On the ground, the homesteader who’d been hit moaned softly. The men lifted him and carried him into the house. Blood dripped from the fresh wound and spattered on the scoured floor as they stood for a moment, looking for a place to lay the wounded man.

  “Here!” Marya Danilov grabbed a pillow from her husband’s armchair and put it on the floor. “Let him down here, where the light is good.”

  Tatiana came from the stove, carrying a basin of steaming water. She had a clump of rags in one hand. Marya kneeled by the wounded man’s head, scissors in hand, and began snipping at his bloodstained shirt to pull it away from his shoulder.

  Longarm needed only a glance to see that the wound was superficial. The rifle slug had ripped through the man’s upper arm just below his shoulder. If it didn’t hit bone, Longarm thought, he ain’t going to be too bad off. He frowned, trying to recall the homesteader’s name, and after a moment it came to him. He was Fedor Petrovsky, the candidate the Brethren were putting up against Sheriff Grover. Then Longarm’s frown deepened. He’d been standing just in front of Petrovsky, outside. He wondered if the sniper might have been aiming at him instead of the Russian.

  Mordka bent over Petrovsky, who was beginning to recover from the shock of the rifle slug’s impact. The elder sighed with relief. “It is not bad,” he said to the others. “Fedor will have a stiff arm for a while, but by harvest time his shoulder will be completely healed.”

  “Da, ita nilza,” Marya nodded. “A clean wound. Tatiana, give me the antiseptic.”

  A sharp, acrid odor filled the room as Marya wet a piece of cloth with liquid from a blue bottle that her daughter handed her. She daubed the wound with the cloth, and Petrovsky twitched his shoulder.

  “It hurts,” he protested.

  “Better to hurt now than to swell up later,” Marya told him tartly. “Lie still, Fedor. I must be sure this goes into the hole the bullet made.”

  Mordka stood up and faced Longarm. “This is what I have feared would happen,” he said soberly. “Once men begin to think of doing harm to their fellows, it is a short path that leads to violence.”

  “It’s a violent world,” Longarm told Mordka. Always has been, ever since Cain tried to cheat Abel. But I ain’t so sure that bullet was meant for your man Petrovsky. I was standing right in front of him. Whoever the shooter was, he might’ve been aiming at me.”

  “Who in this place would want to shoot you? You have been here only a few days.”

  Longarm’s smile was grim. “Somebody who couldn’t care one way or the other about what’s going on in Junction, Kansas. I’ve put a passel of men behind bars at one time or another, Mr. Danilov. They sometimes carry a grudge out of prison with them, and if they run into me, they’re apt to try to work it off with a bullet.”

  Mordka nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was about to ask you if you would try to find out who might have shot Fedor. You will be doing that for your own interest, though, will you not?”

  “I sure as hell will be,” Longarm assured him. “Not much I can do tonight, but first thing in the morning, I’ll be back out here nosying around. And if I can find the sheriff and get him interested enough, I just might be able to talk him into coming along with me.”

  “And the fence-cutting? The damage to our wheat? We did not even begin to talk about them,” Mordka reminded Longarm.

  “Not much to talk about. I’ll have a word with Grover when I catch up with him. Might be that if he knows I’m ready to step in if he doesn’t do something about all that, he’ll do his job right.”

  “What of Oren Stone?” Mordka smiled sadly, shaking his head. “It seems we are asking a great deal of you, but there is no one else to whom we can look for help.”

  “Ain’t much I can do about Stone. But I’ll have a try at talking to him, as soon as I finish trying to run down that bushwhacker.”

  “Thank you, Marshal. Now I must see about getting Fedor made comfortable. I think it will be better if he does not try to move from here tonight.”

  “You’d know best about that, I guess,” Longarm said. “That being the case, I’ll just say thank you for my supper, and ride on back to town. I’ll report the shooting to the sheriff. He’ll probably be out to ask about it later on.”

