Longarm and the Diamondback Widow by Tabor Evans Page A

beyond imagining.
    If there was a dog nearby, he’d probably kick it. And he’d never kicked a dog before in his life, had never even imagined feeling inclined to do so.
    He set the loaded rifle on his shoulder, fished his old railroad turnip out of his vest pocket, and flipped the lid. Only nine-thirty. He still had nearly three hours before his appointment with whoever had slipped that note under his door.
    He decided to take a swing around the town, to get the lay of the land. He was the new lawman of Diamondback, after all, and he should know how the buildings were laid out.
    After he’d walked once around the town, which only took a half hour since it wasn’t very large, he stopped by the Dragoon Saloon for a beer and a shot of tarantula juice. His presence seemed to stymie the watering hole’s festive night atmosphere, and all the other people there, including the dark, pock-faced bartender, looked like they hadn’t taken a decent shit in a month of Sundays.
    It was the same with the other two saloons in town—the High Country Inn and the Ace-High. As soon as the dark, rangy lawman in the three-piece suit walked in, the hum of conversation dropped several notches, and it didn’t pick up again until Longarm had passed through the batwings once more and walked out into the fresh air of the night-cloaked main street.
    The town had quieted considerably after eleven o’clock, it being a weeknight. But Longarm took another turn around Diamondback, mostly in stubborn defiance of another ambush. Though he was spoiling for a fight, none came, and he couldn’t say he was sorry it hadn’t.
    Frustration a hot fire burning at the base of his spine, the lawman returned to the hotel. He’d been so preoccupied with the town that he’d almost forgotten about his invitation to room 19.
    He walked through the hotel lobby and past the front desk. Mrs. Fletcher wasn’t there—the old biddy had probably gone to bed at nine. Longarm was glad she’d left the door unlocked. In his sour, frustrated mood, he’d likely have shot the glass out of the door’s upper pane. That might have been overstepping his bounds slightly.
    His rifle resting on his shoulder, he headed up the carpeted steps. He passed his own floor and headed up the last flight to the third floor. As he walked down the hall lit by a couple of smoky bracket-lamps, he freed the keeper thong from over the hammer of his .44.
    The rifle was best for out in the open. The pistol was more effective at close quarters, and if he’d been led into another ambush, a hotel room would be close quarters indeed.
    He stopped at room 19, which was at the far end of the third-floor hall, and lightly tapped his knuckles on the door. The latch clicked immediately. The door drew back until there was a one-inch gap between the door and the frame.
    A pair of hazel eyes peered out at him. A feminine voice whispered, “Marshal Long?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Stepping back, she drew the door open. Longarm’s knees nearly buckled at the delectable creature standing before him—a young, high-busted, classically featured young woman with honey-blond hair piled loosely atop her head. She wore what appeared a series of thin, lace-edged housecoats over a more rustic man’s underwear top that was buttoned up to her fine, slender neck.
    â€œPlease come in,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
    Her wide hazel eyes owned an emotional sheen. She was pale, and she looked exhausted. In fact, she looked a little haggard, which somehow accentuated her natural, earthy beauty. She wore no face paint whatever, and her heart-shaped features, with short nose and wide-set, innocent eyes,. made her look even younger than he thought she was—mid-to-late twenties. And more fragile.
    Longarm quickly glanced around the room behind her. Seeing no one else there, and nothing out of sorts, he stepped forward. She closed