Longarm 397 : Longarm and the Doomed Beauty (9781101545973) by Tabor Evans Page B

followed the other on a generally northward course, heading for a snow-mantled pass looming far above and ahead, at the top of a ridge cloaked in deep runnels, boulders, and clumps of pines and aspens that showed a lighter green than the conifers.
    That was Grizzly Ridge—a famous landmark in this neck of the Colorado Rockies. A little mining town lay far down the other side—at least, there had been a town there when he’d passed north of the ridge a couple years ago—so there was a likely a way up and over the pass from here, or a canyon that led through it, though a quick perusal of his government survey maps showed none.
    That was all right. If it was easy for him, it would be easy for the Babe Younger bunch. After a slow, careful look around while he and the girl paused to make coffee and rest the horses, he decided there was no better, wilder area in which to lose his pursuers.
    Likely, they’d find the dead men soon, if they hadn’t already. They’d be on his and the girl’s trail within a couple of hours.
    The sun was full up when Longarm discovered a notch in the side of Grizzly Ridge. It appeared little more than a vertical line sheathed in aspens, birches, and large boulders. But as he and the girl approached the bottom of the ridge two hours later, he saw that the crease was indeed the mouth of a winding canyon through which two small streams frothed down the canyon’s steeply pitched floor, at the base of both steep walls.
    â€œWe’ll rest and switch horses here,” Longarm said, stepping down from his saddle.
    â€œDo you ever get tired of giving orders?” Miss Pritchard asked grouchily as she walked her own mount up next to his, leading the spare by its bridle reins. The third dead killer’s horse was still trailing them, afraid to be left behind, which was all right with Longarm. The spare was keeping up, staying close; he and the girl might need the rangy cream in a pinch.
    Longarm looked at the girl. She looked wind- and sunburned, and her hair was a mess. A pretty mess, but a mess just the same. He didn’t blame her for being in a bad mood, and he felt a little guilty for being hard on her before, so he merely said, “I’ll take a look around, make sure no one’s close.”
    â€œYou do that.”
    When he returned twenty minutes later, he was surprised to see that she’d built a fire and set coffee to boil. She’d also laid out a small pouch of jerky and some leftover rabbit. She sat back against a rock, her knees up, nibbling the jerky and sipping from a steaming tin cup.
    Longarm walked over and squatted beside the fire. She’d set a cup out for him. He glanced at her. She looked away as she chewed, pointedly ignoring him. He picked up the cup as well as a leather swatch and reached for the coffeepot.
    He’d only just touched the handle when a shot sounded—sharp and flat, like a slap against the sky.
    The slug tore the coffeepot out of Longarm’s hands with an angry clang. The girl screamed.

Chapter 11
    Longarm snaked his right hand across his belly for his Colt.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that.”
    The man’s voice came from behind him. As Longarm’s hand froze on the polished walnut grips of his .44, he glanced over his right shoulder.
    Two men were crouched amongst the rocks about twenty feet up the opposite ridge. Both were bearded and clad in animal furs and skins. One had his Springfield rifle aimed at Longarm. The other, crouched behind a small, square boulder, was grinning idiotically at the girl.
    â€œYou bring your pistol up, hoss, I’m gonna have to shoot you,” warned the man with the aimed Springfield, in a thick southern accent.
    Miss Pritchard sat across the fire from Longarm. She’d dropped her coffee cup between her legs and now sat with her hands on the ground to either side of her, back ramrod straight. She stared toward the interlopers with her lower jaw hanging,