“Rye again?” the barman asked.
Longarm nodded and laid a quarter on the bar. The bartender poured a pair of drinks—from the good but not quite absolutely marvelous bottle, Longarm noted—and turned away without comment.
“Hey! Longarm. Over here.”
The quartet of friendly cowboys was at a table dealing cards. One of them, it took him a moment to bring the names back to mind, waved and motioned for him to join them.
“I’m in,” Longarm responded. He knocked back his first drink and carried the second with him to the table. The whiskey was warm and welcome as it spread through his belly.
The young fellow who’d called out to him, Jason he was, reached around and dragged a fifth chair between his place and that of Ronnie Gordon. “Sit down, Marshal. The game is straight draw poker. Nothing wild and nothing fancy. Nickel to ante, and I happen to notice that you’re light.”
Longarm grinned and dug into a pocket to find whatever loose change he had on him. He pushed a nickel into the center of the table and leaned back, relaxed and quite content now with cards in one hand, a cheroot in the other, and a shot of rye nesting in his belly.
“Shit!” Longarm barked. He folded his cards and tossed them down.
“You haven’t even looked at those yet.”
“Huh? Oh. That ain’t what I’m bitching about. Deal around me, boys. I’ll be right back.” Longarm stood, his legs feeling cramped after an hour or so sitting in one place. He felt a tightness at the nape of his neck and a swelling across his shoulders. Across the way, just coming inside, was that asshole George and the scrawny pal who ran with him. Longarm figured them for a pair of genuine sons of bitches.
He crossed the room in long strides and met George as the man was unbuttoning his coat.
“You,” George snarled when he saw Longarm approach. “I ought to-“
He did not have time to finish the sentence, whatever it might have been.
Longarm’s hand shot forward, locking onto George’s neck immediately under the shelf of the man’s jaw. Instead of squeezing, Longarm pushed. And lifted. He drove George back against the wall and up several inches so that he was held suspended just off the floor, dangling in place with the heels of his shoes drumming against the cold boards of the street-side wall.
“Ack … ish … awk …” George choked and sputtered and gagged, but could not get any words out.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Longarm snapped. “Shut up and listen close, you bag of puke.” He reached inside his own coat and yanked out his wallet, snapping it open with a flick of his wrist so that he could push his badge hard against the bridge of George’s nose. “You see this, little man? Do you?”
George couldn’t speak, but he managed a nod.
“Assault on a federal officer is a federal crime. You mess with me, Harry, and I’ll have your ass in Leavenworth Prison for the next five years. Do you understand me? Do you hear what I’m telling you?”
George nodded again.
“You, your buddy there, some piece of shit you decide to hire, any or all of you come at me, Harry, and it’s you that I’ll put in irons and drag off for prosecution. You got that now? Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
George nodded. He was getting better at it with practice.
“I hope so, because one more incident, anything at all, and your butt is mine. You got that?” The guy was turning purple. Longarm let him slide down the wall far enough that he was able to take his weight on his own feet. “You got that, Harry?”
“Y-yes, sir. But I didn’t do anything. I swear to you, never-“
Longarm tightened his grip on George’s neck, squeezing enough with his thumb to cut off the circulation of blood to the man’s head. “When I want to hear your lies I’ll ask for some. Until then you keep your mouth shut. Understand me?”
George nodded. That was not only easier than speaking, it seemed safer as well with the mood Longarm was in at the moment.
“Where’s your gun?” Longarm demanded.
“H … h …” Longarm relaxed his grip a little. “Hotel,” George said. “In my room. Didn’t … didn’t want any trouble again. I left it in my room.”
Longarm grunted and felt the man’s coat pockets, then around his waistband. He did not seem to be carrying the pistol.
“You’re lucky, Harry. You got your warning. Next time I’ll either take you into custody or just up and shoot you. Do you hear me?”
“Next time? But I didn’t-” Longarm squeezed. George shut up.
“Remember what I told you. Any more shit outa you and the best you can hope for is five years behind bars. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to live so long. Now get the hell out of here. I don’t want to have to wonder what you’re doing behind my back.”
Longarm let go of the thoroughly frightened fellow. George turned and scuttled out of the saloon without so much as pausing to button his coat shut again.
George’s friend gave Longarm a dirty look, but did not try to follow the thoughts with any actions. After a moment he too turned and made a quick exit.
Longarm wound up feeling growly as a bear just coming out of hibernation. He went over to the bar and helped himself to a pickled egg and some cheese off the free lunch spread, paid for a round of beers to be delivered to the table where his place was still waiting, and spent a few moments alone so that he could calm down before he got back to the game.
