Read Online Last Lawman (9781101611456) by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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Her pale legs were bare. She wore no shoes.
Erin stood frozen in place before the mercantile’s front door, staring out, her heart quickening dreadfully, palms tingling. The gang leader in the feathered top hat sat his horse straight out before her, about fifty feet off the mercantile’s loading dock. As more people gathered on the boardwalks around him, he lifted his chin and flared his nostrils and shouted, “I am Clell Stanhope and we are the gang known far and wide as the Vultures!”
The townsmen all looked at each other fearfully and shifted their feet on the boardwalks.
Their reaction apparently pleased Stanhope. He shaped a grin that made the two vultures tattooed on his cheeks spread their wings, and said, “Heard of us, have ye? Well, don’t fret. We’re just here to pack on some trail supplies and git on our way. Won’t pay for ’em, of course. If that’s a problem for any of you, please step out and say so now or forever hold your peace!”
A man had been walking along the far side of the street, heading toward the gang. Erin recognized town marshal Jake Mercer, saw the five-pointed tin star pinned to his blue shirt. The mule ears of his boots flapped as he walked, and the brim of his floppy felt hat bent in the breeze, flickering shade across his freckled, clean-shaven face.
Erin’s insides coiled when she saw Mercer approach the group, stop, and point a finger at Stanhope. “You, sir, are not wanted here. You’re outlaws. Common trail wolves. And if you think you’re going to loot my town, you have another think comin’!”
“That a fact?” Stanhope leaned forward on his saddle horn, regarding the lawman amusedly.
Mercer’s hard, authoritative look softened. His eyes flicked across the gang before him, gradually acquiring a fearful cast. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Stanhope’s right hand whipped across his belly. He brought up the savage-looking shotgun hanging from his neck by a wide leather lanyard. The gun exploded in his hand. It sounded like three sticks of dynamite going off.
Mercer jerked as though he’d been hit by lightning. He flew straight back into a water trough. The water splashed out of the trough, then closed over his lolling, lifeless body, arms and legs dangling down the trough’s wooden sides, his hat riding the surface above his forehead and squeezed-shut eyes.
“Ohh!”
Erin heard the exclamation explode from her throat as she opened the door and fairly bounded outside, fury and exasperation boiling through her.
As she marched across the loading dock toward the front steps, Stanhope jerked his head and shotgun toward her, narrowing one eye as he stared down the barrel at her.
“Ma!”
Erin froze, then whipped her head to the left. Her son, Jim, stood across the near side street, under the porch awning fronting Burnside’s Harness Shop. Earlier, she’d sent the ten-year-old out running errands, and he must have been heading back to the mercantile when the gang had ridden into town. Jim was a small, wiry lad with straight brown bangs cropped just above his eyebrows, beneath the brim of his floppy felt hat. His horrified eyes bored into those of his equally horrified mother.
“Stay there, son!” she yelled, throwing out a waylaying hand and turning back to Stanhope.
The outlaw slid his gaze to the boy, then returned it to Erin. He was still holding the cocked shotgun on her, his gloved hand steady. His evil, faintly sneering eyes flicked down her body and back up again, acquiring a cast of lusty approval.
His eyes glinted, and then he swung the pistol around at the other townsfolk, mostly men but also a few ladies in sunbonnets who’d been out shopping, standing around in hushed awe.
Bean Wilson and Edgar Longbow, who owned shops near where the sheriff flopped in the stock trough, walked meekly over to the lawman, casting their terror-racked gazes from Mercer to the Vultures sitting their horses in the middle of the broad street. Bean held a
Erin stood frozen in place before the mercantile’s front door, staring out, her heart quickening dreadfully, palms tingling. The gang leader in the feathered top hat sat his horse straight out before her, about fifty feet off the mercantile’s loading dock. As more people gathered on the boardwalks around him, he lifted his chin and flared his nostrils and shouted, “I am Clell Stanhope and we are the gang known far and wide as the Vultures!”
The townsmen all looked at each other fearfully and shifted their feet on the boardwalks.
Their reaction apparently pleased Stanhope. He shaped a grin that made the two vultures tattooed on his cheeks spread their wings, and said, “Heard of us, have ye? Well, don’t fret. We’re just here to pack on some trail supplies and git on our way. Won’t pay for ’em, of course. If that’s a problem for any of you, please step out and say so now or forever hold your peace!”
A man had been walking along the far side of the street, heading toward the gang. Erin recognized town marshal Jake Mercer, saw the five-pointed tin star pinned to his blue shirt. The mule ears of his boots flapped as he walked, and the brim of his floppy felt hat bent in the breeze, flickering shade across his freckled, clean-shaven face.
Erin’s insides coiled when she saw Mercer approach the group, stop, and point a finger at Stanhope. “You, sir, are not wanted here. You’re outlaws. Common trail wolves. And if you think you’re going to loot my town, you have another think comin’!”
“That a fact?” Stanhope leaned forward on his saddle horn, regarding the lawman amusedly.
Mercer’s hard, authoritative look softened. His eyes flicked across the gang before him, gradually acquiring a fearful cast. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Stanhope’s right hand whipped across his belly. He brought up the savage-looking shotgun hanging from his neck by a wide leather lanyard. The gun exploded in his hand. It sounded like three sticks of dynamite going off.
Mercer jerked as though he’d been hit by lightning. He flew straight back into a water trough. The water splashed out of the trough, then closed over his lolling, lifeless body, arms and legs dangling down the trough’s wooden sides, his hat riding the surface above his forehead and squeezed-shut eyes.
“Ohh!”
Erin heard the exclamation explode from her throat as she opened the door and fairly bounded outside, fury and exasperation boiling through her.
As she marched across the loading dock toward the front steps, Stanhope jerked his head and shotgun toward her, narrowing one eye as he stared down the barrel at her.
“Ma!”
Erin froze, then whipped her head to the left. Her son, Jim, stood across the near side street, under the porch awning fronting Burnside’s Harness Shop. Earlier, she’d sent the ten-year-old out running errands, and he must have been heading back to the mercantile when the gang had ridden into town. Jim was a small, wiry lad with straight brown bangs cropped just above his eyebrows, beneath the brim of his floppy felt hat. His horrified eyes bored into those of his equally horrified mother.
“Stay there, son!” she yelled, throwing out a waylaying hand and turning back to Stanhope.
The outlaw slid his gaze to the boy, then returned it to Erin. He was still holding the cocked shotgun on her, his gloved hand steady. His evil, faintly sneering eyes flicked down her body and back up again, acquiring a cast of lusty approval.
His eyes glinted, and then he swung the pistol around at the other townsfolk, mostly men but also a few ladies in sunbonnets who’d been out shopping, standing around in hushed awe.
Bean Wilson and Edgar Longbow, who owned shops near where the sheriff flopped in the stock trough, walked meekly over to the lawman, casting their terror-racked gazes from Mercer to the Vultures sitting their horses in the middle of the broad street. Bean held a
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