Read Online Lookout Hill (9781101606735) by Ralph W. Cotton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ralph W. Cotton
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an eye shut.” He grinned.
“What are you talking about? Where’s Dudley and the dogs?” the woman said to the night. “I don’t like them being gone this way.”
“You’ll be with them soon enough, ma’am,” said Siebert as man and animal swayed closer in the flickering glow of light.
Chapter 7
Siebert sat shirtless, clenching the edge of a wooden table with his left hand. Daphne Bryant rethreaded her needle and went back to sewing up a gruesome gash atop his left shoulder. In Siebert’s right hand he held the small Colt Pocket. A cup of whiskey sat within close reach.
“Dudley brewed this himself, eh?” he asked, feeling tipsy. He’d been taking a swig every time Daphne finished running the needle and thread through another ripped and gaping bite wound.
“Yes, he did,” Daphne said, paying close attention to her handiwork. She wore a pair of thick spectacles with a magnifying lens tied in front of one of them. She glanced up at Siebert with eyes that appeared to be the size of skillets. Her thick, frizzled hair stood out around her black, leathery face like a silver-white mesquite bush.
“Get ready to take another drink,” she advised grimly.
“
Dammmmn!
” Siebert lamented painfully as the needle slid through his sore flesh and tightened down onto the coarse thread. He raised the wooden cup tohis lips and threw his head back, pouring a long, fiery drink down his throat. “I love whiskey as much as the next fellow, but
dammmmnnn!
” he screamed again as the needle sank into him. He set the wooden cup down and wrapped his hand back around the pocket pistol.
“We’re nearly finished,” the woman said.
Siebert stared at her large, empty eyes.
“You can’t see shit, can you, old Daphne?” he said drunkenly.
“I see well enough,” the old woman said. Readying her bloody fingertips to take another plunge with the needle, she stopped and said, “You want to do this yourself?”
Siebert didn’t answer. Instead he chuckled drunkenly under his breath and shook his swirling head.
“When this is over…
oh
, I swear to God…,” he said. Then he stiffened and said, “
Dammmnnn!
” again as the needle made another stab into his shoulder.
“We’re stopping for a spell,” Daphne said. She took off her spectacles and laid them in front of her. Her eyes seemed to shrink to the size of small berries. She folded her bloody fingers on the table. “You’ve killed Dudley, ain’t you?” she asked. She’d also asked him the same question three other times since she’d started sewing his wounds.
“Hell no, I told you I didn’t,” Siebert said. “But I will if you keep crowding me about it.”
“Okay, then, where’s the dogs?” Daphne challenged matter-of-factly.
Siebert gave her a drunken stare. He reached over to the side of her head and clutched a handful of spongy silver-white hair.
“Do you think I’d do that, kill your man?” he asked.
“I don’t see no dogs,” she said with a shrug.
“You know, you’re not a bad-looking old gal,” Siebert said, appraising her in his whiskey lull. His eyes swerved; he caught himself and sat up stiffly. “Okay, listen to me.” He jiggled her head, then turned her hair loose and placed his hand over hers. “I want you to feel something of mine.” He picked her hand up and pulled it toward him.
“Huh-uh, I ain’t that way,” she said bluntly.
“Damn it, just feel it!” Siebert insisted. He jerked her weathered hand over and laid it on his bare chest. He squeezed it closed over the cross. “There, did that hurt any?”
“No, it didn’t,” said the old woman. She settled down with a slight sigh. “I’m careful what gets put in my hand, bad as my eyes are.”
Siebert just stared at her.
“My point is,” he said, “would a man wearing a cross kill your old man, your dogs either, far as that goes?”
“I’m not saying,” Daphne replied curtly. “People carry a cross for all sorts of makeup—some for pure
“What are you talking about? Where’s Dudley and the dogs?” the woman said to the night. “I don’t like them being gone this way.”
“You’ll be with them soon enough, ma’am,” said Siebert as man and animal swayed closer in the flickering glow of light.
Chapter 7
Siebert sat shirtless, clenching the edge of a wooden table with his left hand. Daphne Bryant rethreaded her needle and went back to sewing up a gruesome gash atop his left shoulder. In Siebert’s right hand he held the small Colt Pocket. A cup of whiskey sat within close reach.
“Dudley brewed this himself, eh?” he asked, feeling tipsy. He’d been taking a swig every time Daphne finished running the needle and thread through another ripped and gaping bite wound.
“Yes, he did,” Daphne said, paying close attention to her handiwork. She wore a pair of thick spectacles with a magnifying lens tied in front of one of them. She glanced up at Siebert with eyes that appeared to be the size of skillets. Her thick, frizzled hair stood out around her black, leathery face like a silver-white mesquite bush.
“Get ready to take another drink,” she advised grimly.
“
Dammmmn!
” Siebert lamented painfully as the needle slid through his sore flesh and tightened down onto the coarse thread. He raised the wooden cup tohis lips and threw his head back, pouring a long, fiery drink down his throat. “I love whiskey as much as the next fellow, but
dammmmnnn!
” he screamed again as the needle sank into him. He set the wooden cup down and wrapped his hand back around the pocket pistol.
“We’re nearly finished,” the woman said.
Siebert stared at her large, empty eyes.
“You can’t see shit, can you, old Daphne?” he said drunkenly.
“I see well enough,” the old woman said. Readying her bloody fingertips to take another plunge with the needle, she stopped and said, “You want to do this yourself?”
Siebert didn’t answer. Instead he chuckled drunkenly under his breath and shook his swirling head.
“When this is over…
oh
, I swear to God…,” he said. Then he stiffened and said, “
Dammmnnn!
” again as the needle made another stab into his shoulder.
“We’re stopping for a spell,” Daphne said. She took off her spectacles and laid them in front of her. Her eyes seemed to shrink to the size of small berries. She folded her bloody fingers on the table. “You’ve killed Dudley, ain’t you?” she asked. She’d also asked him the same question three other times since she’d started sewing his wounds.
“Hell no, I told you I didn’t,” Siebert said. “But I will if you keep crowding me about it.”
“Okay, then, where’s the dogs?” Daphne challenged matter-of-factly.
Siebert gave her a drunken stare. He reached over to the side of her head and clutched a handful of spongy silver-white hair.
“Do you think I’d do that, kill your man?” he asked.
“I don’t see no dogs,” she said with a shrug.
“You know, you’re not a bad-looking old gal,” Siebert said, appraising her in his whiskey lull. His eyes swerved; he caught himself and sat up stiffly. “Okay, listen to me.” He jiggled her head, then turned her hair loose and placed his hand over hers. “I want you to feel something of mine.” He picked her hand up and pulled it toward him.
“Huh-uh, I ain’t that way,” she said bluntly.
“Damn it, just feel it!” Siebert insisted. He jerked her weathered hand over and laid it on his bare chest. He squeezed it closed over the cross. “There, did that hurt any?”
“No, it didn’t,” said the old woman. She settled down with a slight sigh. “I’m careful what gets put in my hand, bad as my eyes are.”
Siebert just stared at her.
“My point is,” he said, “would a man wearing a cross kill your old man, your dogs either, far as that goes?”
“I’m not saying,” Daphne replied curtly. “People carry a cross for all sorts of makeup—some for pure
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