Longarm and the Gunshot Gang by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Chapter 9

Longarm had a couple of drinks, then wandered outside and sat down in a rickety old chair that faced the street. Gunshot didn’t have a boardwalk or any porches, but the chair was in the shade and, since he had no idea what he was to do or what was expected of him, he figured he might as well relax and watch the town’s limited activity.

There wasn’t much to watch, really. A few riders came and went, and Longarm counted three saloons along with the usual shops. The difference between Gunshot and a normal town was that he didn’t see any women or children. Just men, and most of them looked as if they’d slit a man’s throat for a nickel.

Longarm tipped the flat brim of his hat down low over his eyes, but not so low that he couldn’t see things. He also used an empty chair beside him as a footstool. The arrangement proved so comfortable that he fell asleep after a while and didn’t awaken until a voice asked, “Hey, are you gettin’ hungry?”

Longarm snapped awake and tipped the brim of his snuff-colored hat back. He looked up to see Trace Hall watching him closely.

“As a matter of fact I am,” Longarm, said, realizing that the sun was almost ready to set on the horizon. “I haven’t eaten a good meal for weeks.”

“Well, you’re about to have one now.” Trace said, looking friendlier than he had earlier. “Come on, and let’s have a steak and some whiskey. I like to get to know the kind of men who visit Gunshot. Sometimes I let them stay and sometimes I don’t. But everyone has to bring in their little contribution. You brought yours, but that doesn’t mean you can stay as long as you wish.”

“If you don’t want me here,” Longarm told the man, “just say so and I’ll be on my way. I was thinking that I might like to see California.”

Trace stopped and turned. He was about four inches shorter than Longarm and some thirty pounds lighter, but he somehow seemed bigger than his actual size. The man had a fixed gaze and a commanding presence that could not be ignored. Longarm had the strong impression that he was arrogant and fearless.

“California is overrated. Are you any good with that gun on your hip?” Trace asked.

“I’ve seen worse.”

Trace reached up with a forefinger and stroked the waxed tip of his mustache. Then he looked around and spotted a big mongrel ambling down the street. “You told me that your name was Custis Long, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Custis, why don’t you show me how fast you can draw iron and shoot that dog.”

Longarm studied the dog. “I like animals,” he said. “And they like me. Why don’t we let him go about his own business?”

“Why?” Trace asked. “Because I don’t like that particular dog. You see that big banner of a tail he waves?”

“Yep.”

“I’m going to shoot it off. Want to bet me five dollars I can’t?”

Longarm

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