Longarm explored the crevasses between his teeth with a probing tongue tip and excavated a tiny scrap of pork loin that had been driving him nuts ever since lunch. He spat it out and in celebration lighted a fresh cheroot to help settle what had turned out to be an uncommonly good meal.
Now if the rest of the day went so well …
The makeshift ball field was only four blocks west of the mercantile-cum-post office where Longarm had posted himself. He could hear sporadic cheers—no doubt when the home team managed something good—and from time to time thought he could even detect the sharp crack of a pitched ball meeting a billet of fast moving wood. He almost wished he could see the game. Of course games are for children. Everyone knows that. But he was finding the essentially silly spectacle rather enjoyable for all its childishness. Fun, even. He hadn’t expected that.
He heard—he was sure of it this time—an exceptionally loud crack swiftly followed by a roaring shout of approval from the several hundreds of people who’d shown up, and paid good money, to watch. Damn locals must’ve hit a homer. If they got one off Jason Hubbard, there would be some sulking and tantrums on the train tonight. Jason was a terrible loser and didn’t mind who knew it.
Longarm shifted position. He was perched on the flat of an upended nail keg that had been discarded in the alley that ran behind the mercantile building. Longarm had dragged it behind a screening Jump of tall weeds—the greenery was too ugly to have been deliberately planted, and anyway who would plant shrubbery in an alley—and was sitting there waiting.
It wasn’t a bad place, but the iron-bound rim of the keg was cutting into the cheeks of his ass and threatening to put his whole hind end to sleep. And he couldn’t stand upright and move around any because the weeds he was lurking behind weren’t tall enough. Couldn’t smoke here either lest that serve as a tell-all and give his position away. Just in case someone happened to be alert for signs of the law. Which he damn sure hoped would prove to be the case here.
He stifled a yawn.
Then came alert and bolt upright on the keg, the miseries in his butt forgotten as there was a flicker of movement down at the far end of the alley.
A hint of motion. Then nothing and then …
A scrawny white and tan bitch with her jugs hanging down to knee level came stepping into view and began sniffing through the alley trash in search of something edible.
Dammit.
Longarm shoved his Colt back into its holster—he hadn’t consciously thought to draw the gun but had it in hand just the same—and once more allowed himself to slouch into a more comfortable position atop the miserable damned keg. If only he could have himself a smoke …
Chapter 38
Longarm sprang to his feet as three—no, four now—dull reports marred the clamoring of the baseball crowd.
Gunshots. Two, then one, then a pause of several seconds and the fourth shot.
The sounds came from down the street to the west. From the ball field. Longarm was almost positive that was where the disturbance was. He scowled. Dammit. Dammit!
Here he sat defending the post office, and some son of a bitch was down the street holding up the ticket booth.
Longarm ran along the side of the mercantile and burst out onto the main street of Sorrel Branch just in time to see three horsemen riding low on the necks of their horses come sweeping toward him from the direction of the ball field.
There wasn’t a whole helluva lot of doubt that these were the boys he was interested in.
The flour sack masks they wore over their heads kinda gave them away. The sacks had red and black printing to advertise some brand of flour—Longarm was much too far away to read just what kind it was—and eye and mouth holes cut out. The masks were held in place by floppy hats jammed tight over them.
And the horsemen had revolvers in their hands.
They were riding fast but controlled and in fact seemed to be paying damned little attention to the street where Longarm had run into view.
At virtually the same time that he reached the street and saw them, the leader of the trio reached the cross street at the end of the block and turned to motion the others to follow as he reined his mount hard left into the side street.
Longarm had no time to aim and shoot before the last of them wheeled around the corner and out of sight. Cursing, Longarm started forward, then stopped again as the sound of flying hoofs once again seemed to be approaching.
But something did not seem right about it.
Then he realized. The riders were not on the next street over paralleling Main.
For some crazy reason the robbers were streaking through the alley behind the mercantile.
Longarm snarled and cursed his luck. If he’d stayed where he was to begin with they would have blundered right past him.
As it was, they were half a block away and …
About the time he figured out what the hell was happening the first of the men galloped past the narrow opening Longarm had just raced through to reach the street. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the first rider and close behind him each of the others as they ran their horses through the alley.
There was a booming of gunshots, the sounds trapped and reverberating between the buildings, as the men fired at something—Longarm couldn’t figure out what—back there in the alley.
He heard the shots and the tinkle of falling glass and then the hoofbeats faded as the riders reached the next