  * * *

  Junction’s jail was an unpainted building at the end of the town’s only street. It had been constructed by spiking together railroad ties left over when the spur line was completed. The little building had two windowless cells across its back, and space enough in the front section for a desk and three or four chairs. The door was padlocked on the outside when Longarm stopped there after leaving his horse at the livery stable; quite obviously, Sheriff Grover couldn’t be inside. Longarm shrugged and started toward the hotel.

  He stopped in at the Ace High Saloon for a drink, and found the place nearly deserted. At the back, two poker tables were in operation, catering to the needs of a half-dozen dedicated gamblers, but there was no one at the bar drinking. The barkeep and the saloon girls were clustered at the end farthest from the swinging doors, chattering idly.

  After the barkeep had detached himself from his conversation with the girls and served the shot of rye Longarm ordered, he started back to his interrupted gossip session. Longarm stopped him with a question.

  “Sheriff Grover been in this evening?”

  “Come to think of it, he hasn’t. Sorta funny, because most nights he’ll stop in once or twice while he’s patrolling around town, but not tonight.”

  “Guess he’s out on a case at one of the ranches, or something,” Longarm said. He drained his glass and set it on the bar. “Well, it ain’t all that important. I’ll run into him sooner or later.”

  Up the street at the Cattleman’s a few minutes later, he asked Bob the same question and got the same reply. Before Longarm could carry their conversation any further, Ruthie left the table at which she’d been sitting with another of the girls, and came up to stand beside him. Tactfully, Bob moved away.

  I was wondering if you’d be dropping in,” Ruthie said. “I sort of thought you’d be in here earlier.”

  “Why? You got some more troubles?”

  “No, thank goodness! And I’m not going to get into any, if I’m lucky.” She looked around, and saw that Bob was still standing within earshot. “Come on over to one of the tables and sit with me a few minutes, if you don’t mind. There’s something I want to tell you.”

  She led the way to a table against the back wall, across the room from the bar. Longarm followed her, carrying his glass.

  When they were seated, she said, “After I got back here from your room this morning, I lay awake a long time, thinking about what you said. And I made up my mind, Longarm. I’m going to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Shake this place. Get out of the sporting life. For good, I mean. Listen, I went to the boss as soon as he came in and told him he’d better find another girl to take my place. I’m going to take the first train out of town, even if I’ve got to ride in the engine cab or in a cattle car.”

  “Got any idea where you’ll be heading?”

  “California, I guess. Maybe San Francisco. It’s a big enough place that I ought to be able to find a job there. A decent job, I mean.” She grinned lopsidedly. “Maybe after a while somebody’ll come along who’ll want to marry me. And I’ll swear to make him the best wife a man ever had.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Even if I can’t lasso a man of my own, I’ll get along, you know.” She paused before asking in a strangely shy voice, “You won’t mind if I come to see you again tonight, when I get off, will you?”

  “Now, Ruthie, you know you’re welcome anytime.”

  “I hoped you’d tell me that. It won’t be late. Things are real slow tonight.”

  Longarm drained his glass and stood up. I’ll be looking for you, then, whenever you get there.”

  Back in his room, he treated himself to a swallow from the almost empty bottle of bonded rye before he went through his regular nighttime routine. Before undressing, he cleaned his Colt and slid fresh cartridges into the cylinder to replace the two he’d fired at the bushwhacker. As he worked, Longarm wondered just who had fired that shot from the darkness, and whether the target had been the farmer who’d been hit, or the big lawman himself.

  I guess that’s something I’ll find out sooner or later, he told himself as he slid the Colt back into its holster and hung the revolver by his gunbelt on the left side of the bed’s headboard.

  He still couldn’t dismiss the question from his mind, though, while he cleaned and checked his watch-chain derringer. Before hanging the vest on the right side of the headboard, Longarm fished a cigar out of its pocket and lighted it. Then, with the rye handy on the floor and his cheroot glowing comfortably, he propped himself up on the bed, stretched out, and waited for Ruthie. Not until her light tap sounded and he got up to let her in did the nagging question of who’d been the gunman’s target leave his mind.

