Longarm and the Killer Couple by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Martha’s Café was just across the street. Georgia Cooper’s boardinghouse was a fifteen-minute walk to the south end of town.

Longarm smiled. And began walking.

He was half a block away when he heard screams coming through the open windows of the lady’s house. He broke into a run, Colt in hand.

Longarm practically tore the front gate off its hinges and took the steps onto the porch at a single bound. He ran inside to find two men mauling Georgia, one holding her down while the other slapped and punched her. That one had his hand beneath the hem of her dress and appeared to be trying to drag her pantaloons down.

Naughty, naughty by Longarm’s lights.

He reached the one on top of Georgia without breaking stride and turned his run into a kick that carried all of his weight on the toe of his black cavalry boot.

The kick crashed into the bastard’s nuts. He screamed and passed out from the sudden, unexpected pain, collapsing full length onto Georgia.

The second man was scuttling sideways toward the protection of Georgia’s sofa. He threw himself over the back of the furniture and dropped behind it.

Longarm ignored him for the moment and dropped down to kneel at Georgia’s side. “Are you all right?”

That was a silly question, he supposed. Hell no, she was not “all right.” Her complexion was mottled red where she had been hit. Those areas would likely turn purple and plum with bruising in another day or two. Her hair was in wild disarray and her bodice was torn where one—or both—of her assailants had been pawing at her tits.

“Yes, now that you are here. I . . .”

She did not have time to finish the sentence. Her eyes went wide in renewed alarm.

Longarm swiveled in the direction she was looking. The second man had reappeared above the back of her sofa, and this time he had a gun in his hand.

Longarm was still holding the .45 Colt he’d had in hand when he burst into the parlor.

He pointed it without conscious thought, finger squeezing even as the sights came in line.

He squeezed and . . . nothing.

He looked at his own revolver, aghast, and remembered too late that his own tried-and-true double-action .45 was in the possession of the man who murdered Charlie Cade. Or of the treacherous bitch who took it from him that night on the stagecoach.

In the meantime the would-be rapist was not politely waiting for Longarm to figure out just what gun he had in his hand. Georgia’s assailant fired, the gunshot loud in the close confines of her parlor.

Longarm heard the bullet from the man’s gun sizzle past his right ear so close he could feel, or imagine that he could feel, the wind from its passage.

That was more time than the man had any right to. Once Longarm had been reminded that he was holding a single-action revolver, he quickly thumbed the hammer back and again squeezed the trigger.

The man’s head snapped suddenly backward and

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