Read Online Desert of the Damned by Nelson Nye - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nelson Nye
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coming fast and had a gun in his fist — ”
“He had a .45-90 last time you told it.”
Ben said patiently, “That’s a gun, isn’t it?”
“Never heard it called — ”
“You’re hearin’ it now.” Ben clutched the horn harder. “I thought this bird was going to ride me down. Like I said, he was looking back over his shoulder. I yelled at him. He came around like a twister and whipped up his rifle. That first slug missed. I flung a couple back, not so much out of anger as to wake the fool up. That was when I seen the color of his eyes.”
Ben’s glance roved their faces. He said finally, desperately, “His next shot connected but he was already whirling when I piled from the saddle.”
There was no belief in the look Chet gave him. That sardonic stare was cold as a well chain. “An’ then?”
“I got on my horse again — ”
“Just climbed right up on him?”
“It took me a little while,” Ben said.
“But you finally got on him. Then what’d you do?”
Ben closed his eyes to try and clear his focus. “I stopped at a friend’s — ”
“What’s the name of this friend?”
“That won’t make any difference. He wasn’t home. I patched myself up and got into this shirt — ”
“Why’d you change your pants?”
Chet’s words hit Ben like the flat of a hammer. For one stunned moment he tried to consider what thoughts had prompted them. But their implications, like the man’s jeering face, danced out of his reach; and a gathering blackness rushed across his vision. He knew that he was falling but he couldn’t stop himself.
7. RELENTLESS ENEMY
I T WAS heat that fetched Reifel out of the blackness.
He couldn’t seem to get hold of his breath and there was weight against his lungs and a searing pain that he could not get away from.
He imagined some fool had built a fire on his chest. He tried to brush it off. He tried to wriggle out from under it and finally, in desperation, he attempted to roll over, hoping to smother it with his body.
But his body wouldn’t function. His telegraphed demand flew along his nerves with the familiar urgence but nothing came of it. He was like a man in the grip of a nightmare, and then it came to him with the jarring impact of utter conviction that he was paralyzed. It was fright of this notion which clawed his faculties awake.
His jerked-open eyes found night still around him. What he’d imagined to be the roaring of flames was nothing more ominous than wind in the willows. The suffocating sense of heat on his chest was the result of a blanket tossed carelessly across him; but he could not put down the growing feel of urgence, the dire sense of peril which was hemming him in. He lay flat on his back in the full glare of moonlight, exposed as a fish in a bowl of water.
God, but he was thirsty! His throat felt parched as a burned-dry pan. Every pore of his tissues cried out for moisture.
He could not think where he was for a moment or how he could ever have been so brash as to ignore the rudimentary precautions of his trade. Then it all came back in a breath-taking rush — the fight with Turner at the plundered cache, Breen’s attempt to kill him and the subsequent flight which had been stopped at the ford when he’d run into Lafe’s posse.
He remembered then with the numbness of despair the jeering look on Chefs face and the cat-and-mouse way that big man’s questions had been cutting the ground out from under him. He remembered his own mounting sense of frustration as, with each frantic jump, he’d been bogged more deeply in the lies Chet encouraged to put a rope around his neck.
He strained his ears to catch some sound behind the moan of the wind in the willows and the nearby murmur of running water. Where was Chet now? Where were the rest of them? What had happened at this crossing after the weakness of exhaustion had sent him tumbling from the saddle? After Chet’s adroit questions they would hardly have been minded to let the
“He had a .45-90 last time you told it.”
Ben said patiently, “That’s a gun, isn’t it?”
“Never heard it called — ”
“You’re hearin’ it now.” Ben clutched the horn harder. “I thought this bird was going to ride me down. Like I said, he was looking back over his shoulder. I yelled at him. He came around like a twister and whipped up his rifle. That first slug missed. I flung a couple back, not so much out of anger as to wake the fool up. That was when I seen the color of his eyes.”
Ben’s glance roved their faces. He said finally, desperately, “His next shot connected but he was already whirling when I piled from the saddle.”
There was no belief in the look Chet gave him. That sardonic stare was cold as a well chain. “An’ then?”
“I got on my horse again — ”
“Just climbed right up on him?”
“It took me a little while,” Ben said.
“But you finally got on him. Then what’d you do?”
Ben closed his eyes to try and clear his focus. “I stopped at a friend’s — ”
“What’s the name of this friend?”
“That won’t make any difference. He wasn’t home. I patched myself up and got into this shirt — ”
“Why’d you change your pants?”
Chet’s words hit Ben like the flat of a hammer. For one stunned moment he tried to consider what thoughts had prompted them. But their implications, like the man’s jeering face, danced out of his reach; and a gathering blackness rushed across his vision. He knew that he was falling but he couldn’t stop himself.
7. RELENTLESS ENEMY
I T WAS heat that fetched Reifel out of the blackness.
He couldn’t seem to get hold of his breath and there was weight against his lungs and a searing pain that he could not get away from.
He imagined some fool had built a fire on his chest. He tried to brush it off. He tried to wriggle out from under it and finally, in desperation, he attempted to roll over, hoping to smother it with his body.
But his body wouldn’t function. His telegraphed demand flew along his nerves with the familiar urgence but nothing came of it. He was like a man in the grip of a nightmare, and then it came to him with the jarring impact of utter conviction that he was paralyzed. It was fright of this notion which clawed his faculties awake.
His jerked-open eyes found night still around him. What he’d imagined to be the roaring of flames was nothing more ominous than wind in the willows. The suffocating sense of heat on his chest was the result of a blanket tossed carelessly across him; but he could not put down the growing feel of urgence, the dire sense of peril which was hemming him in. He lay flat on his back in the full glare of moonlight, exposed as a fish in a bowl of water.
God, but he was thirsty! His throat felt parched as a burned-dry pan. Every pore of his tissues cried out for moisture.
He could not think where he was for a moment or how he could ever have been so brash as to ignore the rudimentary precautions of his trade. Then it all came back in a breath-taking rush — the fight with Turner at the plundered cache, Breen’s attempt to kill him and the subsequent flight which had been stopped at the ford when he’d run into Lafe’s posse.
He remembered then with the numbness of despair the jeering look on Chefs face and the cat-and-mouse way that big man’s questions had been cutting the ground out from under him. He remembered his own mounting sense of frustration as, with each frantic jump, he’d been bogged more deeply in the lies Chet encouraged to put a rope around his neck.
He strained his ears to catch some sound behind the moan of the wind in the willows and the nearby murmur of running water. Where was Chet now? Where were the rest of them? What had happened at this crossing after the weakness of exhaustion had sent him tumbling from the saddle? After Chet’s adroit questions they would hardly have been minded to let the