Read Online Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) by Jory Sherman - Free Book Online Page A

clothes painted with the same dancing colors.
    â€œMornin’, Brad, you sleep all right?”
    â€œFair enough. You?”
    â€œLike a log,” Joe said. He stood up, reached down, and picked up his gun belt. He strapped it on and walked to the fire. Steam began to spool out of the pot in a cloudy mist. “Mmm. Coffee smells good.”
    Julio walked up. “The coffee she is not yet cooked.”
    â€œI’ll wait,” Joe said as he gave the air another sniff.
    â€œLet’s saddle up,” Brad said. “I think it’s going to be a long day.”
    The three men bridled and saddled their horses, tucked the hobbles in their saddlebags. They ground-tied their horses while they drank coffee and warmed themselves by the fire.
    They tore down their lean-tos and kicked dirt on the fire to put it out. When they rode away, there was little trace of their overnight presence.
    Julio and Joe followed Brad as he tracked a log up the slope. Within fifteen minutes they began to hear the sounds of an ax striking a tree trunk, the buzzing sound of a crosscut saw and the voices of men. All around them were fresh stumps and drag marks.
    Men were trimming branches from fallen trees with hatchets and saws. Horses pulled on chains attached to logs. One man stood out when they rode into the logging camp. He was tall and muscled, wearing red long johns under his pants and no shirt. He wore suspenders and smoked a corncob pipe. He held an ax in his hand and barked orders to the men who used the horses to skid logs onto a loading ramp. A large wagon stood under the ramp and men were using picks to roll the logs on the platform down onto the wagon.
    â€œHowdy,” Brad said to the man with the ax.
    â€œHunters?” the man asked.
    â€œYeah, we’re hunting,” Brad said. “I’m Brad Storm. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
    â€œSure. I’m Claude Miller, boss of this worthless outfit.”
    â€œIt looks like you’ve done some damage up here.”
    â€œWe cut down only the biggest and tallest,” Claude said.
    Brad stepped out of the saddle. He held up a hand to keep Joe and Julio mounted.
    â€œYou got some fine horses here, Claude,” Brad said.
    â€œWe go through horses like shit through a tin horn,” Claude said. “We buy ’em, wear ’em out, and buy more. They’re worth every penny.”
    â€œWhere do you buy your horses, might I ask?” Brad said in his most polite tone of voice.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe drift away toward some of the skid horses. Julio held his ground, watching the loggers fell trees up on a ridge across from the loading ramp.
    â€œMan out of Cheyenne come by one day and asked if we needed horses. Offered to supply all we needed at fifty bucks a head.”
    â€œWhat’s the man’s name?”
    Claude lifted a work boot and placed it on a stump in front of him. He wore no hat, but there was a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He had large hands that were callused and gnarled.
    â€œJordan Killdeer. He’s a Cherokee half-breed. He made good on his offer, for sure.”
    â€œAnd does he bring the horses to you himself?” Brad asked.
    â€œNope. He sends some men with a string of horses, and I get to pick out the ones I want. I pay the men and they take the horses I don’t buy someplace else.”
    â€œDo you know the names of the men who bring you the horses?” Brad asked.
    â€œSay, feller, you interested in huntin’ or horses?”
    â€œBoth,” Brad said. “I’m just curious. I might want to buy some horses for myself.”
    â€œWell, sir.” Claude puffed on his pipe and blew smoke from his nose and the corners of his mouth. “They’s usually three or four men what brings the horses to me. One of ’em’s called Curly, but I don’t know his real name. He’s as bald as a billiard ball. ’Nother one calls