Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) by Tabor Evans

did.
    â€œYou,” he said, motioning to the Mexicans, “go. Vamoose. Andale. Whatever the fuck those words are. Anyhow, git!” He pointed toward Doris’s saloon and made hand motions to shoo the men in that direction.
    One of the black-and-white dogs was dead, its throat ripped out by the brown, but the other was only bleeding from a deep gash in its hind leg. That one likely would live, even be able to return to work if someone sewed the wound closed. The surviving dog was picked up by one of the Mexicans, who draped it over his shoulder while another man stanched the wound with a handful of dust and a wrap of his bandanna.
    The brown dog was still alive but barely so. The Basques shot furious glares—but only looks at this point—at the retreating Mexicans. They knelt beside their dying dog, and one of them dropped into the dirt of the street and pulled the animal’s head into his lap. The dog licked his hand twice and then died. Longarm could see tears on the man’s cheeks.
    The other Basque stood and took a fresh grip on his rifle.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that, old son,” Longarm warned.
    The Basque glanced once at the stern expression on Longarm’s face, shivered, and let his rifle drop, muzzle down. After a few minutes the two Basques picked up their dead dog and walked away.
    Longarm looked up at the imposing McConnell County Courthouse and pondered what the hell he could do to keep warfare from breaking out around it.
    He stood there for perhaps five minutes before he squared his shoulders and with a grunt set off at a rapid pace.
    He went to Doris’s saloon and marched inside. The Mexicans who were drinking and talking there turned quiet and sullen at his appearance among them.
    â€œWho’s the owner here?” he demanded of the man behind the bar.
    â€œIn the back,” the man said, inclining his head in that direction.
    â€œGet him,” Longarm snapped.
    â€œIt’s a her not a him,” the barman said.
    â€œFine. So get her. An’ do it damn quick.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I’ll . . .” The bartender shut his mouth when he saw the deadly cold stare he received from the lawman. “Uh, yes, sir. Right away.”
    Longarm did not have long to wait. Seconds after the bartender disappeared into the back, a woman emerged in his place behind the long bar. She was on the cloudy side of middle age, with her hair done into a tight bun and wearing a throat-high, long-sleeved charcoal-colored dress. Her face was marred by the sort of tracks left by a past bout with a pox of some sort. She did not look particularly welcoming.
    â€œWhat do you want, Marshal?” Her voice was rough enough to cut wood.
    â€œI’m closing you down,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me. By the authority vested in me, I am hereby declaring this saloon closed.”
    â€œWhy . . . you can’t do any such of a thing.”
    â€œThe hell you say,” he replied. “I’ve just done it.”
    â€œHow long do you want me to close?” she asked.
    â€œUntil I tell you otherwise,” he told her. “Until we can figure out a way t’ keep these Meskins an’ Basques from killing each other.”
    â€œI don’t have anything to do with that,” the woman rasped.
    â€œMaybe not direct you don’t,” Longarm agreed, “but the whiskey an’ beer you’re servin’ in here sure helps t’ fire’em up. So I’m shutting your doors for the duration. I’ll come back and let you know when you can open up again.”
    â€œThe town council will have something to say about this,” she snarled. “Then we shall see about this supposed authority of yours.”
    â€œUntil then you’d damn sure better close down and stay shut,” Longarm told her.
    Without any further argument, he spun on his heels and marched out again—on his way to Rosie’s to