Read Online Devil's Manhunt (Stories from the Golden Age) by L. Ron Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B

Eddy climb down and take them from the right side of the trail. Bill, you and Oofty take cover behind this rock. Mike, take the horses and get back out of range.”
    They had snapped a lead rope on Zeke’s mount. Big George led it off the trail and stood there, waiting. The desert wind was blowing colder through Zeke’s shirt. He heard the man called Mike taking the horses well off the trail and then hoofclicks over dry, hard stone. There was a riverbed near at hand.
    It was terribly dark. The stars in their brilliance made the earth seem blacker. The smell of sage was keen in the cold air.
    Something was coming from town now. The far-off rumble grew louder and the ground began to tremble under the pound of hoofs and coach wheels. It was traveling dark and traveling fast.
    It came nearer. Suddenly from both sides of the trail flame spat. The two lead horses, shot squarely, were two wrenching screams in the night. A shouting confusion swelled up with the unseen dust. More guns blasted, orange and blinding.
    Men swore. One last shot sounded and a groan died out. The man called Bill rode up.
    “They won’t tell nobody nothin’ now,” said Bill.
    “You sure?” said Big George.
    “Sure I’m sure,” said Bill.
    “Take this rope,” said Big George and rode toward the wrecked stage. Presently one final shot sounded and Big George came back. “You’d bungle everything if I didn’t wipe your noses for you. You got the pouch, Mike?”
    “I got it,” said Oofty.
    “Let’s ride,” said Bill nervously.
    “Not so fast,” said Big George. “All right, you.”
    He took hold of Zeke’s gag and ripped it loose. He hung the bridle on Zeke’s pommel.
    Zeke said nothing. He knew it wouldn’t do any good.
    “Give me that pouch,” said Big George. He took a sheaf of bills from it, and stuffed several by the edge under the cinch of Zeke’s saddle. Big George tested the lashings which secured Zeke’s legs and then put on two new ones, lower down.
    Zeke’s horse began to tremble. Big George was shoving something under the saddle blanket.
    “You take my advice,” said Big George, “and ride! The sheriff will be here in about twenty minutes. He’ll have a few friends and they’ll be plenty mad when they see them horses. The sheriff will shoot you on sight. My advice is ride.”
    He slashed the mount’s rump with his knife and the horse leaped forward. A quirt popped and the horse began to run, blindly, crazily, splitting the cold desert wind.

    He slashed the mount’s rump with his knife and the horse leaped forward. A quirt popped and the horse began to run, blindly, crazily, splitting the cold desert wind.
    Crazy with the cut and whatever was under the blanket—driven down by each leap—the horse reached across the range, slashing through sage, stumbling and springing up again.
    Zeke knew why he was there now. To make a trail while the others took a streambed. He knew why Les Harmon had given up a prisoner. Sometime since, the sheriff would have been “surprised” by the far-off gunfire and would have ridden forth with the mine company’s friends in town. It was coldblooded, it would work. They must have done it before.
    The maddened horse raced on. They would count on Zeke’s attempts to free himself. He determined he would not. Let the mine company find him as he was.
    And then the horse nearly plunged off a cliff and went careening over a slide. Zeke began to contort himself to get at the lashings on his legs and feet.
    The horse had obviously not come from town. He had no destination. He was running with pain and whatever was under the saddle blanket. Zeke got the lashings off one leg. And then fate at once hurt and helped him.
    The horse went into a hole and the snap of its breaking leg was loud. It fell on its neck and toward the side Zeke had freed. Stunned, Zeke rose in a little while from the dead mount and unwound the lashings from his other leg.
    He was unsteady and sick, badly shaken and scared.