Longarm and the Palo Duro Monster by Tabor Evans

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

Chapter 9

Longarm stepped from Marshal Talbot Butterworth’s office, then stopped beneath the shade-giving portico that covered the jail’s front door. He leaned against one of the porch pillars, lit a cheroot, and gave Mesquite’s main thoroughfare a leisurely going-over.

Amos Black eased up to Longarm’s side and said, “Don’t know ’bout you, Long, but I could use a drink. Great time a day for a glass of panther sweat. One ’bout as potent as liquid gunpowder might do the trick. Then again, hot as it is out here, even though the sun’s on its way down, a glass of cold beer might be even better.”

“Take it you didn’t care for what Marshal Butterworth had to tell us in there just now.”

Black snatched off a hat the size of a midget’s washtub, then wiped his sweat-covered forehead with a blue bandanna. As he swabbed out the hat’s soaked interior leather band, he said, “You just about take it right. Have to admit, there’s somethin’ ’bout sittin’ ’round chewin’ the fat over the possibility of folks cookin’ and eatin’ each other that makes my mouth drier’n the heart of a South Texas haystack.”

Longarm squinted and pointed around the street with his smoking cigar. “See at least three saloons from where we’re standin’, Amos. Just pick whichever joint you fancy. I’ll be more’n happy to stand for a couple of cold ones. Maybe sit around and take our ease till it cools off a bit out here.”

Black jumped at the offer. “Top Hat’s a damned good spot. Know the feller what owns the joint. Claims to serve the coldest beer ’tween here and Tascosa. Personally, I think he’s right.”

“What about the Bale of Hay ’cross the street yonder? Kinda like the name of the joint. And it’s closer than the Top Hat. Hell, you can almost spit on the place from here.”

“Trust me, Marshal Long, Top Hat’s a much nicer joint,” Black said, then jammed his hat back on. “And my friend don’t water his liquor or beer like that snakey bastard who owns the Bale of Hay.”

Longarm shrugged, stepped off the boardwalk, and pulled his animal’s reins loose from the hitch rail. He ambled down the middle of Mesquite’s fancy, bricked Main Street with Amos Black in tow. Along the way, Longarm took note of the various businesses and shops on either side of the amazingly clean short piece of paved roadway.

It appeared, to the observant deputy U.S. marshal, that those astute businessmen who’d staked out a spot closest to the river provided potential customers with the fanciest, most colorful exterior facades. The Mesquite Bank and Trust, Mervin Popper, President—according to a brass sign on the building’s most prominent corner—sported crystal-clear, beveled, leaded-glass windows. From the street, any passerby could observe the entire inside of the building and watch as customers conducted their business. Additionally, the imposing structure appeared to be the only edifice along the entire thoroughfare constructed of the same burned red bricks that matched those used to pave the street.

As

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