LONGARM AND THE WYOMING WILDWOMEN
By: Tabor Evans
Synopsis:
A quiet glass of suds in his favorite saloon seems like heaven to Longarm. But heaven turns to hell when a harmless-looking lady walks in and guns down the drifter sitting next to him, claimin' she's got the authority to execute her own shoot-to-kill brand of justice! Now Longarm has to track down this self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner. Problem is, she ain't the only wild woman on the loose. Each and every lady Longarm meets seems to be just as wild and just as pretty. Pretty deadly that is. 230th novel in the 'Longarm' series, 1998.
CHAPTER 1
U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long of the Denver District Court kept up on Wanted fliers, and there were not that many wanted men with flaming red hair worn shoulder length. But Rusty Mansfield had no federal warrants out on him as he sashayed in off the sun-baked street out front and Longarm, as he was better known there in the Parthenon Saloon, was salting a boiled egg to wash on down with cool suds after a long midsummer morn on courtroom duty over at the nearby federal building.
Rusty Mansfield had dared to hire a room at the Tremont House and swagger over to the Parthenon for some of their higher priced chilled beer and better than average free lunch because the murder warrant out on him had been distinctly issued in Wyoming Territory to begin with and, after that, he'd used part of the proceedings from that robbery to buy a whole new seersucker suit and expensive derby. So the man who'd stopped that stage and shot that sort of elderly passenger who'd been slow about producing his damned wealth wasn't much worried about anything but that new barmaid with a mop of red hair to outshout his own as he allowed he'd have bourbon and branch water with his pickled pigs feet on rye.
The redheaded killer made his own sandwich as the gal behind the mahogany built his drink. When he asked Longarm to pass the mustard, he got it, even though he hadn't said please. Life was too short to argue with women or assholes who tried to get anywhere with the same in places like the Parthenon during the noon rush.
The asshole smearing mustard on his pickled pigs feet was telling the barmaid she reminded him of a long- lost friendly she-cousin who'd liked to play doctor in the hayloft, back home in 'bama when, from out of the sun- dazzle into the smoke-filled shade stepped what surely had to be somebody's she-cousin. But she didn't look friendly as all eyes in the Parthenon swung her way in bemused admiration.
For she was sort of country and mighty pretty in her summer frock of floral print calico. A bitty straw boater perched atop her upswept taffy hair. A buscadero gun belt road low around her trim hips. The Navy Colt Conversion that should have been in that underslung holster was in her dainty right hand as she stepped inside in line with Longarm at the free lunch counter to demand, in a high pitched but determined manner, 'Which one of you redheaded gentlemen checked into the Tremont House last night as a Mister Thomas Thumb?'
Longarm had forgotten Pop Wetzel, the swamper, and that stockyard foreman they called Quirt had red hair. The mustard-grubber next to him answered, easily, 'I signed in under an assumed name in the hopes I'd meet up with someone like you, pretty lady. My wife can be such an old fuss when I-'
That was as far as he got. The pretty lady in calico simply swung the muzzle of her.36-caliber Colt up until it was pointing point-blank at the front of Rusty Mansfield's new ruffled shirt and let him have it, close enough to set said shirt on fire.
Nobody landed on his back as limp as a fresh-dropped cow pat if there was a lick of life left in him. But as he sprawled at their feet on fire the pretty lady was thumbing the hammer of her single-action.36 as if she thought he needed more killing.
So Longarm's big left fist swooped down to grip the cylinder of her six-gun and keep it from turning as he poured his beer over the flaming shirt of the dead man, soothing, 'You won and there's no need to make a worse mess, ma'am.'
She tried in vain to wrest her six-gun from his grip before she stamped a high-buttoned foot and protested, 'Give me back my gun if you know what's good for you, cowboy! For I'd be Deputy Sheriff Ida Weaver of Keller's Crossing in Wyoming Territory and that villain down yonder was wanted dead or alive!'