  Ruthie said, “I told you I wouldn’t keep you waiting long. To tell you the truth, I left earlier than I should’ve, but I got to thinking about last night, and just couldn’t wait any longer.” As she spoke, she was unfastening her dress. “It’s been a slow night, though. They won’t need me as much as I’ve been needing you.”

  Longarm had taken the whiskey bottle to the bureau and was pouring a glass for her. Ruthie came and snuggled up to him. She pushed aside the drink he offered her and began unbuttoning his balbriggans. Her fingers slid quickly from the neck button of the longjohns down Longarm’s chest and stomach, and she dragged the undersuit off, freeing his crotch to her soft, caressing fingertips.

  Ruthie slid between him and the dresser and turned Longarm to face her. Over her shoulder, in the flyspecked, tarnished mirror, he saw the sweep of her bare back from shoulders to buttock crease as she locked her arms around his neck and levered herself up to sit perched on the edge of the bureau. Her legs came up, her knees in Longarm’s armpits. Her gusting breath fanned his cheek as she reached down with one hand, groped for a moment, found him, and guided him to touch her. A moment later, her hand closed around him in a convulsive squeeze as she felt him harden in response to the delicate dancing of her fingertips along his shaft.

  “Don’t make me wait any longer!” she begged as Longarm stood motionless. “Drive on in! I want all of you inside me, hard and deep!”

  He responded to her demand with a sudden, rapid thrust that set her body quivering. She leaned back, accepting him, welcoming the piston strokes he pounded into her. Still, she wanted more. She pulled her legs free, twisting to get them from under his arms, and stretched them high, her feet above Longarm’s head, the backs of her thighs soft and warm against his chest. Longarm let her move as she wanted to, without interrupting the rhythm of his own deep thrusting. His arms were around her now, embracing her raised thighs as well as her body. He felt for a moment as if he were holding two women instead of one.

  “Oh, it’s the best this way!” Ruthie moaned. “Now I’m really full of you! Keep going, Longarm! Don’t ever . . . ever . . .” Her words became an unintelligible half-moan, half-scream, as her body convulsed in a series of jerking quivers.

  Longarm waited until her cries trailed off to whimpers and the uncontrollable paroxysms of her body relaxed. In one quick motion, he lifted her limp form and swung her around. Still hard and deep inside her, he lowered her to the bed, following her without breaking the bond of flesh that connected them. Then he began stroking again.

  For several minutes she lay supine, at the threshold of awareness, unable to respond. Bit by bit, she came to life again. Longarm felt her muscles tighten around him, felt her legs trying to work free of his arms. He moved to release her thighs. She sighed contentedly and wrapped her legs around him. Her arms went around his neck, she pulled her firm-tipped breasts to his chest, and nestled her face in the warm, soft hollow at the base of his throat.

  “I said you were a miracle last night,” she whispered into his chest. Longarm felt the words rather than heard them. “I just didn’t have any words to say how big a miracle you are. And I still can’t find the words. But you can’t keep going forever, Longarm. Don’t worry about me. Come whenever you want to.”

  “I can go awhile yet. Maybe long enough for you to make it again.”

  He fell silent then and gave himself up to the pleasure of being engulfed in pulsing heat, of feeling the girl’s soft body glued to his. He didn’t want to stop any more than she wanted him to, and he paced himself to slow his rhythm, to stop now and again while he was buried to the deepest penetration inside her, and press with a gentle, sidewise rubbing, stimulating her while delaying himself, letting each minute stretch until it shattered.

  When he felt her beginning to respond once more, he asked, “You still want me to go on and not wait for you?”

  “You can tell I don’t. You’re the damnedest man, Longarm. You’ve just about got me there again. Hold on for a little bit longer, if you can. I’m loving every minute of it!”

  “Take your time, Ruthie. I’m not in a hurry. Not yet.”

