Read Online Last Lawman (9781101611456) by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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broom in one hand. Edgar Longbow, short and paunchy, stretched his pink cheeks back from his teeth in revulsion. Neither man was armed. In fact, she knew of few citizens in Sweetwater who went around with a pistol lashed to his hip. The only men she usually saw wearing pistols around here were cowpunchers from area ranches, in town for fun or business, or the occasional market hunters who visited Sweetwater for ammunition and trail supplies.
Erin could tell by the druggist’s expression as he peered down at Mercer that the town’s only lawman, the only man here who routinely carried a gun, was dead.
“Anyone got anything they wanna get off their chests?” Stanhope said, looking around at the fearful faces staring back at him.
An eerie hush had fallen over the town. There was only Stanhope’s voice, echoing around the false fronts of the main street. His cream duster blew out around him. His savage gun smoked in his hand.
“All right, then.” The gang leader let the gun dangle freely down his chest. “We’ll just be doin’ our business and be on our way.”
He rode back through the gang, yelling orders that Erin could only hear pieces of, when Stanhope turned his head toward her as his grulla clomped along the street. She turned to Jim, her heart racing, wanting only to get the boy out of harm’s way. She beckoned him off down the side street, then turned back toward the main street when she heard hooves clomping loudly.
Stanhope rode toward her, the man’s ugly face hard, his eyes—one brown, one gray—bright and leering as they roamed over her, more slowly this time. The men around him were yelling and howling and galloping off toward the various shops, a couple triggering pistols into the air. The men of Sweetwater yelled and the women screamed, scattering, some ducking into shops, others running off down the breaks between buildings.
“While you fellas are gettin’ whiskey and guns an’ ammo an’ such,” Stanhope shouted as he put his horse up to the hitchrack fronting Erin’s store, “I do believe I’ll lay in a few dry goods over here at the mercantile!”
Erin stared at the man. Her heart drummed a war rhythm in her chest. She wrung her hands against her belly and backed away, hating her fear. She had several rifles inside—none loaded, all for sale—but she should make a break forone of the new Winchesters and at least try to shove some shells into its breech. She, like all the others in Sweetwater, should at least
try
to defend themselves.
What were they, sheep helpless against this pack of bloodthirsty wolves they’d all heard so much about—the Vultures?
Stanhope tossed his horse’s reins over the hitchrack, then, staring at her with that horrible, hard, ugly face with the vulture tattoos on his cheeks, with those pitiless, flintlike, mismatched eyes boring into her, raking her like invisible hands, he mounted the steps of the loading dock. His boots drummed a staccato rhythm on the boards, his large-roweled spurs ringing raucously.
Rage trickled over her fear. She hardened her jaws and her eyes and held his gaze with a cold, stubborn one of her own.
“Everything I have is for sale. I don’t give handouts to cutthroats.”
He stopped before her, towering over her, and stared brashly down at her heaving breasts. He smiled, showing the ends of his sharp eyeteeth beneath his thick, dusty, sweat-damp mustache, as he returned his gaze to her face. “How ’bout you? You for sale?”
Erin said nothing. He waited, his eyes mocking her. Around her she could hear the gang shooting their pistols and yelling like wolves as they sacked the other stores. Vaguely, she recognized the pleas of several shop owners, but these were drowned by the echoing reports of the guns and the screeching of breaking glass.
“Nah,” Stanhope said finally. “You’re as much a handout as anything else in this town.”
His big, gloved hand lashed toward her like a striking snake, grabbing the front of
Erin could tell by the druggist’s expression as he peered down at Mercer that the town’s only lawman, the only man here who routinely carried a gun, was dead.
“Anyone got anything they wanna get off their chests?” Stanhope said, looking around at the fearful faces staring back at him.
An eerie hush had fallen over the town. There was only Stanhope’s voice, echoing around the false fronts of the main street. His cream duster blew out around him. His savage gun smoked in his hand.
“All right, then.” The gang leader let the gun dangle freely down his chest. “We’ll just be doin’ our business and be on our way.”
He rode back through the gang, yelling orders that Erin could only hear pieces of, when Stanhope turned his head toward her as his grulla clomped along the street. She turned to Jim, her heart racing, wanting only to get the boy out of harm’s way. She beckoned him off down the side street, then turned back toward the main street when she heard hooves clomping loudly.
Stanhope rode toward her, the man’s ugly face hard, his eyes—one brown, one gray—bright and leering as they roamed over her, more slowly this time. The men around him were yelling and howling and galloping off toward the various shops, a couple triggering pistols into the air. The men of Sweetwater yelled and the women screamed, scattering, some ducking into shops, others running off down the breaks between buildings.
“While you fellas are gettin’ whiskey and guns an’ ammo an’ such,” Stanhope shouted as he put his horse up to the hitchrack fronting Erin’s store, “I do believe I’ll lay in a few dry goods over here at the mercantile!”
Erin stared at the man. Her heart drummed a war rhythm in her chest. She wrung her hands against her belly and backed away, hating her fear. She had several rifles inside—none loaded, all for sale—but she should make a break forone of the new Winchesters and at least try to shove some shells into its breech. She, like all the others in Sweetwater, should at least
try
to defend themselves.
What were they, sheep helpless against this pack of bloodthirsty wolves they’d all heard so much about—the Vultures?
Stanhope tossed his horse’s reins over the hitchrack, then, staring at her with that horrible, hard, ugly face with the vulture tattoos on his cheeks, with those pitiless, flintlike, mismatched eyes boring into her, raking her like invisible hands, he mounted the steps of the loading dock. His boots drummed a staccato rhythm on the boards, his large-roweled spurs ringing raucously.
Rage trickled over her fear. She hardened her jaws and her eyes and held his gaze with a cold, stubborn one of her own.
“Everything I have is for sale. I don’t give handouts to cutthroats.”
He stopped before her, towering over her, and stared brashly down at her heaving breasts. He smiled, showing the ends of his sharp eyeteeth beneath his thick, dusty, sweat-damp mustache, as he returned his gaze to her face. “How ’bout you? You for sale?”
Erin said nothing. He waited, his eyes mocking her. Around her she could hear the gang shooting their pistols and yelling like wolves as they sacked the other stores. Vaguely, she recognized the pleas of several shop owners, but these were drowned by the echoing reports of the guns and the screeching of breaking glass.
“Nah,” Stanhope said finally. “You’re as much a handout as anything else in this town.”
His big, gloved hand lashed toward her like a striking snake, grabbing the front of
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