Read Online An American Outlaw by John Stonehouse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Stonehouse
Tags: Nightmare
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finger to the side of his temple. “Just supposing they were to get out? Where would they go next?”
“The whole damn idea's to keep 'em in here.”
Whicher glances at Cornell from under the shade of his hat brim. “Something on your mind?”
“Nathaniel Childress,” says Cornell.
The sheriff looks at him. “Who in hell's that?”
“Brother of Steven Childress—the shooter at the bank. Older brother. Recent suicide.” Cornell takes off his sunglasses. “You're going to like this marshal.”
“Why's that?”
“He was US Marine Corps. Alongside Gilman James. Invalided out...”
Whicher picks the Ruger revolver off the Chevy roof. He slips it back in the shoulder holster, closes the thumb-break and pulls the Glock off the roof—gunbelt uncoiling, like a snake.
He straps it around the waist of his gray suit pants. “You want to know what gives me the shits...”
He starts walking fast, boots clipping across the highway—Sheriff Emory and Agent Cornell pulled along in his wake.
“If these guys come in out of the hills—they can do some serious damage. I got me a feeling—and it ain't a good one.”
The two men follow Whicher across the highway. Down the southern approach, towards a white Border Patrol SUV—angled across the road.
“Officer,” says the marshal.
The uniformed man turns his head, rifle still resting on the roof.
“I take a look down that scope?”
“Yes, sir. Not a problem.” He holds out the M4 Carbine.
Whicher looks into the telescopic sight, down the flat highway. Waves of heat shimmer in the magnified lens. On an empty, dust-blown road. With a ridge of mountain framing the horizon. He lines the reticle on a withered fence post. “What's the range on this?”
“Lethal range is five hundred meters. Wing 'em at six.”
“Good. Alright. How many vehicles y'all stopped so far today?”
“Hundred plus.”
“That's it?”
“That's a bunch, for here, Marshal.”
“Y'all keep a damn good watch on 'em coming. Be ready to open fire. You hear me?”
“I'll be ready, sir.”
Highway 118, outside of Alpine.
I stood on the road. Tennille held the shotgun at me, through the open door.
She hadn't fired. Not yet.
I stepped away from the truck a pace. Heart racing.
She kept the shotgun on me. She climbed out from the back seat. Stood by her truck.
I backed away, slow. I wasn't running.
She raised the shotgun up to her shoulder. Locked eyes on mine.
There was just the sound of the engine, idling.
Tennille staring down the sights.
Put it all on her.
“I'm walking. You can shoot me right here. Or you can meet me in Alpine.”
The black muzzle never wavered.
I thought of my life. Ending. On that road. In the desert, in the blinding sun. Lives I'd seen end that way. Strange sense. At the death.
She glared at me. The stock of the gun tight in at her shoulder.
“Before you reach town. Half a mile from here. There's a dirt track.”
She took a step sideways—towards the open driver's door.
“It's off the highway. You'll see it coming in at the left.” She dropped the shotgun to her waist. “Find the track. Head up it. Then make a right.”
I looked at her.
“Cross the rail tracks. Get on Main. Holland Avenue, it's called.”
She bent into the driver's seat; shotgun still pointing at me.
“There's a grocery store. 11 th and Holland. You've got fifteen minutes.”
I watched, as she sat half in the truck. One foot still on the road.
“You got an alibi.”
“I'm not planning needing one.” She grabbed the door. Slammed it. And hit the gas.
I stood where I was, my breath coming shallow.
She disappeared from sight, down the road.
I walked fast. My gut twisting. Were we really doing this?
I made myself walk, not run.
Yard after yard along the highway.
Praying no car would come. The middle of nowhere—a lone man don't look right. If I had to run, I'd run. But not yet.
I could see the road widen out up
“The whole damn idea's to keep 'em in here.”
Whicher glances at Cornell from under the shade of his hat brim. “Something on your mind?”
“Nathaniel Childress,” says Cornell.
The sheriff looks at him. “Who in hell's that?”
“Brother of Steven Childress—the shooter at the bank. Older brother. Recent suicide.” Cornell takes off his sunglasses. “You're going to like this marshal.”
“Why's that?”
“He was US Marine Corps. Alongside Gilman James. Invalided out...”
Whicher picks the Ruger revolver off the Chevy roof. He slips it back in the shoulder holster, closes the thumb-break and pulls the Glock off the roof—gunbelt uncoiling, like a snake.
He straps it around the waist of his gray suit pants. “You want to know what gives me the shits...”
He starts walking fast, boots clipping across the highway—Sheriff Emory and Agent Cornell pulled along in his wake.
“If these guys come in out of the hills—they can do some serious damage. I got me a feeling—and it ain't a good one.”
The two men follow Whicher across the highway. Down the southern approach, towards a white Border Patrol SUV—angled across the road.
“Officer,” says the marshal.
The uniformed man turns his head, rifle still resting on the roof.
“I take a look down that scope?”
“Yes, sir. Not a problem.” He holds out the M4 Carbine.
Whicher looks into the telescopic sight, down the flat highway. Waves of heat shimmer in the magnified lens. On an empty, dust-blown road. With a ridge of mountain framing the horizon. He lines the reticle on a withered fence post. “What's the range on this?”
“Lethal range is five hundred meters. Wing 'em at six.”
“Good. Alright. How many vehicles y'all stopped so far today?”
“Hundred plus.”
“That's it?”
“That's a bunch, for here, Marshal.”
“Y'all keep a damn good watch on 'em coming. Be ready to open fire. You hear me?”
“I'll be ready, sir.”
Highway 118, outside of Alpine.
I stood on the road. Tennille held the shotgun at me, through the open door.
She hadn't fired. Not yet.
I stepped away from the truck a pace. Heart racing.
She kept the shotgun on me. She climbed out from the back seat. Stood by her truck.
I backed away, slow. I wasn't running.
She raised the shotgun up to her shoulder. Locked eyes on mine.
There was just the sound of the engine, idling.
Tennille staring down the sights.
Put it all on her.
“I'm walking. You can shoot me right here. Or you can meet me in Alpine.”
The black muzzle never wavered.
I thought of my life. Ending. On that road. In the desert, in the blinding sun. Lives I'd seen end that way. Strange sense. At the death.
She glared at me. The stock of the gun tight in at her shoulder.
“Before you reach town. Half a mile from here. There's a dirt track.”
She took a step sideways—towards the open driver's door.
“It's off the highway. You'll see it coming in at the left.” She dropped the shotgun to her waist. “Find the track. Head up it. Then make a right.”
I looked at her.
“Cross the rail tracks. Get on Main. Holland Avenue, it's called.”
She bent into the driver's seat; shotgun still pointing at me.
“There's a grocery store. 11 th and Holland. You've got fifteen minutes.”
I watched, as she sat half in the truck. One foot still on the road.
“You got an alibi.”
“I'm not planning needing one.” She grabbed the door. Slammed it. And hit the gas.
I stood where I was, my breath coming shallow.
She disappeared from sight, down the road.
I walked fast. My gut twisting. Were we really doing this?
I made myself walk, not run.
Yard after yard along the highway.
Praying no car would come. The middle of nowhere—a lone man don't look right. If I had to run, I'd run. But not yet.
I could see the road widen out up
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