street, heading east. Longarm stopped, breathing hard, holding the Colt straight up in his right hand, hammer cocked. He looked to his right, saw an alley mouth, then headed down it, risking tripping over something in the darkness behind the buildings but wanting to cut the bushwhacker off.
He managed to jog a block eastward along the trash-strewn alley without falling into an exposed privy pit, then made his way back up to the main street by way of a gap between buildings. He dropped to a knee and looked up and down the street.
He turned right in time to see a man walk heavily up the steps of the Nowhere Saloon, which was still brightly lit against the dark night, with six or seven horses still tied to its two hitch racks. The man pushed through the batwings and disappeared inside.
The bushwhacker?
Longarm looked around. There was no one else on the streetâat least, no one else he could see, though someone could be crouched in a break between buildings or hunkered down behind a stock trough, waiting to finish what heâd started.
Slowly, looking around carefully, Longarm angled across the street toward the Nowhere Saloon. As he approached, the low hum emanating from inside grew slightly louder. At the bottom of the Nowhwereâs porch steps, he stopped, took another careful look around, then climbed the steps and stopped in front of the batwings, casting his gaze inside.
A half a dozen men stood along the bar on the roomâs right side. A few more sat in tables within the glow of the lit lamps hanging near and around the bar. The rear of the place and the roomâs far left were in darkness.
A fat, fair-skinned barman with a curly mop of hair and a tangled beard was drawing a beer at the bar. He scraped off the foam with a stick, then set the beer in front of a man in a wool-collared denim jacket and brown hat about midway down the bar. Keeping an eye on the man in the denim jacket, Longarm pushed through the batwings.
All eyes turned toward him, and the conversations fizzled. Longarm raked his gaze around the room once more, through a haze of drifting tobacco smoke, then pinched his hat brim to the room in general, said to the fat barman, âWhiskey,â and sauntered over to the bar.
He glanced at the man in the denim jacket, who sipped the freshly drawn beer and looked over his shoulder at Longarm. He was a lean, weathered, middle-aged gent with a neatly trimmed mustache beneath broad, sun-reddened nostrils. He didnât seem all that interested in Longarm. But then, all the faces staring at him regarded him with only idle curiosity. By now, most folks in town likely knew who he was and why he was in Nowhere. None of the faces stood out as unduly tense or otherwise suspicious, but something told him the bushwhacker was here, trying to blend in with the crowd.
When the barman had poured the shot, and Longarm had paid for the drink, he picked it up in his left hand, leaving his right hand free, and walked over to a table. He sagged into a chair facing the bar. The other men had returned to their conversations, though the hum didnât climb as high as it had before.
Did the others know who he was after? Or have their suspicions? Of course, he could inquire with the bartender about who had walked into the saloon ahead of him, but doing so might trigger a lead swap in these close confines and endanger the bystanders. Something told him to let the situation play itself out.
At the same time, however, something told him hell was about to pop.
Chapter 11
Longarm slacked back in his chair and sipped his drink, raking his gaze across the men bellying up to the bar and the three who sat at a round table between him and the batwings over which the cool night air drifted.
Heâd just taken another sip of his drink when he spotted something on the floor near the bar. A drop of blood fell. Then another to the left of the first, and then another.
The last one was on the floor just right of a
He managed to jog a block eastward along the trash-strewn alley without falling into an exposed privy pit, then made his way back up to the main street by way of a gap between buildings. He dropped to a knee and looked up and down the street.
He turned right in time to see a man walk heavily up the steps of the Nowhere Saloon, which was still brightly lit against the dark night, with six or seven horses still tied to its two hitch racks. The man pushed through the batwings and disappeared inside.
The bushwhacker?
Longarm looked around. There was no one else on the streetâat least, no one else he could see, though someone could be crouched in a break between buildings or hunkered down behind a stock trough, waiting to finish what heâd started.
Slowly, looking around carefully, Longarm angled across the street toward the Nowhere Saloon. As he approached, the low hum emanating from inside grew slightly louder. At the bottom of the Nowhwereâs porch steps, he stopped, took another careful look around, then climbed the steps and stopped in front of the batwings, casting his gaze inside.
A half a dozen men stood along the bar on the roomâs right side. A few more sat in tables within the glow of the lit lamps hanging near and around the bar. The rear of the place and the roomâs far left were in darkness.
A fat, fair-skinned barman with a curly mop of hair and a tangled beard was drawing a beer at the bar. He scraped off the foam with a stick, then set the beer in front of a man in a wool-collared denim jacket and brown hat about midway down the bar. Keeping an eye on the man in the denim jacket, Longarm pushed through the batwings.
All eyes turned toward him, and the conversations fizzled. Longarm raked his gaze around the room once more, through a haze of drifting tobacco smoke, then pinched his hat brim to the room in general, said to the fat barman, âWhiskey,â and sauntered over to the bar.
He glanced at the man in the denim jacket, who sipped the freshly drawn beer and looked over his shoulder at Longarm. He was a lean, weathered, middle-aged gent with a neatly trimmed mustache beneath broad, sun-reddened nostrils. He didnât seem all that interested in Longarm. But then, all the faces staring at him regarded him with only idle curiosity. By now, most folks in town likely knew who he was and why he was in Nowhere. None of the faces stood out as unduly tense or otherwise suspicious, but something told him the bushwhacker was here, trying to blend in with the crowd.
When the barman had poured the shot, and Longarm had paid for the drink, he picked it up in his left hand, leaving his right hand free, and walked over to a table. He sagged into a chair facing the bar. The other men had returned to their conversations, though the hum didnât climb as high as it had before.
Did the others know who he was after? Or have their suspicions? Of course, he could inquire with the bartender about who had walked into the saloon ahead of him, but doing so might trigger a lead swap in these close confines and endanger the bystanders. Something told him to let the situation play itself out.
At the same time, however, something told him hell was about to pop.
Chapter 11
Longarm slacked back in his chair and sipped his drink, raking his gaze across the men bellying up to the bar and the three who sat at a round table between him and the batwings over which the cool night air drifted.
Heâd just taken another sip of his drink when he spotted something on the floor near the bar. A drop of blood fell. Then another to the left of the first, and then another.
The last one was on the floor just right of a
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