Read Online Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward M. Erdelac
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coiled
snakes. His shaven head was covered in densely packed, angry red sores, like a
wig of tumors. The other was a pale, willowy girl with great sad eyes and a
wild bush of frizzy, dead yellow hair on her head. She wore a red bandana and a
raggedy white duster, and gripped a thick cigar between her teeth.
They
slowed as they passed through the buildings, and Gersh barely got behind one of
the shacks when the girl suddenly gave her boot heels to her horse and rode
straight for the shack where he’d killed the doctor.
She
swung off her saddle before the horse had stopped, and landed nimbly in the
dust. She slipped a sawed-off Winchester from her coat and ducked inside,
reappearing a moment later.
“Kaftzefoni!” she called.
“Yeah?”
answered the big one.
“The
little doctor’s dead!”
“Looks
like the Rider’s got a goddamned guardian angel down
here somewhere,” Kaftzefoni said, as the girl led her horse back to him.
“Looks
like.”
“Well
let’s make some angels ourselves,” he mused, touching one of his bullwhips.
“Startin’ with this one right here!” he spun quickly. The whip hissed out to
its full length and snapped around Wilkes’ head as the shaken drover suddenly
broke from cover and made a run for the shotgun Gersh had left laying in the
alleyway.
The
whip coiled around Wilkes’ face and jerked him off his feet. He landed flat on
his back screaming, and Kaftzefoni laughed and began to reel him slowly in,
dragging him kicking across the ground.
He
stood in his saddle and said loudly;
“Alright,
I’m gonna take this one apart scrap by scrap, till I start seein’ faces!”
Gersh
stayed where he was, but he heard a rustle behind him, and from the wood shack next to the ruined saloon, Baines stepped out with his
shotgun.
The
girl picked him out right away and levered her stubby Winchester. She walked
towards him as if to take him prisoner.
“Where’s
the Rider?” she called.
Baines
held his shotgun over his head and came towards her. He was beat. Had seen his
friend die, had his nerves rattled. He’d had enough.
“I
have no idea,” he said in a tired voice.
The
girl shot him in the chin.
He
fell to his knees, gurgling, spitting teeth and choking on chunks of jawbone.
Then he went to his face, where he kicked a few times as he bled out.
She
walked brazenly past the spot where Gersh was crouched. She was pale as
bleached bone, and her skin was dotted all over with freckles. Her eyes were
yellow.
“Murderin’
bitch!” it was Purdee, and he appeared in the doorway of a shack directly
across, and gave her both barrels of his shotgun. The sound was like two Dutch
ovens banging together.
She
threw up her arm and staggered back, buckshot peppering the side of her coat.
But Sheardown had apparently not loaded Purdee’s shells with rock salt, and the
blast did nothing more than knock her down and rip her clothes.
Purdee
threw down the shotgun and snagged at his pistol, but the air hissed and
cracked and Kaftzefoni’s whip looped around his elbow and jerked him off his
feet.
The
girl rose shakily to her feet, retrieving her Winchester and glaring at the
black man lying in the dirt.
Kaftzefoni
still had Wilkes wrapped up in the other whip, kneeling at his horse’s feet,
and he withdrew the whip from Purdee’s arm with an expert flick that left a
thin, bloody rip in his sleeve.
Gersh
stared. There was the shotgun he’d dropped, but had Baines loaded it, or had
Sheardown? He saw one of the salt barrels lying nearby too. He could take up
that barrel and maybe use it as a weapon, but it would be the girl or the
bullwhip man. They were too fast for him to get them both.
The
girl jacked her Winchester and went to stand over Purdee. She aimed one handed
down at him.
Gersh
was about to spring at her when the Colonel slipped out of the same shack
Purdee had emerged from, and hit her point blank with both barrels of Cashion’s
shotgun, the explosion so close and loud it was
snakes. His shaven head was covered in densely packed, angry red sores, like a
wig of tumors. The other was a pale, willowy girl with great sad eyes and a
wild bush of frizzy, dead yellow hair on her head. She wore a red bandana and a
raggedy white duster, and gripped a thick cigar between her teeth.
They
slowed as they passed through the buildings, and Gersh barely got behind one of
the shacks when the girl suddenly gave her boot heels to her horse and rode
straight for the shack where he’d killed the doctor.
She
swung off her saddle before the horse had stopped, and landed nimbly in the
dust. She slipped a sawed-off Winchester from her coat and ducked inside,
reappearing a moment later.
“Kaftzefoni!” she called.
“Yeah?”
answered the big one.
“The
little doctor’s dead!”
“Looks
like the Rider’s got a goddamned guardian angel down
here somewhere,” Kaftzefoni said, as the girl led her horse back to him.
“Looks
like.”
“Well
let’s make some angels ourselves,” he mused, touching one of his bullwhips.
“Startin’ with this one right here!” he spun quickly. The whip hissed out to
its full length and snapped around Wilkes’ head as the shaken drover suddenly
broke from cover and made a run for the shotgun Gersh had left laying in the
alleyway.
The
whip coiled around Wilkes’ face and jerked him off his feet. He landed flat on
his back screaming, and Kaftzefoni laughed and began to reel him slowly in,
dragging him kicking across the ground.
He
stood in his saddle and said loudly;
“Alright,
I’m gonna take this one apart scrap by scrap, till I start seein’ faces!”
Gersh
stayed where he was, but he heard a rustle behind him, and from the wood shack next to the ruined saloon, Baines stepped out with his
shotgun.
The
girl picked him out right away and levered her stubby Winchester. She walked
towards him as if to take him prisoner.
“Where’s
the Rider?” she called.
Baines
held his shotgun over his head and came towards her. He was beat. Had seen his
friend die, had his nerves rattled. He’d had enough.
“I
have no idea,” he said in a tired voice.
The
girl shot him in the chin.
He
fell to his knees, gurgling, spitting teeth and choking on chunks of jawbone.
Then he went to his face, where he kicked a few times as he bled out.
She
walked brazenly past the spot where Gersh was crouched. She was pale as
bleached bone, and her skin was dotted all over with freckles. Her eyes were
yellow.
“Murderin’
bitch!” it was Purdee, and he appeared in the doorway of a shack directly
across, and gave her both barrels of his shotgun. The sound was like two Dutch
ovens banging together.
She
threw up her arm and staggered back, buckshot peppering the side of her coat.
But Sheardown had apparently not loaded Purdee’s shells with rock salt, and the
blast did nothing more than knock her down and rip her clothes.
Purdee
threw down the shotgun and snagged at his pistol, but the air hissed and
cracked and Kaftzefoni’s whip looped around his elbow and jerked him off his
feet.
The
girl rose shakily to her feet, retrieving her Winchester and glaring at the
black man lying in the dirt.
Kaftzefoni
still had Wilkes wrapped up in the other whip, kneeling at his horse’s feet,
and he withdrew the whip from Purdee’s arm with an expert flick that left a
thin, bloody rip in his sleeve.
Gersh
stared. There was the shotgun he’d dropped, but had Baines loaded it, or had
Sheardown? He saw one of the salt barrels lying nearby too. He could take up
that barrel and maybe use it as a weapon, but it would be the girl or the
bullwhip man. They were too fast for him to get them both.
The
girl jacked her Winchester and went to stand over Purdee. She aimed one handed
down at him.
Gersh
was about to spring at her when the Colonel slipped out of the same shack
Purdee had emerged from, and hit her point blank with both barrels of Cashion’s
shotgun, the explosion so close and loud it was
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