LONGARM ON THE FEVER COAST
By Tabor Evans
Synopsis:
Death at every turn... Escondrijo, Texas, is a sleepy seaport where not much usually happens. But now there's a federal prisoner being held in the town jail, and it's deputy marshal Long's duty to bring him back to Denver. But even before he starts, a pair of vicious back-shooters try to make sure he never finishes the job. At the same time, a mysterious epidemic is ravaging the entire Texas coast. Now Longarm has to dodge the blazing lead headed his way, get to the source of the strange fever afflicting the region--and get his man back to Colorado to see that justice is done. 183rd novel in the 'Longarm' series, 1994.
CHAPTER 1
The funeral seemed at least as dignified and twice as sober as anyone was likely to remember the late Justice Elroy Bryce of the Denver Probate Court. His Honor had been one of those sneaky old drunks who'd never taken a false step, slurred one word, nor made a whole lot of sense as he'd presided over mostly routine cases.
Longarm had appeared before His Honor a time or two to ask if they could use a dead outlaw's own pocket money to bury him decently, the outlaw being intestate, and old Elroy had been neighborly enough. But U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long, as he was known officially, was there at the funeral more as a representative of his federal court. Nobody but his immediate superior, U.S. Marshal William Vail, would come right out and say what they thought of the poor old political hack. But Longarm felt sure he'd been stuck with the chore because he was well known to the locals gathered in the church as a federal man, thanks to those dumb features about him in the Rocky Mountain News and Denver Post. Things had gotten to where a lawman wound up on the infernal front pages every time he had to gun a foolish road agent. It felt dumb to be sitting up front, in a fresh-pressed tweed suit and cruelly starched white shirt, for Pete's sake, while some jasper a row back whispered, 'That's the one they call Longarm, and I'll bet that's his famous.44-40 bulging under the left tail of his frock coat.'
Longarm wondered what else they expected a lawman on duty to be wearing cross-draw in such an uncertain world, especially after putting many an owlhoot rider in jail, or in the ground, while packing a badge for six or eight years. Judges made enemies along the way as well. In addition, a pesky reporter had gotten a look at the guest invitations, and printed in his paper how the notorious Custis Long would show up.
Longarm had managed to crawfish out of being a pallbearer, with hardly a chance in the world if some sore loser threw down on him while he was helping to carry the coffin. But he still itched far more between his shoulder blades than that pesky starch called for. It was taking the preacher a million years to take his place at that damned pulpit and get cracking. Meanwhile, all sorts of suspicious characters filed by, supposedly to pay their last respects to that old dead drunk in that open mahogany casket.
The church organ wasn't doing a thing to speed things up. Longarm couldn't tell whether the short and pleasantly plump brunette over in the alcove was playing hunt-and-peck on the organ keys because she couldn't make out the score propped up so high, or because she couldn't reach the pumping pedals slung so low with her little legs. She was seated at such a sideways angle that he couldn't quite make out just what she was really up to. Nevertheless, she or anybody else seated at her organ had a clear shot at most anyone filing past that old dead drunk. So Longarm rose to his own imposing height and eased on over to give the little lady a hand, or in this case a foot.
'They got a separate hand pump manned by two choir-boys over at Fourteen Holy Martyrs,' he confided casually as he calmly sat down beside her to feel for the foot pedals with his longer legs. 'You just worry about the fingering of them fine chords and I'll keep the bellows full of air for 'em, ma'am. I answer to the handle of Custis Long and I ride for Marshal Billy Vail as a paid-up lawman, if you're worried about my innocent intentions.'
The plump little brunette of about twenty or so favored him with a shy little smile, allowed she was Prunelia Farnam, and agreed she'd been having a time reaching the low pedals and high keyboard at once. She proceeded to play far better, and a tad faster, when he started rubbing his right leg against her left one. But there was no way for him to move to his left without hanging half his ass in midair, while she had plenty of room on the rest of the bench if she cared to shift her own.
She didn't seem to want to. Longarm mostly kept his desperately casual gray eyes on the crowd to their left as he stroked away at her and the organ to his right. She seemed to be breathing sort of fast, even though he'd taken over the harder chore, as she played a familiar church tune he didn't know the words to.
Leastways, he didn't know the words they'd doubtless put down on paper to be sung on such solemn occasions. Like many a country boy before him, Longarm had grown up memorizing more scandalous words to otherwise tedious songs sung by tedious elders. He and a freckle-faced kid who'd been killed a few summers later at Malvern Hill had sure enjoyed singing 'Massa's in de cold, cold ground' as 'Mah ass is in de cold, cold ground' right in front of the gals with the teacher leading. He'd never rightly figured whether the gals had been fooled or not. Gals often giggled while singing whether there was a joke worth laughing at or not.
But the gal next to him wasn't playing the song about some dead slaveholder's funeral. As he pumped away Longarm tried and failed to come up with the right words, or even the title of this one. But all that popped into his head was:
'While the organ peeled potatoes, Lard was rendered by the choir. While the sextant wrang the dish cloth, Someone set the church on fire!'
The plump brunette bumped his longer, leaner leg with a plump thigh deliberately, as she giggled. 'Stop that! This is supposed to be a very solemn occasion and you mustn't make me laugh!'
So he tried not to. But the next thing he knew, as he was biting his own disrespectful tongue, he caught her mouthing the next verse under her breath. So it seemed only fair to sing along:
'Holy smoke, the preacher shouted. In the rush he lost his hair. Now his head resembles Heaven, For there is no parting there.'
She botched a note, poked him with an elbow, and warned him with mock severity that she'd stand him in a corner if he didn't cut that out. Then she switched to another dirge, and Longarm had to stifle a laugh. For the only words he knew to that one were from a really filthy parody.
He resisted the impulse, even though he suspected she knew full well how the sillier version went. Young gals had been just as silly as anyone else growing up back home in West-by-God-Virginia.
