Longarm and the Missing Husband by Tabor Evans Page A

looked around here. “This is such empty country. Beautiful but empty. I hate to think of Hank being up here by himself with no one to turn to for help if something bad happened.”
    Longarm was not thinking about Hank Bacon at that moment. He was, however, thinking about Bacon’s wife. Or widow.
    Beth was a lovely sight anyway, and when she turned like that, it pulled the cloth of her shirt tight against her tits, emphasizing them and the slenderness of her waist, the flare of her ass, and the length of her legs.
    She had found another pair of men’s trousers at the White River sutler’s store and by now had completely abandoned dresses in favor of more practical clothing. A shirt and trousers did not make her look like a boy, though. She was all girl and damned pretty.
    Longarm’s dick agreed completely with that viewpoint. Hank Bacon was—or had been—one fortunate son of a bitch.
    He finished his coffee and wiped out the cup, then settled back and lit a cheroot to smoke while Beth finished her lunch.
    â€œReady?” he said when she began packing their cups back into the pack where they were stored.
    â€œYes. Let’s go.”
    Four hours later Longarm drew rein and stopped on a sandy shelf just short of a thicket of chokecherry.
    â€œWhy are we stopping?” Beth asked.
    â€œWe’ll camp here for the night,” Longarm told her.
    â€œSo early? We still have at least two hours of daylight left.”
    Longarm dismounted and began to untie the packs on the mule he had been leading all day. “We want t’ follow as close as possible the way your husband would’ve gone, right? Well, he would’ve been stopping every now an’ then to take his survey measurements an’ whatever the hell it is that surveyors do. I figure this would’ve been about as far as he could go that first day out from the agency. So we’ll stop here, too.”
    Beth gave him a questioning look. But she dismounted. Took a few uncertain steps and bent backward, both hands pressing in the small of her back.
    â€œTired?” Longarm asked.
    â€œYes, of course. I suppose you are right. We should stop now.”
    â€œWhy don’t you set up camp? If you don’t mind, I think I’m gonna take a little walk before we turn in for the night. Get my legs stretched after all day in the saddle.”
    â€œAll right, but would you build the fire first? While you are doing that, I can put a pot of coffee on to boil.”
    He smiled. “Fine idea, thanks.”
    Longarm gathered wood and dry brush enough for a good fire, shaved a little tinder, and put a match to it. “There y’ go. Mind you don’t let it go out,” he said.
    â€œI know how to tend a fire.”
    â€œRight. Well, I’m gonna take a stroll while you handle things here.”
    He moved out from the camp a little distance and looked back to make sure Beth was occupying herself at the fire. Then he lengthened his stride and moved purposefully toward a patch of crackwillow a few hundred yards ahead.
    The presence of magpies and buzzards ahead was the reason he had wanted Beth to stop where they did.
    Something was dead up there, and Longarm wanted to see what it was before taking Bethlehem past it.

Chapter 46
    It was a dry camp. Very tidy and nicely put together by someone who was accustomed to being in the wilderness. A small pot rested on flat stones next to the ashes of a fire. A sleeping bag—not blankets but an actual bag, the material stuffed with something puffy, probably feathers—was laid out next to the fire. Panniers and a pack saddle were opposite the sleeping bag.
    When Longarm approached, he disturbed a feeding buzzard. The bird lumbered awkwardly into the air, a string of something moist and red trailing from its wicked beak, the sunlight glinting blue-black on its feathers.
    Lace-up boots and some articles of clothing gave indication of what this bird and many