hours of immobility, and stretched. He let out a resounding fart, yawned, and scratched himself.
First stop, he figured, would be into the nearest outhouse to relieve himself. Then something, anything, wet to pour down his gullet. Hell, even water would do. He was that desperate. From there … from there he’d work it out.
“Good night,” he called pleasantly to the bartender as he left the gapingly empty saloon at what should have been its busiest hour.
Angela Fulton looked like shit. To be more accurate about it, she looked like a piece of raw meat. Her face was swollen and discolored to the point that it didn’t overmuch look like a human face anymore. On the other hand, she was alive, she was conscious, and she was needing her strength.
Longarm was pleased to see a spark of interest in her eyes—at least those were unchanged, although the red and purple surroundings made it a trifle difficult to judge that fact—when he took the lid off the pot he was carrying and the rich, steamy aroma filled the small room.
Buddy was plenty interested too, of course, but hell, Longarm had known that would be so. Young boys always think they’re on the fringes of total starvation.
“I brought some chicken broth with whipped egg yolks swirled in. That’s mighty good for whatever ails a body. An’ the lady at the cafe said I should bring you some o’ this clabbered milk. It smells like … well, I ain’t gonna say out loud what it smells like. But she claims you like it an’ that it’s every bit as good for you as the soup will be.”
Angela nodded weakly.
With Buddy’s help Longarm got her propped more or less upright on a mound of pillows. “Son, whyn’t you fetch me a spoon. An’ a towel or cloth of some kind too. Your mama looks to me like a messy eater. Reckon we gotta be prepared to mop up whatever spills. An’ before you get all down in the mouth ‘bout your prospects for supper, soon as your mama is all set for me to feed her, you can dig inta that hamper over on the table there. I brung some fried chicken and other chewable fixings for you an’ me. All right?”
“All right!” Buddy yapped as he jumped to help with the tasks Longarm had set him.
“How you doin’?” Longarm asked softly while the boy’s attention was elsewhere.
Angela managed a small shrug and a hint of a nod. She wasn’t feeling worth crap, of course, but she was making it. Longarm supposed that under the circumstances that was really pretty good.
Buddy handed him the spoon and towel he’d asked for.
“You go ahead an’ eat while it’s still hot,” Longarm said. He grinned and added, “But mind you save me more’n your chewed-over bones, hear?”
Not that there was much worry about that. He’d brought enough chicken, biscuits, and other eatables to feed four grown men. That, he figured, should be just about right for one man and a boy.
“Yessir,” Buddy quickly agreed, and scampered off to the table.
Longarm chuckled a mite at the kid’s enthusiasm, then set himself to the slow, patient task of feeding Angela a teaspoon or so of broth at a time.
Chapter 23
Longarm wasn’t so rash the second day as he’d been the first. This time he thought to do a little planning ahead. For one thing he waited until lunchtime before he showed up at the saloon. The early morning hours weren’t busy ones anyway, and they’d been annoying to sit through for nothing. Making his appearance during the lunch hour, though, should put a serious crimp in Clete Terry’s business.
He also made sure he was physically prepared, or as close to it as he could get, to spend however long it took sitting there like a vulture waiting to swoop down and gobble something up. For openers he made sure he was well watered and also well drained before he ever walked through the door, and that his belly was full. He smoked a last, good cheroot and then sauntered into Terry’s saloon like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Oh, shit,” the daytime bartender said by way of a welcome.
“And a fine good morning to you too, old son.” Longarm leaned on the bar and looked around. There were two patrons bellied up to the free lunch spread at the far end of the bar. The nearer of them took one look at Longarm and left. The older man looked instead at the free lunch, plucked a slice of ham off the platter and dragged it through a bowl of mustard, and then he too turned and left the place at a slow lope.
“Not real busy so far today, are you?” Longarm said.
The bartender scowled at him but didn’t offer any comments or suggestions. No doubt he’d received his instructions.
“I’d like a beer, please,” Longarm said. “And three rum crooks.”
The bartender delivered the merchandise and accepted payment. Longarm winked at him and carried his purchases to the table in the corner, where they would remain untouched for as long as he cared to sit there.
“The word is that you’re yella, mister. They say you’re all bluff and no huff.”
“Is that so?” Longarm observed mildly. He smiled at the man while looking him over.
The belligerent butt-in was of average height or a little less, and couldn’t have weighed more than 135 pounds at the very most. He had close-cropped black hair and the sort of deep, walnut tan that comes from spending day after day and week after week outdoors in hard sun.
This man was no coal miner, obviously. As for where he’d been … Longarm could figure that out without having to raise any sweat on his brain. The man was not long out of prison. Canon City most likely, considering where they were, although Yuma would also give a man that kind of extra deep tan. Most likely, though, he was a graduate of the Canon City rock pile, quarrying rock off the knife-edge mountain that lay behind the old territorial, now state penitentiary there, rock that would be used to construct still more cold, hostile, stone cell blocks.
Longarm knew the type, all right. Bitter and as hard and as cold as the stone he’d been breaking. This man hadn’t come looking for a fight or a payday. What he would be wanting was revenge. Revenge on anyone in authority. And if that someone was a deputy marshal, why, so much the better.
