Read Online Devil's Manhunt (Stories from the Golden Age) by L. Ron Hubbard - Free Book Online
Authors: L. Ron Hubbard
Tags: Western
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Johnny let him get up and knocked him squarely down again. George rose a second time and went down a second time. He tottered to his feet a third and went suddenly backwards into a water trough where, except for the mercy of his opponent, he most certainly would have drowned.
Sudden Johnny brought him back to the walk and dumped him down much like a man dumps a sack of spuds. His four Texicans came out, bringing what was left of Bart’s crew.
It was a very quiet town. A very quiet, deserted town.
I t is rumored that George Bart paid back fifteen thousand that day as well as a poke of brass filings found in his possession. It is also rumored that George Bart sold his town, some say for ten thousand, others for eight.
The truth of the matter is, as Spanish Mike afterward told while deeply drunk, George presented the whole place to Sudden Johnny when he saw the state of that warehouse; presented it, and took the first train out for points unknown.
The state of the warehouse, gloated Spanish Mike, was at once a wonderful and dreadful thing to see.
Stranger in Town
Stranger in Town
T HE stranger came riding through the hot white dust, and Zeke Tomlin stared.
It was a broiling afternoon in Dry Creek and few were abroad. Even the dogs failed to move out of the stranger’s path, but lay sluggish in their hollows of sand and suffered their fleas to bite. A drunken Indian was weaving an erratic course between the ’dobe houses of the single street, stopping now and then to shake a bottle at an imaginary foe. The stranger came abreast of the Indian and the redman straightened, looked up and sobered a little.
Hunger was on the stranger’s face and guns, like a stamp. Man-hunger, with kill in his eyes.
Zeke Tomlin had been wiping the packing grease from a buffalo rifle. He looked at it and put it down. It was cool in the hardware store but there were no visitors. Zeke, the clerk, was alone behind the counter. A rack of guns backed him, each newly taken from its case. Zeke looked up at the stranger and felt sick and hot.
It was a long time back to Mesa. Nine months. It was a long time back to the hunted trail he had followed away from there. He had thought it was all done and forgotten. And here was Les Harmon, riding through the hot white dust, come to kill him.
It is a terrible thing to be hunted, Zeke knew that. He could see the faces of dead men now, between the storefront and the street. Les Harmon, the sheriff of Mesa, would shoot on sight and shoot to kill.
What would they think of Zeke Tomlin in Dry Creek then? He was respected. He could mend their saddles and stand up to their poker bluffs. He said “Howdy” to the marshal and voted in the elections. But he had only been there nine months. He was a stranger in town.
He was a stranger in town who had come riding one dusk on a wind-broken horse to fall from his saddle over by the Golden Horn. They’d given him water and they’d found him a job. He had stayed. He had never quite belonged, some of these men had known each other all their lives.
If Les Harmon told them the story, they’d be ashamed they’d known Zeke; they’d believe a lawman. Dry Creek’s marshal, Tom Brennerman, would buy Les a drink and the man from Mesa would ride away. If Zeke yelled now, Harmon would tell what he knew. If he didn’t yell, Harmon would kill him. If he killed Harmon—well, they hanged a man who killed the law, didn’t they?
Zeke’s throat was dry and hot. He looked across to see Les Harmon watering his horse in front of the Golden Horn. Harmon would flash his badge and ask for Zeke Tomlin. Then he’d come across the street—Zeke tried to swallow and found he couldn’t.
There was no sense in running. Dry Creek was the only town in this large cattle basin, beyond that the desert was dry and wide and a horse left tracks. And then there was his leg. He had not done much riding after Les Harmon’s .44 had taken him nine months and more ago.
He was caught. Time
Johnny let him get up and knocked him squarely down again. George rose a second time and went down a second time. He tottered to his feet a third and went suddenly backwards into a water trough where, except for the mercy of his opponent, he most certainly would have drowned.
Sudden Johnny brought him back to the walk and dumped him down much like a man dumps a sack of spuds. His four Texicans came out, bringing what was left of Bart’s crew.
It was a very quiet town. A very quiet, deserted town.
I t is rumored that George Bart paid back fifteen thousand that day as well as a poke of brass filings found in his possession. It is also rumored that George Bart sold his town, some say for ten thousand, others for eight.
The truth of the matter is, as Spanish Mike afterward told while deeply drunk, George presented the whole place to Sudden Johnny when he saw the state of that warehouse; presented it, and took the first train out for points unknown.
The state of the warehouse, gloated Spanish Mike, was at once a wonderful and dreadful thing to see.
Stranger in Town
Stranger in Town
T HE stranger came riding through the hot white dust, and Zeke Tomlin stared.
It was a broiling afternoon in Dry Creek and few were abroad. Even the dogs failed to move out of the stranger’s path, but lay sluggish in their hollows of sand and suffered their fleas to bite. A drunken Indian was weaving an erratic course between the ’dobe houses of the single street, stopping now and then to shake a bottle at an imaginary foe. The stranger came abreast of the Indian and the redman straightened, looked up and sobered a little.
Hunger was on the stranger’s face and guns, like a stamp. Man-hunger, with kill in his eyes.
Zeke Tomlin had been wiping the packing grease from a buffalo rifle. He looked at it and put it down. It was cool in the hardware store but there were no visitors. Zeke, the clerk, was alone behind the counter. A rack of guns backed him, each newly taken from its case. Zeke looked up at the stranger and felt sick and hot.
It was a long time back to Mesa. Nine months. It was a long time back to the hunted trail he had followed away from there. He had thought it was all done and forgotten. And here was Les Harmon, riding through the hot white dust, come to kill him.
It is a terrible thing to be hunted, Zeke knew that. He could see the faces of dead men now, between the storefront and the street. Les Harmon, the sheriff of Mesa, would shoot on sight and shoot to kill.
What would they think of Zeke Tomlin in Dry Creek then? He was respected. He could mend their saddles and stand up to their poker bluffs. He said “Howdy” to the marshal and voted in the elections. But he had only been there nine months. He was a stranger in town.
He was a stranger in town who had come riding one dusk on a wind-broken horse to fall from his saddle over by the Golden Horn. They’d given him water and they’d found him a job. He had stayed. He had never quite belonged, some of these men had known each other all their lives.
If Les Harmon told them the story, they’d be ashamed they’d known Zeke; they’d believe a lawman. Dry Creek’s marshal, Tom Brennerman, would buy Les a drink and the man from Mesa would ride away. If Zeke yelled now, Harmon would tell what he knew. If he didn’t yell, Harmon would kill him. If he killed Harmon—well, they hanged a man who killed the law, didn’t they?
Zeke’s throat was dry and hot. He looked across to see Les Harmon watering his horse in front of the Golden Horn. Harmon would flash his badge and ask for Zeke Tomlin. Then he’d come across the street—Zeke tried to swallow and found he couldn’t.
There was no sense in running. Dry Creek was the only town in this large cattle basin, beyond that the desert was dry and wide and a horse left tracks. And then there was his leg. He had not done much riding after Les Harmon’s .44 had taken him nine months and more ago.
He was caught. Time
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