Read Longarm #398 : Longarm and the Range War (9781101553701) for Free Online Page A

most of it on the bar untouched. He could spend the next three nights standing there and not learn a thing, as he could grasp the meaning of not one word in twenty.
    Back on the street, he wondered if there was any point in going over to Rosie’s, or if the talk there would be as unintelligible as it had been in Doris’s.
    There was only one way to find out.
    The result was just as bad as at Doris’s, with the exception that in Rosie’s place there were two Anglos in search of the whores. Those ladies of the night were busy at this post-dinner hour. A fellow had to wait for one of them to become available.
    Longarm stayed long enough to drink a beer. And to decide there was less than no point in trying to eavesdrop on the Basques. Their language—he asked—was called Euskara, and it was like nothing else he’d ever heard.
    At least the bartender was a little more pleasant than the one across the street. And the whores were a hell of a lot better looking.
    Longarm finished the last of his beer—the suds had not been nearly as deep on the beer he was served in Rosie’s—and left a nickel tip for the barman, then left.
    He still wanted to find a little better evening entertainment than playing cribbage with John and Nell Tyler, so he walked down the street to the no-name saloon, where he found peace and quiet save for the clicking of billiard balls.
    Better than the quiet, he also found a good label of rye whiskey in the no-name place.
    And the barman was a woman. Not a bad-looking woman, except for the fact that she looked big enough and tough enough to knock heads if things became rowdy on a Saturday night.
    â€œYou look like a man who’s found what he was looking for,” she said when he leaned on her bar.
    â€œI am,” he told her, pointing to the row of bottles on the back wall. “See that one, third from the left. I’d like a glass o’ that, if you please.”
    â€œFifteen cents,” she said. “You want a beer to go with that?”
    Longarm shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t want anything to wash that fine flavor off my tongue.”
    The lady nodded her approval and brought the bottle and a small tumbler. “My name is Helen,” she said when she had set the glass down and poured a generous measure of rye.
    â€œI’m Custis.”
    â€œYou’re the marshal up here from Denver, aren’t you?”
    He gave her a quizzical look. Helen laughed and said, “Samuel Johnson over at the mercantile has a big mouth. He came in here after he closed up for the night. He said the federal man from Denver got in this afternoon, and since you’re the only stranger I’ve seen in town lately, well, you pretty much have to be him.”
    â€œI plead guilty,” Longarm told her. “Say this really is good stuff.” The rye lay smooth and warm on his tongue before he swallowed it.
    â€œIf there is anything I can do to help you while you’re here,” Helen said, “just let me know.” She smiled. “I have a vested interest in this community. I want it to be safe and prosperous.”
    â€œYou don’t seem to do much business with the, um, livestock raisers,” he observed.
    â€œNot directly, I don’t, but if the town prospers, then so do the men who are my customers. Like I said. A vested interest.”
    â€œFair enough.” He swallowed the rest of his rye.
    â€œAnother?”
    He nodded, and Helen poured, this time an even more generous amount.
    Longarm decided he had found the place where he would be spending his leisure time while he was in Dwyer.

Chapter 13
    â€œDid you learn anything last night?” John Tyler asked as Longarm seated himself at the breakfast table.
    â€œSure did,” Longarm responded. “Learned I won’t be doing any eavesdropping around either bunch o’ those fellas. I couldn’t understand a word they was sayin’.” He