  Longarm prolonged the embrace until he felt her beginning to respond. Then he drove them both to a frenzy with short, quick lunges until their flesh could stand no more and melting spasms shook them, drained them. They drew apart, sighing, and almost at once, both of them fell asleep.

  * * *

  When Longarm woke, the sunlight was beating against the drawn shade of his room’s lone window. He rubbed his face with his hands, the woman-scent of Ruthie recalling the night. Turning in bed, he took his watch out of his vest pocket. The hands showed eleven o’clock.

  “She took if out of you right good,” he told himself, rolling to his feet. He remembered her leaving; when he’d locked the door behind her, the window shade had been translucent with a faint dawn-gray glow.

  “First time I’ve been in bed this late for as long as I can recall,” he muttered. He tilted the bottle of bonded rye and swallowed the small amount of whiskey left in it. Moving swiftly without the appearance of speed, he went through his morning dressing routine, anxious to make up for the time he’d lost in getting the day under way.

  Eating breakfast at noon wasn’t a new experience for him, but it wasn’t one Longarm especially enjoyed. With eggs and steak and three cups of coffee under his belt, he walked to the sheriff’s office. The door wasn’t padlocked this time; the lock lay on Grover’s desk, but the sheriff was nowhere to be seen. Both cells of the cramped jail were empty too, so there was no one to ask when Grover might be back. Longarm weighed the possibility of finding the sheriff in one of the saloons or stores, and decided his best bet was to wait. The unlocked door was, he thought, a pretty good sign that Grover would be back sooner rather than later.

  Longarm’s hunch proved correct. He’d been waiting less than ten minutes when the sheriff sauntered in.

  “Well, Marshal. What’s on your mind today?”

  “Just a little job of bushwhacking somebody tried to do last night. Nobody killed, but a man got nicked pretty good.”

  “The hell you say! Where’d it happen, and how come I haven’t heard about it before now?”

  “Because you weren’t around anyplace where I could find you last night. If it’d been a killing or something like that, I’d’ve waited to run you down before I went to bed, but I figured there wasn’t much you could do that couldn’t wait.”

  “Who got shot?” Grover asked.

  “One of the wheat farmers out from town to the north. Name’s Petrovsky, Fedor Petrovsky.”

  “Now, hold on! He’s the foreign son of a bitch the Brethren are running against me in the election!”

  “Sure. I know that. Didn’t, though, until last night.”

  “Too bad whoever shot him didn’t aim better. It would’ve saved me wearing myself out campaigning.”

  “That’s one way to look at it, I guess, but a sort of cold-blooded one, it seems to me.”

  “Shit, who’d miss anybody like him? We’d be better off if the whole kit and caboodle of them Russians moved out.”

  Longarm had heard enough. He said coldly, “Look here, Grover, I already know how you feel about those farmers, after what you told me the other night. Which is just about what your boss said when I talked to him yesterday.”

  “I’ve got no boss except the people who elected me!” Grover said angrily.

  “Sure. That’s what Clem Hawkins said, too.”

  “I heard you’d paid him a visit. Let me give you some good advice, Long. Don’t tangle with Clem. He’s a bigger man than you are. He’s good friends with congressmen and senators, and he can pull strings that just might get you yanked outa your job.”

  “You let me worry about my job. You’ve got your own to take care of,” Longarm shot back.

  Grover was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was calmer. He’d evidently decided that Longarm was right about his own position being none too secure. He said, “There’s no use in us locking horns on this. You did me a favor when you corralled that drunk cowhand. I guess I owe you one now.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. All I want is for you to play out your hand the way it’s dealt, cards faceup, like you said you were going to do the other night.”

  “We never did finish our talk, did we?” Grover asked.

  “Seems to me we were interrupted,” Longarm replied.

  “Well, now’s as good a time as any, if you feel like it.”

  Longarm shook his head. “I’d just as soon put it off awhile. Until you get through looking into that shooting.”

  “How bad’s Petrovsky hurt?”