Read Online .45-Caliber Widow Maker by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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but he’d come. And, if he was a member of Karl Oldenberg’s gang, who’d been plundering mining camps across Wyoming for the past two years, he’d bring more.
Many more . . .
7
THE MULES WERE a couple of mixed-breed duns. They were docile, rested, and watered enough that they balked little at being led back across the canyon to the wagon.
When Cuno had both hitched to the traces, and he’d checked the snaps, buckles, hames, tongue, and double-tree—he wanted no problems in case they needed to hightail it—he checked on the marshal.
The oldster sat where Cuno had left him, dozing in the sunlight that was beginning to angle slowly now over the western ridges, drawing shade out from the jail wagon. The man held his bottle in one hand between his thighs.
At least he appeared to be dozing. The marshal’s cheek twitched slightly as flies buzzed around the blood jelled on his chest, but he didn’t seem to be breathing.
Cuno touched his shoulder, and the man snapped his head up, eyes bright, almost lucid, in fact.
“Got the mules hitched to the wagon,” Cuno said. “As soon as I fetch my horse, we’ll be ready to roll . . . if you still wanna give it a try.”
“Did you check on Chuck?”
Cuno nodded gravely.
“No time to bury him. Maybe we could haul him along, bury him along the trail somewheres . . . ?”
Again, Cuno nodded. “I’ll lay him over my horse.”
The old man threw an arm forward. “Pull me up, young’un. I’ll get rollin’ while you fetch your horse and Chuck.”
Cuno doubted the man would make it, but it was worth a try. He pulled him up and, throwing one arm around his neck, led the man up toward the wagon box.
“Jesus, you don’t look good, Bill,” said the short, muscular prisoner, Frank Blackburn, wagging his head gravely as he stared through the bars.
The other prisoners, even the silently menacing Fuego, were staring expectantly at the wounded lawman.
“Ah, go diddle your mother, Blackburn,” the marshal rasped.
“I’d do that,” Blackburn said, grinning and canting his head toward the wagon’s rear door. “Just as soon as you open the door o’ this here cage . . .”
The marshal stopped near the left front wheel and looked over the mules. Glancing at Cuno, he said, “You’ve rigged a team before.”
“Time or two.” Cuno steadied the wounded marshal as the man put a foot on the wheel hub and climbed heavily, grunting painfully and sucking air through his teeth, into the driver’s box.
Standing, he looked over the team once more, raking his gaze back and forth across the collars and hames and the chains securing the rig to the tongue. “Yessir, you’ll do.”
One-handed, he began unwrapping the reins from the brake handle.
“I’ll be along shortly.” Cuno turned and began striding back toward the western ridge and the defile in the caprock humping up above the pine forest.
Behind him, the old marshal shook the reins across the mules’ broad backs and yelled, “Get along there, now, you useless sacks of mule flesh!”
As the jail wagon began rattling up trail, Blackburn called behind Cuno. “Don’t worry, kid! We’ll take good care of him!”
Between mule-directed harangues, the marshal told Blackburn to do something physically impossible to himself, and, as all the prisoners except Fuego laughed, the wagon crested a low ridge and began dropping down out of sight.
Cuno found Renegade contentedly foraging where he’d left the horse on the other side of the spur. Locating a slightly wider defile about fifty yards away from the first one, he led the horse through the gap and down the mountain.
When he’d tied the body of the dead marshal to Renegade’s rump, he began to fork leather, then, remembering the girl, stopped and turned back to the creek. No sign of her. She’d likely run down one of her gang’s horses and hightailed it back to where she came from.
Cuno swung up into the saddle and put Renegade up trail in an easy lope. It
Many more . . .
7
THE MULES WERE a couple of mixed-breed duns. They were docile, rested, and watered enough that they balked little at being led back across the canyon to the wagon.
When Cuno had both hitched to the traces, and he’d checked the snaps, buckles, hames, tongue, and double-tree—he wanted no problems in case they needed to hightail it—he checked on the marshal.
The oldster sat where Cuno had left him, dozing in the sunlight that was beginning to angle slowly now over the western ridges, drawing shade out from the jail wagon. The man held his bottle in one hand between his thighs.
At least he appeared to be dozing. The marshal’s cheek twitched slightly as flies buzzed around the blood jelled on his chest, but he didn’t seem to be breathing.
Cuno touched his shoulder, and the man snapped his head up, eyes bright, almost lucid, in fact.
“Got the mules hitched to the wagon,” Cuno said. “As soon as I fetch my horse, we’ll be ready to roll . . . if you still wanna give it a try.”
“Did you check on Chuck?”
Cuno nodded gravely.
“No time to bury him. Maybe we could haul him along, bury him along the trail somewheres . . . ?”
Again, Cuno nodded. “I’ll lay him over my horse.”
The old man threw an arm forward. “Pull me up, young’un. I’ll get rollin’ while you fetch your horse and Chuck.”
Cuno doubted the man would make it, but it was worth a try. He pulled him up and, throwing one arm around his neck, led the man up toward the wagon box.
“Jesus, you don’t look good, Bill,” said the short, muscular prisoner, Frank Blackburn, wagging his head gravely as he stared through the bars.
The other prisoners, even the silently menacing Fuego, were staring expectantly at the wounded lawman.
“Ah, go diddle your mother, Blackburn,” the marshal rasped.
“I’d do that,” Blackburn said, grinning and canting his head toward the wagon’s rear door. “Just as soon as you open the door o’ this here cage . . .”
The marshal stopped near the left front wheel and looked over the mules. Glancing at Cuno, he said, “You’ve rigged a team before.”
“Time or two.” Cuno steadied the wounded marshal as the man put a foot on the wheel hub and climbed heavily, grunting painfully and sucking air through his teeth, into the driver’s box.
Standing, he looked over the team once more, raking his gaze back and forth across the collars and hames and the chains securing the rig to the tongue. “Yessir, you’ll do.”
One-handed, he began unwrapping the reins from the brake handle.
“I’ll be along shortly.” Cuno turned and began striding back toward the western ridge and the defile in the caprock humping up above the pine forest.
Behind him, the old marshal shook the reins across the mules’ broad backs and yelled, “Get along there, now, you useless sacks of mule flesh!”
As the jail wagon began rattling up trail, Blackburn called behind Cuno. “Don’t worry, kid! We’ll take good care of him!”
Between mule-directed harangues, the marshal told Blackburn to do something physically impossible to himself, and, as all the prisoners except Fuego laughed, the wagon crested a low ridge and began dropping down out of sight.
Cuno found Renegade contentedly foraging where he’d left the horse on the other side of the spur. Locating a slightly wider defile about fifty yards away from the first one, he led the horse through the gap and down the mountain.
When he’d tied the body of the dead marshal to Renegade’s rump, he began to fork leather, then, remembering the girl, stopped and turned back to the creek. No sign of her. She’d likely run down one of her gang’s horses and hightailed it back to where she came from.
Cuno swung up into the saddle and put Renegade up trail in an easy lope. It
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