Longarm grimaced down at the smoldering remains oozing piss and blood into the sawdust spread for just such spills and decided, 'I saw you kill him. We can worry about abuse of authority after you show me your badge and warrant, ma'am. I ain't just acting nosy. I am the senior lawman present, and I'll just hand this.36 across the bar for safekeeping whilst I show you my own badge and warrant.'
As he gave the gun to the redheaded barmaid and reached under his frock coat, the deadly little thing who claimed to be Deputy Ida Weaver muttered awful things about Longarm's manners as she dug into the sporran-like leather purse attached to the other side of her low-slung gun belt.
He'd just examined her mail-order badge and arrest warrant when the blue-clad form of the burly Sergeant Nolan, Denver P.D., charged in with his own gun drawn to tell one and all to freeze.
Then he recognized Longarm looming above the body he'd just been told about. He lowered his six-gun to ask, 'What was he wanted for, old pard?'
Longarm soberly replied, 'We're still working on that. I didn't want anything in here but some free lunch. This young lady in calico shot him. She claims she's the law from Keller's Crossing. All I know is what I saw, and she sure as certain cleaned his plow for him.'
Sergeant Nolan smiled uncertainly at the vision in calico to ask, 'Keller's Crossing, ma'am? No offense, but I don't recall any such a township in the Centennial State of Colorado.'
She dimpled mighty innocent for a gal who could gun any man in such a premeditated manner and replied, 'Not Colorado, silly. Up north of Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory. This villain I just caught up with was wanted for murder and highway robbery up yonder.'
By this time Longarm had gone over the tin badge and the sort of court order she'd handed him without a hint of shame. He gave them back to her, for the time being, as he told her, 'I've seen way better badges advertised in the Police Gazette and a first-year law student who prepared an arrest warrant that casually worded would surely get a failing grade. But I reckon that goes with allowing the citizens of a republic to elect their own judges. Meanwhile, I asked to see your own peace officer's warrant, like the one I carry, allowing I'm sworn in and authorized to act as a U.S. Deputy Marshal.'
She looked sincerely puzzled as she told him, 'I don't know what you're talking about. Undersheriff Rita swore me in as a deputy with my hand on the Good Book and Judge Edith allowed her own warrant for the arrest of Rusty Mansfield, there, was all I'd need when I caught up with the man who shot my poor old Uncle Dan'l.
Longarm and Sergeant Nolan exchanged thoughtful glances. Nolan was first to say, 'Faith, I know Wyoming Territory gave the vote to the women when they carved themselves out of Indian Country back in sixty-nine but don't this sound a little thick and all?'
Longarm tried to sound less sure of himself as he turned to the self-styled deputy sheriff to ask, 'Are you saying this man you just gunned in cold blood was a personal enemy before a lady undersheriff deputized you, right informal, to serve that arrest warrant made out by a lady J.P. who should have known better, across a state line?'
Ida Weaver nodded sort of smug and told him, 'They both agreed a woman with a good motive for bringing that brute to justice might do a better job than any man merely out for the bounty.'
'What bounty?' asked Longarm, adding, 'There was nothing in that tersely worded scribble about any reward money posted on that poor mess on the floor.'
Longarm turned to Sergeant Nolan to grumble, 'Her so-called arrest warrant was made out by somebody signing E. P. Keller, J.P., authorizing the bearer to track down and bring back one Rusty Mansfield, true name unknown, dead or alive on unspecified charges of highway robbery and murder most foul.'
Sergeant Nolan stared thoughtfully at the smug little gal from north of the U.P. tracks to marvel, 'And did they, now? This would be the first I've ever heard of a justice of the peace having such grand powers, and while I've seen reward posters offering bounties dead or alive, I've yet to see any arrest warrant worded to read that way!'
Longarm nodded and said, 'I'd be proud to write you up for an assist if you'd see about getting this possible interstate-want over to the morgue for now, Nolan. It ain't that I'm too lazy. But I somehow feel my superiors over
