“He’s a gunman, all right. Shouldn’t be hard to find unless he’s already cut and run.”
“Where does he hang out at?”
“The Champion Saloon.”
“I know where it’s at,” Longarm said.
“If you go in there, you’d better keep that gun in your hand, because there are a lot of rough men in there,” the doctor warned. “Jack Ramey is just one of the professionals, but he isn’t even the worst of the lot.”
“Who do they work for?”
“Whoever is willing to pay ‘em the best money,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes they just ride out for a month or two and when they come back, they’re usually flush. I expect they rob stagecoaches, banks, and anyone that looks like they got a few dollars on their person.”
Longarm knew the type well. He moved over to the body of Hec Ward. The man had been shot at least four times, mostly in the back. He was still in a kneeling position, head pressed to the bars, hand and hook circling them. It was a pathetic sight and a miserable way for such a tough and dangerous man to die.
“Almost looks like he’d found the Lord as he was dying, don’t it?” someone said.
“No,” Longarm answered, “it just looks to me like Hec Ward was trying to rip the bars out of the floor and run away.”
“He was a hard man hisself.”
“Yeah,” Longarm said, unclenching Ward’s hand and then removing his hook from the bars. When he rolled the deputy over, he could see that Ward had bitten through his own tongue in fear or in pain. The man’s mouth was filled with congealing blood, and the sight was so grisly that Longarm suddenly looked away.
“I think,” Dr. Blake said, “I’ve seen about all the carnage I can stand for one day.”
Longarm felt the same, but headed for the Champion Saloon anyway.
Chapter 13
Longarm was in a dangerous mood as he marched up the street, eyes riveted straight ahead. He doubted that Ramey or his friends would be expecting trouble because it seemed impossible that anyone could have survived even a few minutes in that jail cell. In all probability, Jack Ramey was convinced that he had assassinated Marshal Kane and his deputy without being seen and that he would never be held accountable for his bloody and murderous deed.
Four doors down from the Champion Saloon, Longarm halted on the boardwalk and turned to look inside a gunsmith’s shop. The owner was staring at him, obviously sensing trouble.
“Do you know Jack Ramey?” Longarm asked, stepping just inside the shop.
“Maybe.”
The gunsmith was in his forties, a hard-bitten fellow with a deep saber or knife scar etched across his right cheek. He was also missing a couple of fingers. The stub of an unlit nickel cigar protruded from his yellow teeth, and he cradled an old .36-caliber Navy Colt in his hands.
“Maybe you’d better start remembering so you can tell me what he looks like,” Longarm said, his patience shot.
“I don’t want any part of trouble,” the gunsmith said. “I do a lot of work for them boys.”
Longarm’s composure snapped for an instant. He jumped inside the shop, grabbed the gunsmith with his left hand, and at the same time drove the heel of his right palm into the stub of the cheap cigar, ramming it deep into the man’s throat.
The gunsmith, who had attempted to raise his weapon, suddenly gagged, his eyes bulging and his cheeks blowing outward. Longarm propelled the man backward until he slammed him into a work bench, bending his spine.
“Listen,” Longarm said as the man struggled for air with terror flooding his eyes, “I’m in no mood for pleasantries. Now you can swallow that cheap stoggie, suffocate on it, or spit it out, but unless you die, you’re going to cooperate. Is that clearly understood?”
The gunsmith nodded. Longarm spun him around, slammed his face down on the bench, and sledgehammered him between the shoulder blades with his closed fist. The cigar appeared, and it took the gunsmith several moments to refill his lungs. By then, his eyes were full of tears and he’d completely lost any remnant of his earlier belligerence.
“A good description of Jack Ramey,” Longarm ordered, jerking the man to his toes.
“A drink!” the gunsmith wheezed, pointing to a bottle of whiskey resting beside his bench.
Longarm retrieved the whiskey and allowed the man a drink. The man was very shaken and needed no further inducement to talk.
“Jack Ramey is short and ugly.”
“How short and how ugly?”
“About five-seven with a big, crooked nose and two missing front teeth.”
“Upper?”
The gunsmith nodded. “He likes to wear silk bandannas and red is his favorite color.”
“How old is the man?”
“About your age.”
“Does he pack a hideout?”
