Read Online .45-Caliber Widow Maker by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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long pull, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a duck on a millrace.
“Hey, save some for us, Landers,” said the prisoner with the long, silver hair, sitting with his back to Cuno and the old marshal but turning his head to peer over his shoulder. “We’re gonna have us a hoedown after you’re dead.”
The lawman lowered the sloshing bottle with a raspy, whiskey-fetid sigh. He looked up to see Cuno staring at the man. “That’s Bob King. Colorado Bob. Don’t look into his eyes too long.” The marshal chuckled. “They say it’ll drive you loco, sort of like sleepin’ in the moonlight.”
Despite the warning, Cuno held the man’s snaky, slant-eyed gaze. “Don’t doubt it a bit.”
Colorado Bob King stretched a slow, thin-lipped smile teeming with nearly as much menace as the eyes of Fuego. His gold teeth glistened. As he squeezed the bars in his fists, the tattoos on the back of his hands shifted and clarified—the rabbit on one, the hawk on the other.
Cuno spat to one side, then leaned forward again and shoved the wadded cloth into the old marshal’s bullet hole.
The man scrunched up his flushed, sweaty face and turned his head to one side, groaning deep in his chest. The cords in his neck stood out like ropes.
“Jay- zuzzzz Keee- rist , that smarts!”
He swallowed, let the muscles in his face slacken. “But I do appreciate it, kid. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to help me retrieve my mules, I’ll try to get this heap movin’ again . . . before that backshootin’ son of a bitch brings more of Oldenberg’s boys.”
The man had grabbed Cuno’s shoulder and began pulling himself to his feet. Cuno shoved him back down. “You’re not gonna do any walking with that shredded shoulder. I’ll fetch your mules. Then we’ll see if you’re fit to ride.”
“I gotta ride. Gotta get this vermin to the lockup in Crow Feather. They done already been sentenced up in Cody, but the judge wanted ’em to hang in Crow Feather. That’s where they robbed the army payroll detail. The widows of the men they killed put in a special request to see these coyotes’ necks stretched while they sipped tea and ate pound cake.”
Landers laughed, coughed, and spat.
“We’ll see about that.”
Cuno cursed inwardly again as he moved around the front of the wagon and tramped off into the meadow. The old marshal’s shoulder was shot to hell. He wouldn’t be able to drive the wagon. It was doubtful that he could even ride without the jarring bleeding him dry.
And if the Oldenberg whom the man had mentioned was the notorious thieving killer and gang leader Karl Oldenberg, even the long-odds bets were off.
But, like the man said, he had a wagonload of prisoners to haul to Crow Feather. They weren’t just stock or hay thieves, either. If all four weren’t seasoned killers, then Cuno didn’t know shit from Cheyenne.
Someone would have to get the wagon to Crow Feather. If Cuno had to do it, he’d be delayed a good three or four days. Likely, he’d lose the freighting contract not just for himself but for his old pal Serenity Parker, as well.
He crouched over the younger marshal, who lay on his hip and shoulder, legs scissored widely, thick red blood coating his neck and chest. His hat was gone but his sweaty, sandy hair still retained its shape.
Cuno grabbed a shoulder and turned the man over on his back. His sightless eyes stared at the sky over Cuno’s shoulder. His parted lips formed a perfect O.
Irrational guilt plucked at Cuno as he stared down at the dead man. Finally, he brushed his open palm across Svenson’s face, closing his eyes.
“Sorry, partner.”
Cuno straightened the man’s legs and crossed his arms on his belly. Leaving the body half concealed in the waving grass, he tramped off toward the northeast side of the canyon where he’d spied the wagon mules foraging in the trees along the creek. As he walked, he kept an eye skinned on the ridges.
The man called Shepherd wouldn’t be back yet,
“Hey, save some for us, Landers,” said the prisoner with the long, silver hair, sitting with his back to Cuno and the old marshal but turning his head to peer over his shoulder. “We’re gonna have us a hoedown after you’re dead.”
The lawman lowered the sloshing bottle with a raspy, whiskey-fetid sigh. He looked up to see Cuno staring at the man. “That’s Bob King. Colorado Bob. Don’t look into his eyes too long.” The marshal chuckled. “They say it’ll drive you loco, sort of like sleepin’ in the moonlight.”
Despite the warning, Cuno held the man’s snaky, slant-eyed gaze. “Don’t doubt it a bit.”
Colorado Bob King stretched a slow, thin-lipped smile teeming with nearly as much menace as the eyes of Fuego. His gold teeth glistened. As he squeezed the bars in his fists, the tattoos on the back of his hands shifted and clarified—the rabbit on one, the hawk on the other.
Cuno spat to one side, then leaned forward again and shoved the wadded cloth into the old marshal’s bullet hole.
The man scrunched up his flushed, sweaty face and turned his head to one side, groaning deep in his chest. The cords in his neck stood out like ropes.
“Jay- zuzzzz Keee- rist , that smarts!”
He swallowed, let the muscles in his face slacken. “But I do appreciate it, kid. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to help me retrieve my mules, I’ll try to get this heap movin’ again . . . before that backshootin’ son of a bitch brings more of Oldenberg’s boys.”
The man had grabbed Cuno’s shoulder and began pulling himself to his feet. Cuno shoved him back down. “You’re not gonna do any walking with that shredded shoulder. I’ll fetch your mules. Then we’ll see if you’re fit to ride.”
“I gotta ride. Gotta get this vermin to the lockup in Crow Feather. They done already been sentenced up in Cody, but the judge wanted ’em to hang in Crow Feather. That’s where they robbed the army payroll detail. The widows of the men they killed put in a special request to see these coyotes’ necks stretched while they sipped tea and ate pound cake.”
Landers laughed, coughed, and spat.
“We’ll see about that.”
Cuno cursed inwardly again as he moved around the front of the wagon and tramped off into the meadow. The old marshal’s shoulder was shot to hell. He wouldn’t be able to drive the wagon. It was doubtful that he could even ride without the jarring bleeding him dry.
And if the Oldenberg whom the man had mentioned was the notorious thieving killer and gang leader Karl Oldenberg, even the long-odds bets were off.
But, like the man said, he had a wagonload of prisoners to haul to Crow Feather. They weren’t just stock or hay thieves, either. If all four weren’t seasoned killers, then Cuno didn’t know shit from Cheyenne.
Someone would have to get the wagon to Crow Feather. If Cuno had to do it, he’d be delayed a good three or four days. Likely, he’d lose the freighting contract not just for himself but for his old pal Serenity Parker, as well.
He crouched over the younger marshal, who lay on his hip and shoulder, legs scissored widely, thick red blood coating his neck and chest. His hat was gone but his sweaty, sandy hair still retained its shape.
Cuno grabbed a shoulder and turned the man over on his back. His sightless eyes stared at the sky over Cuno’s shoulder. His parted lips formed a perfect O.
Irrational guilt plucked at Cuno as he stared down at the dead man. Finally, he brushed his open palm across Svenson’s face, closing his eyes.
“Sorry, partner.”
Cuno straightened the man’s legs and crossed his arms on his belly. Leaving the body half concealed in the waving grass, he tramped off toward the northeast side of the canyon where he’d spied the wagon mules foraging in the trees along the creek. As he walked, he kept an eye skinned on the ridges.
The man called Shepherd wouldn’t be back yet,
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