on the edge of the chair.
It was a cane-bottomed chair, so he couldn’t use the middle. But the back and the frame were made out of the same tough mountain cedar as the post, and he figured it would stand the strain. Holding on to the post with both hands, he positioned his right foot on the right-hand edge of the chair and slowly stepped up, putting his left boot on the other side of the seat. He was moving cautiously so as not to dislodge the blanket over his shoulder.
As he stood up slowly he felt his back and shoulder come into contact with the roof beam with his body still not straight. He calculated that, if he could and if the chair didn’t break, he ought to be able to raise the roof at least two or three inches. If he had the strength.
But at least he’d be using his biggest muscles, in his back and in his legs.
He gave himself a moment to get positioned, feeling around for the most comfortable position for his shoulder against the beam. He moved his boots around, trying to get them as near the legs as possible. He figured he had about one try. The chair could break and give way, he could hurt himself trying to lift such a load, or the nails in the roof could give. If any of those events happened he was finished.
When he was ready, he took hold of the post with both his hands, bent his knees as he slowly straightened his body, and made firm contact with the beam across his shoulder and the top of his back. He closed his eyes and concentrated all his attention into straightening his legs. If the roof cleared the post by a fraction of an inch he would whip his hands up and pull the chain through the opening.
He put a strain on his legs, letting it gradually run up his body to his shoulder. Nothing moved. It felt like he was pushing against solid rock. He willed his legs to push harder. And then harder still.
He heard the chair creak alarmingly. Still there was no movement. He could feel the sweat pop out all over his face. His teeth were gritted so hard they must surely crack. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. Still he pushed harder. The chair gave an agonizing shriek as if it were being tortured. His feet felt as if they were going flat in his boots.
The roof moved.
It was very slight, but he had felt it give a little. He summoned every last desperate ounce of strength he had. The roof moved slightly more. His eyes were squinted so that he couldn’t quite see the separation between the post and the beam. With a last gasp he surged upwards against the roof in a desperate attempt to be free.
He suddenly felt pressure against the chain. The post was starting to fall outwards. If he didn’t quickly get his hands up and pull the chain through, the post would fall outward but stay hung against his chain, and then, for added trouble, the roof would fall on him as he tried to get down.
With his body starting to fail, with his legs trembling, with his neck and back screaming with pain, he made one swift, desperate move, through some kind of opening. He couldn’t see it. His eyes felt as if they were filled with blood. And then part of the chair broke with a loud crack and the next thing Longarm knew he was falling backwards. As he fell he saw the porch roof following him. He tried, desperately, in midair, to turn so that he wouldn’t land full on his back. But then he hit; the breath jolted out of his lungs as he landed hard. Before he went unconscious as his head hit the hard dirt of the porch floor, he had a view of the porch roof continuing to descend, threatening to drop a ton of wood and tin and nails and dust on top of his aching, challenged body.
Chapter 9
How long he was out, he had no idea. All he knew was that he came to with a splitting headache and the sight of the right half of the porch roof hanging down within a yard of the ground. The post that had formerly held it up was lying out in the yard where it had fallen.
For a long few moments he lay still without moving, trying to feel his body, wondering if anything was broken. This was no country to break a leg or a hip or anything else that would leave you unable to mount a horse, much less catch one and saddle it.
He gazed along the length of his body and saw his bottle of whiskey lying overturned. So was the coffeepot. Further on, the chair lay on its side. The right leg appeared to have broken at a knot halfway down its length. He thought, inanely, that he was getting good at making three-legged chairs. He’d been in two line cabins and he’d made three-legged chairs out of all the available furniture. Come fall, the returning line riders were going to wonder who’d been assaulting their sitting material.
The roof gave a groan and seemed to settle a little more. It brought Longarm alert. Ignoring his body’s aches and complaints, he quickly reached in and grabbed his coffeepot and cup and the bottle of whiskey, and then scuttled backwards into the doorway of the cabin. Surprisingly enough, the blanket was still on his shoulder, though it was now draped like a serape. He knew he hurt, but he wouldn’t let his mind think about it. He uncorked the whiskey and had a long, medicinal pull. He gasped when he took the bottle away from his mouth. He didn’t normally take that much down at a time, but he knew he was going to need it to oil up his joints and shoulder and back, which he was pretty sure was broken.
He looked down at the manacles on his wrists. If he had to he could operate while wearing them, but he was hopeful that the key in his canvas jacket pocket would unlock them. If not, he’d have to find a town with a blacksmith and get the smith to just cut the chain. It would be inconvenient, but he could do his work.
He sat there. He felt a swelling desire to get on Shaw’s trail, take after him while the scent was still hot, but he couldn’t make himself move. He looked up at the porch roof. Fully half of it was now drooping down, the right corner no more than a foot off the ground. He was amazed at what he had lifted. Individually the parts didn’t weigh much, but connected, they came to a sizeable amount. He shook his head and shuddered, very glad to be free from the post. He didn’t stop to think what he would have done if he hadn’t gotten loose. He didn’t want to think about that. As near as he could tell, the remote cabin wasn’t on the way to anywhere, and he could have been there until he cured in the sun. Shaw had said he would telegraph back to a sheriff, but whether he would have or not was open to question. As was whether or not some sheriff would have ridden fifty miles on the dubious validity of a telegram.
He was about to get up, dreading it, when he happened to glance down at the right side of his right boot. It had split. Where the leather of the boot was sewn to the sole, the stitching had broken. He could see little tufts of it sticking up from his sole. He could wiggle his right toe and see it move through the split. “Damn!” he said aloud.
There was nothing for it but to get up and see if the key fit. If it didn’t, then it was saddle a horse and take off with his hands a foot apart. He rolled over and came to his feet. For a second he swayed and little white spots danced in front of his eyes. He stayed still, willing all the parts of his body to take control. After a second the dizziness passed. He took a step and felt like his hips were breaking.
“Damn!” he said aloud, driving the word through his gritted teeth.
