Read Online Lookout Hill (9781101606735) by Ralph W. Cotton - Free Book Online
Authors: Ralph W. Cotton
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thrashed wildly, the bush swinging in the air, a shotgun exploded from behind the lamplight.
The little dog let out a yelp, as if the gunshot had actually hit him. The big dog froze in place with its wet jaws clamped around the side of Siebert’s head. Silence fell instantly over the chaotic scene.
“Turn him loose, Big!” a voice commanded behind the cloud of looming gun smoke. The mongrel opened his jaws and let Siebert’s head drop like a rock. But he stood panting, his big front paws planted on the mauled outlaw’s chest, staring down at him with bloody drool swinging from his flews. A low growl persisted in the dog’s throat.
Siebert groaned in pain and fell to the side, the pocket pistol still in hand. The little black-and-white-spotted feist sat down on its hindquarters and whined anxiously.
“Mother of God,” Siebert moaned.
“
Deje caer su fusil! Sea rápido acerca de ello!
” said the voice in the flickering circle of lamplight.
“Wha-what?” said Siebert. “I mean,
No
hablo Mexicano!
” He held up his bloody free hand between himself and the big dog as the dog’s low, menacing growl grew louder.
“I said
drop your gun and be quick about it,
” the man repeated in English. “How come you don’t speak
Mex
?” he asked, sounding suspicious.
“Because I’m not a Mex!” Siebert said quickly, gasping for breath against the weight of the big dog. “That’s why I don’t speak Mex. Please get this dog off me!”
“I won’t tolerate thieving Mexes around here,” the voice went on.
Siebert saw the shotgun barrels leveled down at him, one of them curling smoke.
“Jesus! This
is Mexico
!” Siebert reasoned. The growling grew more intense; the little dog joined in, springing up onto its tiny paws.
“All the more my concern,” the voice said. “Mex or no Mex, drop the gun or I’ll kill you where you sit.”
Damn my hide!
His impulse was to turn the Colt toward the man and pull the trigger, but in a flash, it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember if the little Colt was a five- or a six-shot—not only that, but he couldn’t remember how many times he’d fired it.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it to everlasting hell!
Siebert let the Colt Pocket fall from his hand.
“There, it’s dropped. What do you want from me?” he said, sounding like the one being put upon. “I only pulled it because your damn dogs were eating me alive.”
At the sound of Siebert raising his voice, both dogs growled with renewed vigor.
“Get back, Big. Get back, Little,” the man commanded the two dogs.
Big and Little, these sons a’ bitches….
With the big mongrel’s weight off his chest, Siebert sat up, bloody from head to waist from dog bites, his shirt shredded down the front. His chest wound was throbbing. The big crucifix swung from its rawhide strip around his neck.
“Are you a man of faith, then?” the voice asked. The circling light came in closer. “I can see you’re not a Mex.”
“Mister,
faith
ain’t even the word for it,” Siebert said. “If it wasn’t for this cross I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Oh…?” The man seemed to consider it. “What are you doing coming around here unannounced, the middle of the night?”
Unannounced?
Siebert looked around. He was over two hundred yards from the house, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Instead he shook his lowered head.
“I don’t know,” he replied in defeat. “Just being plain stupid, I guess.”
The man chuckled behind the flickering lamp as he opened the shotgun and slipped a fresh load in the empty barrel.
“Here that, boys?” he said to the growling dogs, snapping the shotgun shut. “Just stupid, he guesses.” He tucked the shotgun under his arm and reached a hand down to Siebert. “Here, come on up from there. Let’s go get you looked at.” He clasped Siebert’s handfirmly and pulled. “Can you eat something, Mr…. ?” He trailed his words.
“Howard, John Logan Howard, and, yes, I could eat
The little dog let out a yelp, as if the gunshot had actually hit him. The big dog froze in place with its wet jaws clamped around the side of Siebert’s head. Silence fell instantly over the chaotic scene.
“Turn him loose, Big!” a voice commanded behind the cloud of looming gun smoke. The mongrel opened his jaws and let Siebert’s head drop like a rock. But he stood panting, his big front paws planted on the mauled outlaw’s chest, staring down at him with bloody drool swinging from his flews. A low growl persisted in the dog’s throat.
Siebert groaned in pain and fell to the side, the pocket pistol still in hand. The little black-and-white-spotted feist sat down on its hindquarters and whined anxiously.
“Mother of God,” Siebert moaned.
“
Deje caer su fusil! Sea rápido acerca de ello!
” said the voice in the flickering circle of lamplight.
“Wha-what?” said Siebert. “I mean,
No
hablo Mexicano!
” He held up his bloody free hand between himself and the big dog as the dog’s low, menacing growl grew louder.
“I said
drop your gun and be quick about it,
” the man repeated in English. “How come you don’t speak
Mex
?” he asked, sounding suspicious.
“Because I’m not a Mex!” Siebert said quickly, gasping for breath against the weight of the big dog. “That’s why I don’t speak Mex. Please get this dog off me!”
“I won’t tolerate thieving Mexes around here,” the voice went on.
Siebert saw the shotgun barrels leveled down at him, one of them curling smoke.
“Jesus! This
is Mexico
!” Siebert reasoned. The growling grew more intense; the little dog joined in, springing up onto its tiny paws.
“All the more my concern,” the voice said. “Mex or no Mex, drop the gun or I’ll kill you where you sit.”
Damn my hide!
His impulse was to turn the Colt toward the man and pull the trigger, but in a flash, it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember if the little Colt was a five- or a six-shot—not only that, but he couldn’t remember how many times he’d fired it.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it to everlasting hell!
Siebert let the Colt Pocket fall from his hand.
“There, it’s dropped. What do you want from me?” he said, sounding like the one being put upon. “I only pulled it because your damn dogs were eating me alive.”
At the sound of Siebert raising his voice, both dogs growled with renewed vigor.
“Get back, Big. Get back, Little,” the man commanded the two dogs.
Big and Little, these sons a’ bitches….
With the big mongrel’s weight off his chest, Siebert sat up, bloody from head to waist from dog bites, his shirt shredded down the front. His chest wound was throbbing. The big crucifix swung from its rawhide strip around his neck.
“Are you a man of faith, then?” the voice asked. The circling light came in closer. “I can see you’re not a Mex.”
“Mister,
faith
ain’t even the word for it,” Siebert said. “If it wasn’t for this cross I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Oh…?” The man seemed to consider it. “What are you doing coming around here unannounced, the middle of the night?”
Unannounced?
Siebert looked around. He was over two hundred yards from the house, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Instead he shook his lowered head.
“I don’t know,” he replied in defeat. “Just being plain stupid, I guess.”
The man chuckled behind the flickering lamp as he opened the shotgun and slipped a fresh load in the empty barrel.
“Here that, boys?” he said to the growling dogs, snapping the shotgun shut. “Just stupid, he guesses.” He tucked the shotgun under his arm and reached a hand down to Siebert. “Here, come on up from there. Let’s go get you looked at.” He clasped Siebert’s handfirmly and pulled. “Can you eat something, Mr…. ?” He trailed his words.
“Howard, John Logan Howard, and, yes, I could eat
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