he doesn’t seem to be in his office.”
    The kid studied him closely, apprehensively. “You . . . uh . . . mean . . . the sheriff?”
    â€œThat’s right. Any idea where I might find him?”
    Along with bartenders and whores, livery boys were often the best sources of information, as men’s lives tended to rotate around drink, sex, and horses. Longarm hated to put the lad on the spot, but he had a feeling it might very well be for a higher cause—namely, the well-being of Des Rainey.
    â€œSheriff Rainey?”
    â€œThat’s right, Ronnie—Sheriff Rainey. I bet he stabled his horse with you, didn’t he? If he’d lit out anywhere, he’d have picked up his horse here, maybe mentioned where he was going.”
    Ronnie looked around owlishly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister. If . . . if Sheriff Rainey ain’t in his office, I sure as hell don’t know where he is. Now, why don’t you leave me alone to tend your horse or you can just tend him yourself!”
    Ronnie glared at Longarm, red-faced with anger and fear. His eyes were rheumy, as though he were near tears. Longarm wasn’t going to get any more out of the boy than he had out of Little.
    Someone had put the fear of God in him.
    Longarm raised his hands. “All right, boy. All right.”
    The kid turned away and began leading the bay into the barn.
    â€œHold on,” Longarm said, and walked over and slid his