Longarm and the Missing Husband by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-12-08T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 33

“My woman there,” Trydon said over the bottle of cheap whiskey, “she’s a pretty good fuck. You can have her for a dollar.”

“That’s nice o’ you. Let me think about it.”

“Take your time. She ain’t going nowhere and there’s no other passengers staying the night.” Trydon tipped the bottle back and took a healthy slug of the raw whiskey, which almost certainly was not the bourbon the label claimed it to be.

Longarm accepted the man’s offer—of the whiskey, not the woman—and had another drink himself. The first drink had been fiery, the second a little raw, this third drink went down smooth and nice. “Now that’s good liquor,” Longarm said, almost meaning it.

“Finish it if you like. I’ve had enough. What did you decide about the squaw?” Trydon said.

“Maybe later.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re fucking the little widow woman.”

“You think she’s a widow?” Longarm asked.

“I’m thinking exactly the same as you are. Man disappears in this country, it usually means one thing and that’s that he’s dead. It happens. The Indians are mostly tame but there’s bronchos among them. You know that as well as I do. Then there’s bad horses that can fall and bust a man up, bad water that will twist his guts into knots, bad critters of one sort or another that can tear him apart and eat whatever’s left over.

“No, this is hard country up here, Marshal, not like the soft city living down in Denver and such. My thought and I’m sure yours, too, is that the little lady is a widow.” Trydon winked. “And you know what they say about widows. Once they get used to having it regular, why, there’s no need to keep their legs together any longer. They come to like a good fuck as well as anyone.”

“That’s what they say, all right.”

“Are you tapping that?” Trydon asked over the neck of the whiskey bottle.

Longarm shook his head. “Wish I was, but no, I ain’t.”

“Give her a little time. Once she gets used to the idea of being a widow, she’ll spread ’em for you,” Trydon said with a nod to affirm his own wisdom.

Longarm retrieved the bottle. The more he had of the stuff, the better it tasted. Right then it was about the finest whiskey he’d ever had. And it wasn’t even rye.

“Meantime,” Trydon said, “there’s the Indian. Hell, for you, as good a fellow as you are, I’ll knock her price down to fifty cents.” He laughed. “On tick if you don’t have the wherewithal on you. I know you’d be good for it.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” Longarm said.

“No hurry about the woman, but hand the bottle back, will you?” The stationmaster laughed again and took a drink that nearly drained the bottle. “Don’t worry,” he said, returning it to Longarm. “I’ve got more where that one came from.”

When finally they staggered off to bed, Longarm’s head was spinning. But that had been awfully fine whiskey. The best.

He fell asleep thinking about Bethlehem Bacon’s nicely rounded ass.

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