Read Online .45-Caliber Widow Maker by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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to exact on the husky blond freighter, first chance he got.
“Hey, kid,” said the stocky gent with a wide, clean-shaven face and steel-blue eyes. He was short enough that he could stand in the wagon without stooping, and he stood now, thick fists wrapped around the bars of the cage’s rear door. “Grab the marshal’s key off his belt and open the damn door. Hurry up. You don’t wanna die out here. This ain’t your fight!”
Ignoring the man, Cuno walked around the rear of the wagon and crouched down before the marshal. The oldster sat where Cuno had left him, leaning back against the wheel, legs stretched straight out before him, rifle crossed on his lap.
He was just beyond the reach of the jail cage and the four seasoned killers within. He had one cartridge pinched between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, as though he’d started reloaded his rifle but was too fatigued to follow through.
His chest rose and fell heavily. His eyes had been closed but as Cuno’s shadow passed over his gray-bearded face, his lids fluttered open.
“You get the other one?” he rasped.
Cuno shook his head. “How bad you hit?”
The man shook his head as if to say he wasn’t sure. “Think my shoulder’s shattered.” He glanced at the blood bibbing his gray duck shirt over which he wore a beaded deerskin vest to which his marshal’s badge was pinned. “ ’Bout half drained, too, I reckon. Stuff my neckerchief in the hole, will you?”
Cuno leaned his rifle over a sage clump, then unknotted the sweat-stained green cloth from around the marshal’s leathery neck.
“Bullet go all the way through?”
The marshal nodded. “In through the back, out the front. Bastards backshot me. Drilled Chuck through the kneecap, and when I tried to help him to cover, they shot him through his neck. Got me when I was runnin’ toward the wagon.”
Cuno stretched the man’s neckerchief out before him, started a tear with his teeth, then ripped the cloth in two with his hands. “You have anything to clean it with?”
The old lawman tossed his head toward the front of the wagon. “Bottle under the seat . . . in the grain sack.”
Cuno moved up the side of the wagon, ignoring the prisoners’ owly stares and snarls and the continued threatening pleas of the short man called Frank to blast the lock off the cage’s door. He shoved aside several croaker sacks of camping supplies before he found the bottle stuffed in a bag of parched corn.
When he’d soaked both pieces of cloth with the whiskey, he moved back to the marshal and extended the bottle.
The oldster chuckled dryly. “Obliged, kid.”
When the man had taken a couple of hard pulls, Cuno wadded both pieces of cloth tightly in his fists, wringing out the excess whiskey. He pulled the marshal slightly forward and scuttled around beside him to inspect the entrance wound in his back.
“I feared they mighta sent someone from the north to blast the prisoners outta the cage.”
“Maybe you should have let them go and saved your own hide.” Cuno found the hole just below the man’s left shoulder blade and, gritting his teeth, stuffed the neckerchief into it. “Maybe you still should . . .”
“Gnnahhhh!” The old marshal drew his mouth wide. Shock and misery glazed his eyes as Cuno tamped the whiskey-soaked cloth into place. The old lawman stopped breathing for about five seconds, and then he let out some air before sucking a deep, slow breath. “No lawman worth his salt’d let them critters out to run wild upon the land. No, sir. Not as long as I still got blood to bleed with.”
Cuno shoved the man back against the wheel and leaned his head close to locate the exit hole in the man’s chest. It was about six inches down from his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Wait!”
The marshal lifted his whiskey bottle in a quivering, blue-veined hand. The bottle shook so hard that he missed his mouth twice before finally slipping the brown lip inside. He tipped back another
“Hey, kid,” said the stocky gent with a wide, clean-shaven face and steel-blue eyes. He was short enough that he could stand in the wagon without stooping, and he stood now, thick fists wrapped around the bars of the cage’s rear door. “Grab the marshal’s key off his belt and open the damn door. Hurry up. You don’t wanna die out here. This ain’t your fight!”
Ignoring the man, Cuno walked around the rear of the wagon and crouched down before the marshal. The oldster sat where Cuno had left him, leaning back against the wheel, legs stretched straight out before him, rifle crossed on his lap.
He was just beyond the reach of the jail cage and the four seasoned killers within. He had one cartridge pinched between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, as though he’d started reloaded his rifle but was too fatigued to follow through.
His chest rose and fell heavily. His eyes had been closed but as Cuno’s shadow passed over his gray-bearded face, his lids fluttered open.
“You get the other one?” he rasped.
Cuno shook his head. “How bad you hit?”
The man shook his head as if to say he wasn’t sure. “Think my shoulder’s shattered.” He glanced at the blood bibbing his gray duck shirt over which he wore a beaded deerskin vest to which his marshal’s badge was pinned. “ ’Bout half drained, too, I reckon. Stuff my neckerchief in the hole, will you?”
Cuno leaned his rifle over a sage clump, then unknotted the sweat-stained green cloth from around the marshal’s leathery neck.
“Bullet go all the way through?”
The marshal nodded. “In through the back, out the front. Bastards backshot me. Drilled Chuck through the kneecap, and when I tried to help him to cover, they shot him through his neck. Got me when I was runnin’ toward the wagon.”
Cuno stretched the man’s neckerchief out before him, started a tear with his teeth, then ripped the cloth in two with his hands. “You have anything to clean it with?”
The old lawman tossed his head toward the front of the wagon. “Bottle under the seat . . . in the grain sack.”
Cuno moved up the side of the wagon, ignoring the prisoners’ owly stares and snarls and the continued threatening pleas of the short man called Frank to blast the lock off the cage’s door. He shoved aside several croaker sacks of camping supplies before he found the bottle stuffed in a bag of parched corn.
When he’d soaked both pieces of cloth with the whiskey, he moved back to the marshal and extended the bottle.
The oldster chuckled dryly. “Obliged, kid.”
When the man had taken a couple of hard pulls, Cuno wadded both pieces of cloth tightly in his fists, wringing out the excess whiskey. He pulled the marshal slightly forward and scuttled around beside him to inspect the entrance wound in his back.
“I feared they mighta sent someone from the north to blast the prisoners outta the cage.”
“Maybe you should have let them go and saved your own hide.” Cuno found the hole just below the man’s left shoulder blade and, gritting his teeth, stuffed the neckerchief into it. “Maybe you still should . . .”
“Gnnahhhh!” The old marshal drew his mouth wide. Shock and misery glazed his eyes as Cuno tamped the whiskey-soaked cloth into place. The old lawman stopped breathing for about five seconds, and then he let out some air before sucking a deep, slow breath. “No lawman worth his salt’d let them critters out to run wild upon the land. No, sir. Not as long as I still got blood to bleed with.”
Cuno shoved the man back against the wheel and leaned his head close to locate the exit hole in the man’s chest. It was about six inches down from his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Wait!”
The marshal lifted his whiskey bottle in a quivering, blue-veined hand. The bottle shook so hard that he missed his mouth twice before finally slipping the brown lip inside. He tipped back another
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