Read Online Bloody Season by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Tags: historical western
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flashing like Camilius Fly’s magnesium powder, day to night, Wednesday to Tuesday to Monday, faster and faster, day to night, October to September to August and the rainy season back to the heat and then the thaw and then snow. Make it March on the night the trouble started and let the dead tell their side.
Bud Philpot had the cramps. His stomach would gurgle and clench and bend him double so that he lost sight of the road except for the pale patch blurring between the traces. Worse, his fingers were frozen thick as sash weights and he couldn’t feel the reins between them. Driving a six-hitch team was like playing a piano and a man required his sense of touch. The lines would go slack in his hands and the team would slow down.
The sky was skittle-black, without stars, and the coach’s yellow side-lanterns reflected flatly off the flakes turning and tumbling out of it to the white tenting below. Snow clung fuzzily to the dormant mesquite bushes lining the road like heaps of bone. The horses panted and billowed white steam.
“Rein up, Bud, and go take a dump.”
The cramps were loosening a little. Philpot cracked his face enough to cock a grin at Bob Paul, the big clean-shaven man riding next to him with a Stevens ten-gauge across his blanketed lap. It was a young face with an old man’s mobility, the muscles underneath worn smooth and loose like the mechanism of a broken-in Winchester. “It’s a temptation,” he said, “but if I was to commence shitting now I won’t never stop and likely freeze to the ground and you’ll have to bust me loose with the butt of that splatter-gun.”
“Well, give me your seat then. I would just as soon die in a stage wreck as anyplace, but I would not want folks saying that Bob died of Bud’s runs.”
Philpot drew rein and leaned back on the brake. His fingers were too stiff to tie off and he handed both sets to Paul and let him climb over, sliding sideways into the messenger’s seat with a twinge in his bowels that made him curse.
Paul was an old driver and handled the horses by varying tension on the reins and with a series of vocalizations elaborate enough to signify language. He kept the shotgun across his thighs, adjusting its position now and again with an elbow when the vibration threatened to pitch it off. The coach was hauling seven passengers inside with the freight and an eighth in the dickey seat on top in the rear, huddled into a company bearskin with his hat pulled low. His name was Peter Roerig.
The Benson road, two ruts in the iron earth between the Dragoons to the east and the Whetstones to the west, was a succession of bootjacks and inclines lined with desert growth and rough as a slag heap. Philpot swore and clenched his sphincter at the jogs and lurches. It felt like he had a rock jammed up him.
A mile outside of Contention, Paul slowed down to climb a grade. The horses smelled woodsmoke from Drew’s Station and he fought them, bracing his heels against the footboard and applying and releasing the brake. The wheels jerked and pulled and slid on snow pounded flat and slick by the team’s hooves.
“Whoa, boys!”
In the light of the side-lanterns coming off the snow on the ground, a group of men in big hats and bandannas with yellow beards spilling out around them moved out from behind a skeletal clump of chaparral on the shoulder. Snow dusted their brims and the shoulders of their oilskins and their rifle barrels glistened black and wet.
At the shout, Bob Paul let the reins fall slack and swept up the shotgun. One of the rifles crashed. Philpot grunted, slapped his chest, and slid off the seat. Paul stuck out his left hand with three lines in it to snatch Philpot’s collar and heaved him back up. The stink of excrement washed over him in a wave. Other rifles had opened fire; balls were splitting the air around him. Feeling no pressure on the reins, the horses bolted up the grade, whinnying and splattering mud and snow into Paul’s face. He shouted
Bud Philpot had the cramps. His stomach would gurgle and clench and bend him double so that he lost sight of the road except for the pale patch blurring between the traces. Worse, his fingers were frozen thick as sash weights and he couldn’t feel the reins between them. Driving a six-hitch team was like playing a piano and a man required his sense of touch. The lines would go slack in his hands and the team would slow down.
The sky was skittle-black, without stars, and the coach’s yellow side-lanterns reflected flatly off the flakes turning and tumbling out of it to the white tenting below. Snow clung fuzzily to the dormant mesquite bushes lining the road like heaps of bone. The horses panted and billowed white steam.
“Rein up, Bud, and go take a dump.”
The cramps were loosening a little. Philpot cracked his face enough to cock a grin at Bob Paul, the big clean-shaven man riding next to him with a Stevens ten-gauge across his blanketed lap. It was a young face with an old man’s mobility, the muscles underneath worn smooth and loose like the mechanism of a broken-in Winchester. “It’s a temptation,” he said, “but if I was to commence shitting now I won’t never stop and likely freeze to the ground and you’ll have to bust me loose with the butt of that splatter-gun.”
“Well, give me your seat then. I would just as soon die in a stage wreck as anyplace, but I would not want folks saying that Bob died of Bud’s runs.”
Philpot drew rein and leaned back on the brake. His fingers were too stiff to tie off and he handed both sets to Paul and let him climb over, sliding sideways into the messenger’s seat with a twinge in his bowels that made him curse.
Paul was an old driver and handled the horses by varying tension on the reins and with a series of vocalizations elaborate enough to signify language. He kept the shotgun across his thighs, adjusting its position now and again with an elbow when the vibration threatened to pitch it off. The coach was hauling seven passengers inside with the freight and an eighth in the dickey seat on top in the rear, huddled into a company bearskin with his hat pulled low. His name was Peter Roerig.
The Benson road, two ruts in the iron earth between the Dragoons to the east and the Whetstones to the west, was a succession of bootjacks and inclines lined with desert growth and rough as a slag heap. Philpot swore and clenched his sphincter at the jogs and lurches. It felt like he had a rock jammed up him.
A mile outside of Contention, Paul slowed down to climb a grade. The horses smelled woodsmoke from Drew’s Station and he fought them, bracing his heels against the footboard and applying and releasing the brake. The wheels jerked and pulled and slid on snow pounded flat and slick by the team’s hooves.
“Whoa, boys!”
In the light of the side-lanterns coming off the snow on the ground, a group of men in big hats and bandannas with yellow beards spilling out around them moved out from behind a skeletal clump of chaparral on the shoulder. Snow dusted their brims and the shoulders of their oilskins and their rifle barrels glistened black and wet.
At the shout, Bob Paul let the reins fall slack and swept up the shotgun. One of the rifles crashed. Philpot grunted, slapped his chest, and slid off the seat. Paul stuck out his left hand with three lines in it to snatch Philpot’s collar and heaved him back up. The stink of excrement washed over him in a wave. Other rifles had opened fire; balls were splitting the air around him. Feeling no pressure on the reins, the horses bolted up the grade, whinnying and splattering mud and snow into Paul’s face. He shouted
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