Part 4 (2/2)
Longarm raised his eyebrows. ”And what happened then?”
”Ba.s.s decided to take his business to the Majestic or to the wh.o.r.ehouse, I guess. But he and his boys never came back here, and I don't miss their blood money.”
The woman clucked her tongue. ”Want to see my shotgun?”
”Maybe another time,” Longarm said, heading for the street.
”I'll bet you're a railroad boss! That's what you are! Admit it!”
Ruby called.
Longarm had to grin as he strode two doors down and entered the gun shop. Its proprietor, Sherman Hoskins, was a large man with droopy red eyes and a battered face. He was probably in his fifties but looked ten years older. His nose was a red, venous bulb, but his eyes were clear. Longarm pegged Sherman as someone who'd drunk himself into the gutter but then saw the light and pulled himself back from the brink of destruction.
”Howdy,” Longarm said to the gunsmith. ”I need a rifle or maybe a shotgun.”
”Why don't you buy both?” the big man suggested.
”I might do that, if I see what I like and hear a good price,” Longarm said, gazing around at the a.r.s.enal that Sherman had a.s.sembled and placed in gun racks and on pistol pegs.
Longarm took his time checking out the weapons. There was a fine old twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun made in Germany that he fell in love with but could not really afford. At least, not until he received his expense money from Denver. So he chose a Model center fire 1873 Winchester rifle caliber .44-40 with a skillfully repaired stock.
”Need ammunition?” Sherman asked.
”A couple boxes of sh.e.l.ls.”
”You got *em. Where you come from, mister?”
”Denver.”
”Where you headed?”
”Prescott.”
”Then you really ought to buy this shotgun.”
”Can't afford it or I would,” Longarm replied. ”Maybe on the way back through town.”
”Sure,” the gunsmith said without enthusiasm. ”But I tell you what, if you need a shotgun, I have one in the back room that I can let you have for a measly eight dollars.”
”Eight dollars! What kind of a weapon can you sell me that cheap?”
”It's an old double-barrel, ten-gauge. It'll knock you on your a.s.s and you'll think that you've been kicked by a mule, but after it goes off, there won't be nothing standing in the general direction that you pointed.”
”Let me see it.”
Sherman disappeared for a moment, then returned with the ugly old shotgun. It was scarred and it was heavy, but Longarm could tell the minute that he broke it open that the weapon was in good firing condition.
”Ain't she a cannon, though?” Sherman said, obviously delighted with the weapon.
”That she is,” Longarm said. ”But I think I'll pa.s.s. Too big and heavy.”
”You can sell her in a minute down in Prescott for at least fifteen dollars,” Sherman argued. ”I'll guarantee that you can. And, in the meantime, this shotgun will give you a lot of peace of mind in case you have a chance to blow Hank Ba.s.s and his friends all over the sagebrush.”
”Yeah,” Longarm said. ”I see what you mean. All right. How about ammunition?”
”It is hard to come by,” Sherman admitted. ”But I do have a half dozen sh.e.l.ls. Tell you what, I'll throw *em in for an extra two dollars.”
Longarm nodded. Between his stage fare, the Winchester, this shotgun, fresh ammunition, meals and hotel bills, he was getting close to being broke. Billy Vail had d.a.m.n sure better have his hundred dollars of expense money wired to Prescott, or there was going to be hard times ahead. If worse came to worse, he could point the shotgun at a forest and probably knock down a dozen or so deer along with trees, brush, and anything else that was in his line of fire.
”Thanks,” Longarm said, cramming ammunition in his pockets and grabbing the shotgun and the Winchester.
”Come back alive,” Sherman said. ”And if you want to sell me back them weapons, I'll make you a deal that won't hurt you much.”
”I may do that.”
”Fact is, I am kind of fond of that old shotgun.”
”Then why'd you sell it so cheap?”
”Might blow up in your face,” Sherman drawled. ”Better you find that out than me.”
Longarm hoped that the irascible gunsmith was making a little jokea”but he wasn't sure.
Chapter 6.
When Longarm boarded the stagecoach for the roughly fifty-mile run south to Prescott, he quickly noted that there were two guards sitting on top of the stage with rifles.
”Expecting trouble?” Longarm asked the driver.
The man spat a long, brown stream of tobacco juice into the street. ”Could happen,” he said. ”We've got a strongbox full of gold and cash. Hank Ba.s.s has spies in Ash Fork so we're taking no chances.”
”Good,” Longarm said. ”As you can see, I'm pretty well armed myself.”
”For gawd sakes don't shoot that d.a.m.ned shotgun off or it might blow us all to smithereens!” the driver exclaimed.
”I won't unless I have to,” Longarm vowed, tossing his bags into the coach and then clambering inside. There were only two other pa.s.sengers, a worried-looking couple in their late sixties who introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. George Buelton.
”I'm retired,” George said even before Longarm took his seat opposite them. ”I was a bartender for over thirty-five years. Hated every gawd d.a.m.ned minute of it. People have a drink, they start to acting like animals. Me and the wife won't touch a drop of the devil's brew.”
”We raised four children,” Agnes Buelton added. ”All of them boys turned out worthless. Just a bunch of drunks, horse thieves, and convicts.”
”Real sorry to hear that.”
”Not as sorry as we are,” Agnes answered. ”We're on our way to Prescott so I can be with our daughter-in-law who is having her first baby.”
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