Longarm and the Diamondback Widow by Tabor Evans

horses return to his ranch with empty saddles.”
    â€œMaybe I should ride out and apologize.”
    Since no one else appeared to be holding a weapon, Longarm lowered his six-shooter and walked up to within two feet of Richmond. The banker/mayor was in his mid-to-late fifties—an even-featured, shrewd, intelligent man who considered himself head and shoulders above all others. One who’d likely been born with an arrogant cast to his gaze and would die with same.
    â€œDon’t get smart with me, Deputy Long. I’m not afraid of you. Just because you wear the badge of deputy U.S. marshal doesn’t mean—”
    â€œIt means I’m gonna get the answer to a few questions,” Longarm said through his teeth. “The first one is, where is Sheriff Rainey? The second one is, why every time I ask about him do the good citizens of Diamondback swallow their tongues? My guess is Rainey’s dead. That leaves a third question. Who killed him?”
    Richmond ground his jaws together. “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?”
    Longarm could only laugh.
    That seemed to antagonize Richmond even more. With his free hand he jutted a bony finger at the federal lawman. “All that you need to know, mister, is this town takes care of its own problems. We don’t need the interference of the federal government. This is a local matter, and we—all of the good citizens of Diamondback—will be very pleased to see you ride out of our town tomorrow morning at first light.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat?” Richmond said through one half of his mouth, turning his head slightly askance.
    â€œI’m the law in this town now, Richmond. Whether you like it or not. And I’ll be here until I find out what happened to Rainey. If he’s dead, I intend to bring his killer or killers to justice—and that goes for anyone else involved—such as the one who called the shots. I’ll only be leavin’ here when I’ve finished that task. Only then.”
    â€œYou think so, do you?” Richmond barked, glasses glinted furiously in the lantern light. “Well, you might just have another think comin’, mister!”
    Richmond wheeled and ordered several men to find any more of Tanner Webster’s men in town, and to have them haul their dead back to the Flying W for burial. Then Richmond cast Longarm another glare over his shoulder and strode off down the street to the west.
    â€œI’ll be talkin’ to you later, Richmond,” Longarm called after him. “And I’ll be getting some answers if I have to beat them out of you.”
    Richmond stopped abruptly, turned sideways, and looked back at Longarm in shock. Unaccustomed to being addressed in such a fashion, he apparently could think of no suitable retort to the threat. He merely smacked his jaws together and strode off down the street, the others flanking him and fanning out to whatever saloon they’d been drinking in when they’d seen the banker headed east with his lantern.
    Longarm walked back to Abigaile’s and picked up his rifle. Two men from Richmond’s group were hauling the dead man from in front of the feed store east along the north side of the street, grunting under the weight of their burden. Longarm picked up his rifle, wiped dust and horseshit from the barrel, breech, and both stocks, and reloaded the weapon.
    His heart was still racing—from the anxiety of the lead swap, which not even the most seasoned lawmen enjoyed getting into on a dark night, but also from rage and frustration. He didn’t know when the last time was that he’d felt this confounded.
    A whole town full of people who likely knew what had happened to their sheriff, but not one of them was willing to tell. None seemed to bat an eye’s worth of respect for Longarm’s position as deputy United States marshal. It made him feel impotent, useless, and discombobulated