Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers by Tabor Evans Page A

quick enough with his .45 to take them.
    Come the next trip, he intended to bring a shotgun along, too. At least with a scattergun, you did not have to be as precise as with a revolver. There was room for error while still getting the job done. No wonder shotgun guards and stagecoach drivers carried the weapons they did, he thought.
    And now he was a coach driver himself.
    He safely delivered the passengers to Lake George and picked up two more there on their way over to Bailey, dropped them and the postmaster’s package off there, and picked up two men and a matronly woman for the run back to Fairplay.
    They pulled in at the Carver office in Fairplay well after dark.
    But they, by damn, got the job done. Longarm felt good about that. And Charlie looked ecstatic.
    â€œI was getting worried when it got dark and you still weren’t here,” she admitted while she helped Longarm break the hitch and tend to the horses for the night. “You must be hungry. Can I offer you supper as a way of saying thank you?” she suggested.
    â€œI . . .” He was going to turn her down, then at the last moment changed his mind, and what came out of his mouth instead of a rejection was, “Yes. Thanks. That’d be nice o’ you.”
    He set down the hoof he was working on and picked up another, certain that before this night was over, his back would break and he would be crippled for life.

Chapter 25
    â€œThat was wonderful, Charlie. Thank you,” Longarm said, folding his napkin and laying it beside his now very empty plate. He smiled. “If you ever give up the stagecoach business, you could make it down in Denver as a high-class chef.”
    Her response was a loud, uninhibited guffaw.
    â€œI have a question,” she said.
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œNow I don’t mean to give offense, but from the stiff way you are holding yourself, I’m going to guess that your back hurts. Am I right? Or am I right?” she said.
    â€œYou’re right,” he admitted. “Those boys pull hard, an’ I’m not used to driving them. Haven’t yet learned when to relax an’ when to hold tight.”
    â€œWill’s back gets like that sometimes, and he handles them every day. Would you like me to help you out with that?” she offered.
    â€œIf there’s anything you know t’ do short of shooting me to put me outa my misery, yeah, I’d appreciate it.”
    Longarm was thinking in terms of a few good shots of whiskey. Instead Charlise said, “Take your shirt off.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe shirt. Off.”
    â€œIf you say so,” he said and began fumbling at the buttons, his fingers still stiff from the day hanging on to those driving lines. He could scarcely imagine what it would have felt like had the Carver line run six-horse hitches.
    Charlie helped him out of his vest and shirt, his coat already hanging by the door. She carefully folded both and laid them aside. “Now the gun belt if you don’t mind.”
    Longarm complied, trying without success to hide a yawn.
    â€œThere is only one comfortable way to do this,” she said. “I know from past experience with Will. You need to lie full length, facedown, and there is only one place in this little house where you can do that, so follow me, please.”
    He did, and Charlie led him past the kitchen to her bedroom. The bedclothes were surprisingly fluffy and girlish and the place smelled of powders and perfumes.
    â€œThere,” she said. “On the bed, please.”
    Longarm did as she directed, stretching out facedown. Charlie perched on the side of the bed.
    She picked up a small bottle and poured some of the contents into the palm of her hand.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said. “This is just a light oil. It isn’t scented.”
    Longarm grunted his acceptance, and Charlie began smearing the oil onto his back. She oiled him with a liberal hand then