LONGARM AND THE GRAND SLAM HEIST
By Tabor Evans
Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1996 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 0-515-11861-3
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A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Printing history Jove edition / May 1996
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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Chapter 1
Lordy but this heat was awful, the worst Longarm could remember in … hell, it was just plain the worst he could remember. Period.
Looking down Colfax Avenue toward the gold-domed state capitol building he could actually see the shimmering rise of heat off the cobblestones of the paving.
There hadn’t been any rain in weeks, maybe months. He supposed there was someone who kept track of such things. The thing he knew for sure on the subject was that it had been a helluva long while.
Still and all, there was relief in sight.
The service of routine subpoenas is something anyone is capable of doing and usually is a chore to be avoided. It is dreary, uneventful, and entirely uninteresting work.
But right now it sounded mighty attractive to United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long.
And just as quick as he got to the office this morning he intended to exercise his privileges as the senior deputy—well, at least the most senior one in town at this particular moment in time—to nab the job of serving papers in the matter of the Department of Justice versus John J. Bidwell. Not that the case itself was all that interesting. Not hardly.
The United States v. Bidwell—according to what little Longarm knew of it—had to do with the alleged infringement of right and title to a mining claim. It was all technical as hell and about as dull as the law was capable of getting.
Which, in fact, was pretty damned dull.
The reason Longarm wanted the assignment had nothing to do with the case itself. It was the fact that all the witnesses and participants were in Leadville, up near the headwaters of the Arkansas River. And that meant those folks all lived at something like eleven thousand feet of elevation.
Down here in Denver, at a mere mile above sea level, the heat was unbearable. But up in the high country they hadn’t ever seen a hot summer day. Longarm’s own personal experience was that a fella could damn near freeze his nuts off if he forgot his coat on an August evening. He’d seen snow there the last week of July once and knew for a fact that the residents claimed it was impossible to get garden plants to bear because of the cold nights even through the summer months.
The highest temperature he’d heard of in the town was something in the upper 70s, and the high 60s or low 70s were common summer afternoon highs.
Yeah, Leadville sounded like just about the best place he could think of right now. And if some other deputy thought he was gonna pull that plum out of the pot and claim it for himself, well, Longarm would just jolly well pull rank. He’d had enough of this heat for one lifetime, thank you.
He reached the front steps of the granite-walled Federal Building and mounted them, grateful for the shade indoors and the resulting impression—not necessarily accurate—of coolness that accompanied the darker surroundings.
He passed a gaggle of twittering schoolgirls in the hallway. And couldn’t help but smile—carefully though so they couldn’t see—when after he’d passed he overheard one of them make a sound like she was fixing to swoon, that being quickly followed by a bunch of giggling and laughing. Well, he took it as a compliment anyway and walked just a little taller.
Not that he had any interest in a bunch of high school-age children. After all, little fish belong in the pond until they’re big enough to eat. But a fellow couldn’t help but be pleased when a total stranger offered a mite of admiration.
Longarm couldn’t see the attraction himself. Hell, he was just another male. A little taller than most, perhaps, with broad shoulders and a horseman’s narrow-hipped build. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a large but tidy sweep of dark brown mustache.
He wore a flat-crowned brown Stetson hat, corduroy trousers tucked into black stovepipe cavalry boots, and, despite the weather, a lightweight coat. His customary vest had been discarded, however, until the damned
