Read Online The Cowpuncher by Bradford Scott - Free Book Online

he could give back.
    Huck blocked his rush, clinched, and the two wrestled breast to breast, blowing bloody froth into each other’s face from their cut lips, glaring with swollen eyes. Huck was dimly aware that they were surrounded by a yelling crowd; he heard Lank Mason’s voice booming encouragement.
    Coleman suddenly lifted him off his feet and hurled him down, hard. Huck landed on his left shoulder, skidded along the frozen ground. With a whoop of triumph Coleman rushed in to kick the life out of the prostrate cowboy.
    Huck knew he could not get to his feet in time to block the rush. Coleman’s heavy boots would smash him back before he got to his knees, and that would be the end. His brain worked at top speed, and with equal rapidity he whirled his sinewy legs toward the mine owner, kicking the right foot out with all his strength.
    The booted sole caught Coleman on the knee.At the same instant, Huck hooked his left foot behind Coleman’s ankle and jerked.
    There was a crackling sound, a yell of agony from Coleman and he fell to the ground, writhing and gasping. With another howl of pain he flopped over on his side and his hand streaked to his hip.
    Lank Mason leaped forward, but Huck Brannon, bounding to his feet, was ahead of him. He kicked the gun from Coleman’s hand even as Coleman pulled the trigger.
    The crowd ducked and scattered at the roar of the shot and the screech of the slug that whipped a stinging red streak along the cowboy’s bronzed cheek.
    Huck picked up the big gun and thrust it in his belt.
    “Been wantin’ a gun quite a spell now,” he said, panting and managing a bloody grin. “Thanks!”
    “You get the hell off this property, you dirty killer!” Coleman bawled. “Get me to the hospital, some of you damned loafers, my leg’s busted to hell!”
    “Jest knocked out at the knee j’int, I figger,” Lank Mason remarked as Coleman was carried away. “Well, get yore coat, feller, and let’s mosey up and see if Tom Gaylord’s ready to travel. Reckon we better be lookin’ for a new stampin’ ground now.”
    “He didn’t fire you,” Huck pointed out.
    “Nope. I’m firin’ myself,” Lank said cheerfully. “I don’t hanker to work for a horned toad what tries to kick a feller when he’s on the ground, and goes for his gun when he’s licked in a fair fight.C’mon, we’ll stop at the office and get our pay. You’d better have them cuts on yore face washed out and plastered while we’re at the hospital.”
    They found Old Tom smoking his pipe in comfort and staring speculatively out of the window toward where, raggedly cutting the western skyline, the saw-tooth peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Range loomed blue and misty in the distance. There was a gleam in his keen blue eyes as he listened to Lank’s highly colored account of the fight.
    “Which lets us out of a good job jest because the mines here happen to be owned by a skunk,” concluded Lank. “Huck and me sorta cal’late on movin’ on—mebbe inter Utah or over to Nevada—and we reckoned you might be int’rested in amblin’ ‘long with us, if you’re feelin’ pert ‘nough by now.”
    “I’m feelin’ pert, all right,” Old Tom told them. “Woulda moseyed outa here last week if I’d made up my mind what my next move was. You fellers bein’ set to trail yore rope sorta clears things up for me.”
    He paused, puffing at his pipe, turning something over in his mind. Finally he removed the stem from between his teeth, blew out a cloud of smoke and cleared his throat.
    “You fellers,” he began rather diffidently, “you fellers saved my life over to that wreck, and took mighty big chances on cashin’ in yore own chips to do it. I ain’t much on gabbin’ and I can’t say what I feel, but I jest want you to know I ain’t fergettin’ it.”
    He held up his hand as Huck and Lank began to disclaim any such heroics.
    “Nev’ mind all that—know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout and you fellers makin’ light