Longarm #396 : Longarm and the Castle of the Damned (9781101545249) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Teaser chapter

  Longarm’s Own Witness Protection Program

  Longarm drew his Colt, deliberately and with no hurry about it. Both gents in the linen dusters saw and reacted.

  The one to the left of the doorway pointed something under his duster—a sawed-off shotgun as it turned out—but had no time to fire before Longarm’s bullet smashed into his breastbone, taking first the breath away from him and then his life as he was launched backward against the stone building blocks.

  The man on the right, much closer to Longarm, tried to swivel around before the lawman could fire a second shot.

  He was late and he damn well knew it . . . He turned ghost pale and bolted for the wide open spaces.

  Longarm thought about putting a bullet in the bastard’s back but there seemed no point to that. He aimed a foot or so over the man’s head and trigged a .45 slug. He would not have thought it possible, but the fellow managed to run even faster after that sizzler pinked the crown of his hat, sending the hat and the man flying.

  City police and sheriff’s deputies came boiling out of the courthouse in response to the sudden gunfire, but Longarm’s two shots ended the conflict.

  “What the hell . . . ?”

  Longarm shrugged and reloaded his revolver. “I think somebody didn’t want me to testify this mornin’ . . .”

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LONGARM AND THE CASTLE OF THE DAMNED

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / November 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54524-9

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  Chapter 1

  There is nothing else as boring as a damned murder trial, Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long silently grumbled as he sat on the hard courtroom bench waiting to be called as a witness. Long, called Longarm by friends and enemies alike, stifled a yawn behind his fist and concentrated on what had been the focus of his attention for much of the past three days.

  While the opposing lawyers worried about dotting every “i” and crossing every “t,” Longarm sat there watching a most intriguing young woman who for two of those days had been seated on the defense’s side of the stuffy room, situated squarely in front of Longarm. He could not have missed seeing her had he tried.

  He guessed her to be in her early to mid twenties, with light brown hair, a slender build, and a face that belonged on an angel. Her dress—she had worn the same one both days—had gone out of style decades earlier, yet the girl had a presence, the way she carried herself or simply because of her natural beauty, that made the rather shabby, dark green garment seem the height of fashion.

  It might have been just his imagination, but Longarm would almost
have sworn that today she was looking back at him while he watched her.

  Not that he considered himself all that worthy of admiration. He was three inches over six feet in height, lean, with wide shoulders and a horseman’s narrow waist. His hair and mustache were a dark seal brown, and his face was craggy and leather-tanned from years of exposure to the elements.

  He was far from being handsome, yet there was something about him that made women tend to melt when he approached them. He did not really understand this—there was nothing in a mirror that he could find all that interesting—but he certainly did not complain about it.

  Today, as on most days, he wore a light brown tweed coat, a flat-crowned brown Stetson, brown corduroy trousers, black gunbelt rigged for a cross-draw, and black, calfhigh cavalry boots.

  Having ridden out of Chief U.S. Marshal William Vail’s Denver office, Longarm currently was in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, waiting to testify in the murder trial of one James Henry Willoughby, despite murder being a state or territorial crime and not a federal offense.

  Six months earlier Longarm had sought Willoughby on a federal warrant for interference with the delivery of the mail. A young constable with the Evanston police force offered to guide Longarm to the shack where Willoughby was said to be holed up.

  The man was there, all right. As soon as he saw Constable Harvey Franks, Willoughby opened fire, killing Franks with a blast from a shotgun.

  Longarm fired back, and if the son of a bitch had done the decent thing and died there and then, the deputy marshal would have been spared the discomfort of sitting through this interminable trial now. Instead Willoughby was wounded, gave himself up, and had been behind bars ever since.

  Hopefully he would hang shortly after the trial concluded, but first the lawyers had to earn their fees. It was already clear that the defense was setting something up, but Longarm did not see what the hell it would be. After all, he’d stood right there and watched when Willoughby gunned the constable down in cold blood.

  That would be a hard nut for the defense to crack when it finally came time for Longarm to testify. He was being held back for the last of the prosecution’s case. The lead prosecutor had told him as much. He understood the trial strategy, but he would have liked it better if he could just have said his piece and then been on his way to more interesting things.

  Like that pretty woman over there.

  He had in his imagination undressed her so many times over the past two days that all he had to do now was glimpse the back of her neck and he could get a hard-on.

  She was prim and proper and very likely still a virgin, but that did not stop him from thinking about what she would look like without all that cloth enveloping her figure. She very likely . . .

  A rap of Judge Thornton’s gavel brought Longarm’s attention back from the realm of reverie and into dull reality.

  He straightened his shoulders and tried to look awake.

  “We will be in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” Thornton declared with another loud bang of the gavel.

  The lawyers at both tables began clearing away their papers and volumes of law books, while no fewer than four local constables and two sheriff’s deputies took charge of the prisoner, hustling the man quickly out of the courtroom before any of his rather large crowd of sympathizers could speak to him.

  Longarm stood, stretched, and yawned hugely. He intended to have a glass—or two—of good rye whiskey and then perhaps a steak at Houlihan’s Chop House. Why not? He was on an expense account during the trial, the Evanston Police Department providing for his needs until his testimony had been presented. Let the city pay for a good meal then.

