Ignoring the horse, he paused for a moment to glance at his Colt. Just to make sure he hadn’t gone and stuffed the muzzle into a pile of fresh shit or something while he was busy wallowing around on the floor. Plugging up a gun barrel could ruin a man’s whole day.
Not that he would mind, particularly, if the asshole at the other end of the barn wanted to plug his barrels and give the triggers a yank. Longarm rather wished that he would.
By now George had had time to reload again.
Longarm debated diving over the top of the wall separating this stall from the next one down the line. But he didn’t see that that would accomplish much. Unfortunately, the walls between the stalls were solid. Only those facing onto the aisle had rails that a man could go under or through.
But then, to look on the bright side of things, it was the fact that he was behind a solid wall that was shielding him from good old George and his scattergun. You get a little, you give a little. And things could have been worse.
The way Longarm figured it, he had George trapped in that far end of the barn. George couldn’t get out any easier than Longarm could have gotten in at ground level. There were no windows down at that end of the building, and Longarm could see the tops of the sliding double doors. If one of them moved, Longarm would know right where to be aiming when he came busting out of the stall.
As for the hayloft, Longarm was between George and the ladder.
No, George had gone and trapped himself. There was no getting around that.
And time was definitely on Longarm’s side. Hell, he could afford to wait right where he was until Hell, as well as Kittstown, froze over if that was what it took.
After all, he was not the one who needed to get away.
“Care to give yourself up now?” Longarm called out. “It won’t be any easier later on, and you won’t have any more choices then than you do right now. Do this the easy way, why don’cha, and throw your guns out where I can see them, then step into the middle of the aisle there with your hands held out to your sides.”
Longarm expected some sort of answer from George. That was the polite thing to do.
Instead he heard not a word from down at that end of the barn, just a little stomping and whinnying from the occupants of the stalls down that way.
In another minute or so Longarm understood why it was that the natives were getting restless.
After a minute or so Longarm could smell the sharp and distinctive—and damn well ugly—odor of smoke beginning to fill the cold air inside the livery stable.
And if there was anything more to be feared inside a barn than fire, Longarm didn’t know what the hell it might be.
He cursed loudly and threw the stall door open, driving the paint horse out into the aisle in front of him.
Chapter 28
Longarm hunched his shoulders, expecting at any moment to hear—and to feel—the blast of a shotgun. But all he heard were the cries of terrified horses and mules and, not as loud but far more ominous, the intensifying crackle and roar of the fire.
He threw the front doors open, and the paint horse practically bowled him over as it rushed into the cold freedom outside.
Longarm regained his balance and dashed back to the row of stalls, throwing the latches and swinging doors open as rapidly as he could.
The animals were frightened, but not yet beyond reason. As soon as their way was clear they galloped for safety.
Longarm was halfway down the aisle, and had just released a pair of sleek mules into the open, when he realized that the double doors at the back of the barn were also open and that the first few sets of stalls there had been emptied.
Longarm could hardly believe it. That bastard George had struck him as a city sort through and through. Yet after setting a disastrous fire, the bastard had taken time to free the animals at that end of the barn before making his own escape. That was not the sort of thing Longarm would have expected from him. But then nerve enough to come hunting for a federal peace officer was not really behavior Longarm would have expected out of George either.
George. Was that his right name? Or was it Harry. The miserable blowhard was such an ineffectual piece of shit that Longarm couldn’t remember which was the man’s name and which was the moniker Longarm had been ragging him with. Not that it mattered. Not while he was standing inside a barn that all of a sudden had turned into a raging conflagration.
The last of the animals were out, and it was damn sure time for Longarm to turn tail as well. The fire had reached the dry hay piled thick in the loft overhead, and at this point there wasn’t a prayer that the barn or any part of it could be saved.
Now the concern would have to be for all the structures downwind of the livery.
If those caught fire, a quarter, maybe a third of Kittstown could be lost.
Longarm spun on his heels and raced out of the barn scant seconds behind the last mule. George had gone out the other end. There was no point in looking for him now.
Besides, as long as this storm lasted there was no way George could leave town. Longarm would be able to find him when he really wanted the asshole.
Now the idea was to keep the livery fire from enveloping the adjacent city blocks.
Longarm was relieved to see that some of the townspeople were already alerted to the danger. Men and boys and even a few women were already on the street carrying blankets and brooms and shovels, anything at hand that they could use to beat out wind-borne embers or dowse them with snow to keep new fires from starting.
