Longarm on the Santee Killing Grounds

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Just as surely as there'd never been a bronco that couldn't be rode, or a rider that couldn't be throwed, there were some gals a man was only wasting flowers, books, and candy on. So that was why Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long was alone in bed when a horse-drawn fire engine thundered past the open window of his furnished room in the wee small hours.

Longarm, as he was better known to friend and foe, struck a match to consult the dollar alarm clock on his bed table while assuring himself the comings and goings of the Denver Fire Department were no business of a federal peace officer. Then he cussed them good when he saw it was almost four A.M. So that damned rooster down the alley wasn't just complaining about the noise.

Longarm punched his pillow thicker in the middle, and lay his head back down to see if he could catch a few more winks before it was time to cuss that alarm clock. It sure seemed to be ticking a whole lot louder than it needed to just to move its hands. And that damned fire seemed to be close, and even worse, upwind.

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