  He glanced across the room and noticed that the lady with the light brown hair already disappeared. He rather hoped she would be back tomorrow, as she was much nicer to look at than the jurors, most of whom appeared to be half-asleep while the lawyers droned on. And on. And on.

  Now the jury was being escorted out by the court bailiff, lest they be contaminated by comments from the spectators.

  Longarm yawned again and started for the door.

  As soon as he stepped through it, he was confronted by the lady in the bottle green dress.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you appear to be a gentleman. Would you think me too bold if I asked you to escort me to dinner. I . . . I can pay. For you too, I mean. But I couldn’t possibly go alone into a public establishment like that. Is . . . Would that be all right, sir?”

  Gentleman? It was not just every day that Custis Long was called that. He gave the lady a half bow and offered his arm.

  What else could he possibly do?

  Chapter 2

  “Excuse me, sir. Could I have your attention for a moment, sir?”

  The elderly, very wrinkled, and timeworn fellow was holding a broom. Longarm thought he recalled seeing the man around the courthouse a time or two before now. A beggar, Longarm immediately thought. An old man trying to cadge a quarter for a shot and a beer and a bowl of chili.

  Normally Longarm would have had a moment to spare as well as a dime or so, but not this evening, not while the pretty young thing was already on his arm.

  “Later,” he growled, regretting at once the rough tone. It was not the old boy’s fault. Still, words once spoken cannot be recalled. “Sorry,” he amended over his shoulder as he guided the young woman out the front doors of the handsome courthouse. “See me later.”

  She looked up at him—lordy, she had the prettiest blue eyes and the longest eyelashes—as if to question him.

  “Just a beggar,” Longarm told her. “I’ll give him something tomorrow.”

  The girl smiled—damn, she did have a nice smile; dimples too—and said, “You are a very nice gentleman, sir.”

  Longarm was finding it increasingly difficult to walk beside this girl without the front of his britches preceding him by half a foot or more. The girl just plain had that effect on him.

  “I intended to eat at Houlihan’s tonight,” he told her. “Would that be acceptable?”

  “So long as it is not . . . rough,” she said. “Strangers frighten me.”

  “It’s a nice place,” he said, “or so I hear tell.”

  She gave him that smile again. “In your company, I believe I should feel safe anywhere.”

  The evening, he thought, was looking up.

  “My name is Lenore Bailey.” Smile. “And of course I know who you are. Practically everyone does.” Smile. “I must admit that I noticed you in the gallery and I . . . Well, the truth is that I inquired about you.” Smile.

  Oh, yes, Longarm thought. This evening was most definitely looking up.

  They dined sumptuously on green salad—courtesy of the Union Pacific’s fast freight from California—lamb chops, and new potatoes. And a bottle and a half of dago red, which the lady seemed not to know enough to tell that it was a raw and inferior wine. For not knowing anything about spirits, though, she drank enough of it. She seemed nervous and more than a little tiddly.

  “Marshal Long,” she asked when the meal was concluded and they were about to leave, “would you mind escorting me to my room now? I feel . . . I feel not so very steady on my feet.”

  “I would be honored, Miss Bailey.” He offered his arm again.

  “It is the Crenley house,” she said. “I know the owner. She happens to be visiting in Denver, but she gave me permission to stay there.”

  “I don’t know it,” he said.

  She smiled. “I shall show you.”

  And she did. Not only to the house but inside. There were no furnishings in the parlor, so she said, “Follow me. We can sit back here.”

  The girl led the way toward the back of the house, where there was a kitchen and beyond it a small bedroom that held a narrow bed and an upended keg that served as a dressing table.

  He thought about mentioning how sparsely furnished her friend’s house was, but Lenore sat on the bed and patted a spot immediately beside her. “Please sit down. There is
something I want to tell you.” She sounded very serious when she said that, so Longarm dutifully sat.

  The next thing he knew, Lenore’s arms were around his neck and her tongue was in his mouth.

  Oh, yes. This evening was most definitely looking up.

  Chapter 3

  Lenore shed her clothes as slick as skinning a rabbit and just as quickly started in on Longarm’s duds. She opened the buttons of his fly while he was still getting his shirt undone, and when she saw what she found there, she moaned with pleasure.

  “What a handsome gentleman,” she said, but this time he was pretty sure it was not his face she referred to. His dick, standing tall and as hard as a rock, was throbbing only inches in front of the girl’s face, and all of her attention seemed to be on it.

  Lenore herself was slim and sleek and pretty. Her tits were soft and sagged more than a little once the foundation garments were removed. But he was able to forgive her for that.

  She slipped the pins out of her hair and shook her head, shaking out a cascade of brown that framed her face.

  He could feel her breath on the engorged head of his cock. Then she dipped her head forward. Her lips parted and her tongue played with the underside of his glans, while her fingers worked a sort of magic with his balls and the sensitive flat between his balls and his asshole.

  “You smell nice,” she muttered. “It’s a man smell. I love it.”

  What he loved was what Lenore was doing to him.

  Her lips parted a little further, and she mouthed the head of his cock, taking it slowly into the heat of her mouth then swishing it back and forth in there while her tongue continued to lave the head and, soon, the length of his shaft, as she took him deeper and deeper into her throat.

  Longarm sagged back onto the bed, his eyes nearly closing as powerful sensations of pleasure overtook him.