Longarm 245: Longarm and the Vanishing Virgin Read Online Free PDF

Longarm replied.
    The gate closed behind him with a loud clang.
    Longarm looked one way, then the other, along the deserted street. There were no hansom cabs in sight, no buggies, no riders, no pedestrians other than him. That struck him as a little odd, but he didn’t give it much thought as he started walking east toward Denver’s downtown district.
    He had gone about a hundred yards when the rumble of wheels on paving stones made him glance over his shoulder. A large wagon had entered the street from somewhere. He saw it clearly as it passed beneath one of the gas streetlights. The wagon was loaded with barrels and drawn by a fine team of matched black horses, six of them in all.
    Six black horses, thought Longarm wryly. That was the number and color of the team that traditionally pulled hearses. This was no undertaker’s wagon coming toward him, however. It was just a tradesman’s vehicle of some sort.
    That thought was going through Longarm’s head when the driver suddenly slapped his reins down on the backs of his team and called out to them. The black horses surged forward against their harness, breaking into a gallop and pulling the wagon along behind them at breakneck speed.
    It took Longarm a second to realize that the horses were coming straight at him.

Chapter 4
    Longarm hadn’t survived so long by being slow when it counted. His instincts took over and flung him to one side as the horses and wagon thundered down on him.
    He landed hard on the paving stones, bruising his right shoulder. His momentum carried him on over in a roll that brought him up on his knees. In the glow from a streetlight, he caught a glimpse of the teamster’s face as the wagon raced past him. The man was bearded, but that was all Longarm could tell about him. He had a floppy-brimmed hat pulled down tight on his head, shielding the rest of his features.
    â€œHey!” Longarm shouted. The wagon never slowed down. Longarm felt like drawing his gun and sending a couple of slugs after the son of a bitch, but he stopped with his fingers just touching the polished walnut grips of the Colt. Being careless wasn’t really a crime, and Billy Vail didn’t much like it when his deputies went around town discharging their weapons at the citizens of Denver.
    Longarm stood up, started to brush himself off, then grimaced as a pungent odor struck his nose. He lifted his left arm, sniffed at the sleeve of his coat, and made an even worse face. He had rolled right through a pile of horse apples.
    â€œShit!” he said, both appropriately and emphatically.
    Well, at least it was a warm night, he told himself, trying to take a philosophical bent as he stripped off the coat and rolled it into a ball after taking the small, framed photograph of Nora Canady from the breast pocket.
    In shirtsleeves, vest, and string tie, he strode on down the street. He would stop at the Chinese laundry he normally used—old Chow would still be there, despite the lateness of the hour—and drop off the coat to be cleaned. Then he could proceed on his mission.
    It would be nice, thought Longarm, to run into that wagon driver again and teach him a little lesson. But the likelihood of that was mighty slim, especially considering the fact that Longarm hadn’t gotten a good enough look at him to recognize him again. What had happened tonight was going to be one of those little injustices of life that never got avenged, Longarm told himself.
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    Half an hour later, after leaving the soiled coat with the Chinese laundryman, Longarm strolled into one of Denver’s nicer hotels. The desk clerk knew him and gave him a pleasant nod of greeting. The lobby was almost empty. A couple of men sat in armchairs on the other side of the room, reading newspapers. Other than the clerk, they were the only people in sight.
    Longarm crossed the lobby to the desk and said, “Evenin’, Carl. Quiet night?”
    â€œIt’s always quiet