Longarm and the Stagecoach Robbers Read Free

result.”
    Longarm nodded. “An’ if the line folds?” he asked.
    â€œI really don’t know. I have no skills.” She laughed, a sound with no mirth in it whatsoever. “I’m even too old to become a prostitute. I don’t know what I could possibly do to survive without this little express line.”
    Longarm smiled. “Then let’s us see what we can do t’ keep any o’ that from happening, shall we? An’ the first thing we need t’ do is to find whoever it is that’s been robbing your coach an’ put ’em behind bars. I’ll need to talk with your driver. When will he get back?”
    â€œHe won’t be back until evening, but of course I will introduce you to him,” she said.
    â€œAll right, thanks.”
    â€œIs there anything else I can tell you? Anything I can do?”
    â€œNot right now,” he said, “but if I think of anything, I’ll let y’ know.”
    â€œAnything,” she said. “Anything at all.”
    Longarm stood and thanked her again then stepped outside. He was wanting a smoke in the worst way.
    But then he probably would not have been thinking so much about smoking except for the fact that he was not able to. That made him want a cheroot all the more. And as soon as he was out the door to the street, he was reaching into his pocket for that cigar he had not been able to finish inside.

Chapter 6
    The beer at Ikey Tyler’s Bearpaw Saloon was flat and the whores ugly, but the beer cost only a nickel a mug—Longarm had no idea what the whores cost and was not interested in finding out—and the place had a good flow of customers even at the morning hour.
    That would be because several of the mines in the district operated around the clock, and because the shifts worked on varying hours, it was evening for someone nearly all the time.
    Longarm parked himself in the center of Tyler’s bar and nursed his beer. Not many people in Fairplay knew him as a Federal marshal. Not yet. He wanted to take advantage of that time to eavesdrop on the conversations around him for as long as he could.
    He was hoping to hear some talk about the robberies. What he got was mostly bellyaching about the work underground—the poor quality of the tools, the scarcity of the rest breaks, and stupidity of the bosses—but also a fair amount of bragging. The braggadocio mostly involved the whores. To hear the men tell it about themselves, they were so big the whores would take one look and turn them down or they were such good lovers that the girls would refuse payment for the privilege of being fucked.
    Longarm had to hide a smile behind the rim of his mug when he heard those boasts. A man who had to brag on how good he was probably wasn’t.
    There was a fair amount of talk about a prizefight that was scheduled for the weekend. A promoter from Buena Vista down in the Arkansas River valley was in town hawking his fighter against any comers. Five dollars to get in the ring with the man and a hundred back to anyone who could last five minutes without leaving his feet.
    That was the sort of contest that would draw crowds from the whole South Park area, Longarm knew. Hell, if he hadn’t been here on duty, it was something he might take a chance on himself.
    As it was, it was a contest he intended to observe. He was willing to bet that the stagecoach robbers would attend. Not that he would know who they were. Not at the time. Hopefully he would get some clue as to who and where.
    If nothing else, he always enjoyed a good prizefight.
    â€œAnother beer, mister?”
    Longarm looked up, his concentration broken. “Uh, no, I’m good here.”
    â€œMister, this here is a place for folks who want to have a drink. You understand? Now either drink or get the fuck out of here. I don’t need any help to prop up the bar. Get it?”
    â€œI’ll have another,” Longarm said, digging a nickel