Longarm and the Kansas Killer by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans [Evans, Tabor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Westerns, Fiction
ISBN: 9780515116816
Google: YAxsQgAACAAJ
Publisher: Jove Books
Published: 1995-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Longarm collected some odd looks as he strode up to the town hall with his Winchester muzzle aimed politely at the planking. he figured it was likely because of his mustache. He’d noticed most of the homesteading Mennonites wore full beards, Abe Lincoln beards, or shave their whole face. Mennonite gals must have disliked whiskery kisses as much as Mexican gals admired them. He noticed it was the younger and more likely single locals who shaved and got regular haircuts. At the rate they were going those total furriners would be passing for real Americans in no time, and folks would think names like Taft, Treumann, or Welk had always gone with these parts.

When he got to Wemer Sattler’s office, a kid deputy told Longarm the town law was still out trying to separate the sheep from the goats. He said they were holding a couple of drifters back in their one patent cell, but doubted either one had pegged a shot at anyone in recent memory.

Longarm said he’d be over at that saloon with the unpronounceable name when and if Sattler wanted him. The kid deputy laughed and said Gansenblumchen just meant Daisy. Longarm was too polite to ask why they had to use such long words for every fool thing.

Once he got there, the Gansenblumchen turned out to be a beer garden as well as a saloon. You drank inside when the sun was blazing down hard at the tables and chairs set up under cottonwoods and paper lanterns out back.

As his eyes adjusted to the sudden shade inside, Longarm saw the taproom was better than half empty. That made sense in mid-afternoon on a working day. He figured the mostly older gents nursing mostly beer were in town with a crop in the fields and a woman interested in some pokey shopping. Many a saloon would have no call to open during business hours if women shopped like men and just got it over with.

As he bellied up to the bar, he took out his pocket watch to check it against the ornate wall clock above the back bar. If they were right he was running a tad slow. When he wore his three-piece suit around the Denver Federal Building, his watch and pocket derringer rode in separate vest pockets on the same gilt chain. Having everything jumbled together in one breast pocket of a charro-length denim jacket couldn’t be doing his old timepiece a whole lot of good.

A well-fed barmaid with her auburn hair pulled up into a considerable bun came down his way with an easygoing smile to ask, “Was willst du, Kuhhirt?”

Longarm smiled uncertainly and replied, “If you’re asking what I want, I’d sure like a stein of beer, ma’am.”

She seemed to think that was funny as hell. But she poured him a pint of cool draft as she said she hadn’t thought he was from around Sappa Crossing. He didn’t say just who he might be or where he might hail from.

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