want it.”
Then, as his intended target kept the range between them the same distance by crawfishing backward up the center of the street, Longarm added, “Aw, for Pete’s sake, make up your mind, Costello. If you don’t want to fight, just do as I say. If you want to fight, slap leather, damn it. It’s too hot to chase you. I didn’t even want to fight you, damn it. It was your notion to hold this fool duel. So hold still and let’s get to it.”
It didn’t work. His quarry didn’t seem to want to draw any more than he wanted to stop walking backwards. Longarm was almost abreast of the gals to either side, now. That was how far the fool had backed. Longarm called out, “This foolishness has gone far enough, Costello. I’m going to count to three. If you’ve neither gone for that gun or raised your hands by that time I’m fixing to go for mine, and end it, one way or another, hear?”
The sort of pathetic little gent didn’t seem to be paying any heed as Longarm started counting. Longarm already wished he’d said he’d draw on the count of ten. It was too one-sided. The poor little rascal didn’t have a chance.
Or did he?
Longarm swore and dropped to one knee as one of the innocent-looking redheads put a .32 slug through the space he’d been about to step into. He fired back, sending the duster-clad sweet miss crashing back through the window of a feed store, and then he’d spun his knee to fire at the other as, sure enough, she seemed to be aiming at him, too!
That inspired the more masculine figure who’d been crawfishing him into the cross fire of the twins to go for his own gun at last. Since Longarm already had his own out, it was a poor move indeed.
As his target tossed that sombrero high as only a spine-shot gent could manage with just his head, a bullet tore dust a lot closer to Longarm, and went screaming off into the distance with a harmless banshee wail. Longarm leaped up, pegged a shot into the smoke cloud near the door of the depot behind him, and took a running dive over a watering trough to enjoy some shade, a place to reload, and a chance to sort out his thoughts.
By the time he had it figured out, police whistles were blowing and the street wasn’t empty anymore. Longarm rose from his hiding hole and moved out to join the gents standing over the one he’d downed in the center of the street. One of them wearing a copper badge, recognized Longarm, took in the .44-40 he was still holding, albeit pointed politely down, and asked him, “Did you do this and who was he, Longarm?”
Longarm had already guessed, from the exposed brown hair, that he might not have shot the Great Costello after all. He rolled the body on its back with his boot, stared soberly down, and said, “He was eating dinner at my hotel the same time I was last evening. I reckon he was keeping an eye on more than his steak and spuds. That accounts for one more male member of the bunch as robbed your post office. I was supposed to take him for their leader.”
Another more excited gent ran up to them, complaining, “I just had a redheaded gal in a travel duster delivered through my front window. Only, when we looked closer, it was a man with a red wig and gal’s duster over his more natural duds.”
Longarm said, “That’s two we don’t have to worry about, then. I was mighty worried about a real female redhead I know. But when someone’s shooting at you, gallantry can get you killed. I think I left another one under yonder awning. Let’s go see if it was a him or a her.”
It was a him, once they got the sunbonnet and red wig off. Longarm sighed with relief and said, “I saw him escorting a real redhead to the depot last night. He must have been the one who told the Great Costello she left with me instead of a train. So that still leaves the Great Costello. And if that ain’t a train whistle I hear in the distance right now some lobo wolf has sure picked an odd hour to howl at the moon.”
He headed back to the depot at a run, with the town law and some just plain helpful El Paso gents in tow. He scooped up his Winchester, entered the waiting room, and saw it was empty. You could still smell gunsmoke, though.
He moved over to the ticket window. Before he could ask, the white-haired cuss in the booth said, “They run out to the platform. A short man and a taller redheaded gal. Who was they shooting at, just now?”
Longarm didn’t answer. He was already streaking for the platform exit. He skidded to a stop on the dry, splintered planks to stare far and wide across the dusty yards. Everything was moving. Heat waves made ‘em move on a day like today. But he saw nothing worth chasing, at first. Then he spotted a distant but rapidly growing column of black smoke.
As one of the town lawmen joined him to ask, “See anything?” Longarm said, “Yeah. The train they mean to board is coming in. Would you stay out here and let me know if you see anybody popping out of thin air to board it? I got to talk some more to that old ticket clerk.”
The town lawman agreed. Longarm went back inside, moved over to the brass-barred window, and said, “You forgot to mention they had wings. How many tickets did you sell them before they lit out?”
The white-bearded gent behind the bars replied, “Six, as a matter of fact. That was before the gent with the gal started blazing away out yon doorway, of course. How was I to know they was homicidal lunatics? I just work here.”
Longarm grinned wolfishly and said, “No you don’t. It was a nice try, Costello. But now I want you to put both hands on the counter and just keep them there whilst this nice El Paso lawman here kicks his way in to disarm you.”
The white-wigged and fake-bearded rogue on the far side of the brass bars did no such thing. As he crabbed sideways out of sight Longarm shouted “Down!” but did some crabbing on his own instead. When the Great Costello fired through the planking between them, Longarm wasn’t directly in the line of fire and only picked up some splinters with his pants.
He fired back with his Winchester, of course, and his own calculations worked better, judging by the awful yelp and dull thud inside the ticket booth. He fired some more in the direction of the thud and heard Costello cry out, “I give! I give!” He ceased fire as he moved down to the door and kicked it in, or tried to. Something soft and soggy was blocking further progress at floor level.
Longarm put his back into it and shoved the door open wider by sort of sliding the body of the real ticket clerk on the lubrication of his own blood. Then he stepped in and threw down on the other man at the far end of the narrow booth. The Great Costello was half reclined and half sitting up, with his shoulders wedged in a corner. He’d lost his white theatrical wig, and his fake beard was flecked with blood as well as sort of loose. As the treacherous clubfoot coughed again Longarm asked, in a conversational tone, “Couldn’t you have just bound and gagged this other gent, you murderous little shit?”
