Read Online Sam Bass by Bryan Woolley - Free Book Online

ain’t saying nothing.”
    â€œI just feel quiet. You know.”
    â€œHey, old Henry’s going to be glad to see you.”
    â€œI’ll be glad to see him, too. It’s been a long time.”
    â€œRemember when we used to go to the track together? That was good times, wasn’t it? We’ll do that again one of these days, to watch old Jenny make us rich.”
    â€œYeah. But what are we going to do now?”
    â€œWell, we’re going to see Henry.”
    â€œAnd after that?”
    â€œWell, we’ll sit down and decide what to do next. Maybe find us a couple more good men.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œWell, a stagecoach, probably. I’ve did them before. They’re easy. Give you a chance to learn the business.” He held out the bottle against the firelight. The whiskey was nearly gone. He handed it to me. “Finish her, and let’s turn in.”
    I killed the bottle and threw it into the fire. We unrolled our blankets, arranged our saddles for pillows and threw two logs onto the flame. When we were bedded down Sam said, “Dream of gold, Frank.”
    Lying there, I began to miss Dr. Ross and my room back home, and even the tin shop. I couldn’t sleep, despite the whiskey, and Sam couldn’t either. I heard him get up very late, when the fire was low. He pulled on his boots and walked out beyond the firelight to where the horses were. He spoke quietly to Jenny, and she snorted. He talked and talked. He was still talking when I fell asleep.

    The morning was chilly. Sam poked at the embers, and soon a small flame flared. I fed it dry grass and twigs until it was strong enough to take a few small logs and make enough heat to drive the night cold from our bodies. As we hunkered there, I saw we were in a jungle. Most of the trees and bushes were bare, but grew so thickly they almost blocked out the early sun. I had seen such thickets, but had never ventured into one for fear of tearing myself and my horse on the sharp branches and the almost certain presence of snakes. It wasn’t a large wood, not more than a hundred yards across, with Hickory Creek running down its center. But I supposed it stretched as far as the creek did, a vein of marsh and jungle winding across the dry, brown prairie where nothing grew but grass, a testimony to the difference water makes on the face of the land.
    â€œLearn this place,” Sam said. “You’ll be seeing a lot of it. Only a fool would come in here after an armed man.” He took a hunk of jerky from his saddlebags and sliced off several slivers with his knife and passed them to me. “It’s all I got.”
    â€œNo coffee?”
    â€œNo, but old Henry’s got the pot on the fire.”
    â€œLet’s move, then,” I said. “Morning’s a grim time without coffee.”
    We bridled the horses and led them to the water. We lay on our bellies on the bank, sucking at the water with the horses, trying to moisten the dry, hard meat in our mouths. Then we led the animals back to the fire and saddled them in its warmth, scattered our embers and kicked dirt over them and mounted. We picked our way through the brush more quickly than we had in the darkness, and soon we were on the prairie, and the sun was full on us and warm.
    We rode in silence in the pattern we had established the night before. Trot, gallop, trot, walk, trot, gallop, trot, walk. The rhythm of it took over my body, and as we traveled across the empty prairie I began to think of myself as a small boat, drifting on an ocean. If I had been in Denton at that hour, I would be fixing breakfast for Dr. Ross and myself, and the changeless pattern of my days would be beginning again. After breakfast I would wash the dishes and harness the doctor’s horse, then walk to the tin shop and do again what I had always done. But here I was, drifting on an empty ocean of grass. Not drifting, really, but moving toward the young