Read Online Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L’Amour
Tags: Usenet
Ads: Link
toes.
Stupidly he swung his gun up, staring over it. The gun seemed awfully heavy. He must get a smaller one. That gun opposite him blossomed with rose again, and something struck him again in the stomach. He started to speak, half turning toward the men in front of the stage station, his mouth opening and closing.
Something was wrong with him, he tried to say. Why, everyone knew he was the fastest man in Wyoming, unless it was Shute! Everyone knew that! The heavy gun in his hand bucked and he saw the flame stab at the ground. He dropped the gun, swayed, and then fell flat on his face.
He would have to get up. He was going to kill that stranger, that Rafe Caradec. He would have to get up.
The numbness from his stomach climbed higher, and he suddenly felt himself in the saddle of a bucking horse, a monstrous and awful horse that leaped and plunged, and it was going up! Up! Up!
Then it came down hard, and he felt himself leave the saddle, all sprawled out. The horse had thrown him, bucked him off into the dust. He closed his hands spasmodically.
Rafe Caradec stood tall in the middle of the gunman’s walk, the black, walnut-stocked pistol in his right hand. He glanced once at the still figure sprawled in the street, and then his eyes lifted, sweeping the walks in swift, accurate appraisal. Only then, some instinct prodded his subconscious and warned him. There was the merest flicker of a curtain, and in the space between the curtain and the edge of the window, the black muzzle of a rifle!
His .44 lifted and the heavy gun bucked in his hand just as flame leaped from the rifle barrel and he felt quick, urgent fingers pluck at his sleeve. The .44 jolted again, and a rifle rattled on the shingled porch roof. The curtain made a tearing sound, and the head and shoulders of a man fell through, toppling over the sill. Overbalanced, the heels came up and the man’s body rolled over slowly, seemed to hesitate, and then rolled over again, poised an instant on the edge of the roof, and dropped soddenly into the dust.
Dust lifted from around the body and then settled back. Gee Bonaro thrust hard with one leg, and his face twisted a little.
In the quiet street there was no sound, no movement.
____________
F OR THE SPACE of a full half minute, the watchers held themselves, shocked by the sudden climax, stunned with unbelief. Trigger Boyne had been beaten to the draw and killed. Gee Bonaro had made his try and died.
Rafe Caradec turned slowly and walked back to his horse. Without a word he swung into the saddle. He turned the horse and, sitting tall in the saddle, swept the street with a cold, hard eye that seemed to stare at each man there. Then, as if by his own wish, the black horse turned. Walking slowly, his head held proudly, he carried his rider down the street and out of town.
Behind him coolly and without smiles, Bo Marsh and Tex Brisco followed. Like him, they rode slowly, and like him, they rode proudly. Something in their bearing seemed to say, “We were challenged. We came. You see the result.”
In the window of the National, Joe Benson chewed his mustache. He stared at the figure of Trigger Boyne with vague disquiet, and then irritation.
“Cuss it!” he muttered under his breath. “You was supposed to be a gunman. What in thunder was wrong with you?”
A bullet from Boyne’s gun, or from Bonaro’s for that matter, could have ended it all. A bullet now could settle the whole thing, quiet the gossip, remove the doubts, and leave Barkow free to marry Ann, and the whole business could go forward. Instead, they had failed.
It would be a long time now, Benson knew, before it was all over. A long time. Barkow was slipping. The man had better think fast and get something done. Rafe Caradec must die.
____________
T HE FORT LARAMIE Treaty of 1868 had forbidden white men to enter the Powder River country, yet gold discoveries brought prospectors north in increasing numbers. Small villages and mining camps had come
Stupidly he swung his gun up, staring over it. The gun seemed awfully heavy. He must get a smaller one. That gun opposite him blossomed with rose again, and something struck him again in the stomach. He started to speak, half turning toward the men in front of the stage station, his mouth opening and closing.
Something was wrong with him, he tried to say. Why, everyone knew he was the fastest man in Wyoming, unless it was Shute! Everyone knew that! The heavy gun in his hand bucked and he saw the flame stab at the ground. He dropped the gun, swayed, and then fell flat on his face.
He would have to get up. He was going to kill that stranger, that Rafe Caradec. He would have to get up.
The numbness from his stomach climbed higher, and he suddenly felt himself in the saddle of a bucking horse, a monstrous and awful horse that leaped and plunged, and it was going up! Up! Up!
Then it came down hard, and he felt himself leave the saddle, all sprawled out. The horse had thrown him, bucked him off into the dust. He closed his hands spasmodically.
Rafe Caradec stood tall in the middle of the gunman’s walk, the black, walnut-stocked pistol in his right hand. He glanced once at the still figure sprawled in the street, and then his eyes lifted, sweeping the walks in swift, accurate appraisal. Only then, some instinct prodded his subconscious and warned him. There was the merest flicker of a curtain, and in the space between the curtain and the edge of the window, the black muzzle of a rifle!
His .44 lifted and the heavy gun bucked in his hand just as flame leaped from the rifle barrel and he felt quick, urgent fingers pluck at his sleeve. The .44 jolted again, and a rifle rattled on the shingled porch roof. The curtain made a tearing sound, and the head and shoulders of a man fell through, toppling over the sill. Overbalanced, the heels came up and the man’s body rolled over slowly, seemed to hesitate, and then rolled over again, poised an instant on the edge of the roof, and dropped soddenly into the dust.
Dust lifted from around the body and then settled back. Gee Bonaro thrust hard with one leg, and his face twisted a little.
In the quiet street there was no sound, no movement.
____________
F OR THE SPACE of a full half minute, the watchers held themselves, shocked by the sudden climax, stunned with unbelief. Trigger Boyne had been beaten to the draw and killed. Gee Bonaro had made his try and died.
Rafe Caradec turned slowly and walked back to his horse. Without a word he swung into the saddle. He turned the horse and, sitting tall in the saddle, swept the street with a cold, hard eye that seemed to stare at each man there. Then, as if by his own wish, the black horse turned. Walking slowly, his head held proudly, he carried his rider down the street and out of town.
Behind him coolly and without smiles, Bo Marsh and Tex Brisco followed. Like him, they rode slowly, and like him, they rode proudly. Something in their bearing seemed to say, “We were challenged. We came. You see the result.”
In the window of the National, Joe Benson chewed his mustache. He stared at the figure of Trigger Boyne with vague disquiet, and then irritation.
“Cuss it!” he muttered under his breath. “You was supposed to be a gunman. What in thunder was wrong with you?”
A bullet from Boyne’s gun, or from Bonaro’s for that matter, could have ended it all. A bullet now could settle the whole thing, quiet the gossip, remove the doubts, and leave Barkow free to marry Ann, and the whole business could go forward. Instead, they had failed.
It would be a long time now, Benson knew, before it was all over. A long time. Barkow was slipping. The man had better think fast and get something done. Rafe Caradec must die.
____________
T HE FORT LARAMIE Treaty of 1868 had forbidden white men to enter the Powder River country, yet gold discoveries brought prospectors north in increasing numbers. Small villages and mining camps had come
Similar Books
