Read Online the Man from Skibbereen (1973) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L'amour
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off the hook, but there were none. He turned and stumbled toward the second campfire, a desperate and frightened man.
The hawk--faced man who called himself Murray, squatting by the fire, spoke up as Noble came near. "Pete, you take a walk over that direction. That gray of mine, he surely did take to that grass at our last camp. He's apt to wander back there, and where he goes, others will."
Pete Noble nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Murray. I'll give it a try."
He walked off into the night, and Murray finished his coffee and stood up. Sometimes, as now, he wished he was back in Hannibal, loafing along the river front.
He considered Noble. The man was all but useless, so he had better go himself. He gathered some rations and extra ammunition, and turned to the men at the fire. "We'll need those horses. I'll have a try myself."
Let Pete Noble go on ahead; he would follow. Let Pete draw the fire. Pete would answer it while he could, and then Murray would get the horses.
"And then," Murray said aloud, "I'll--"
He let the sentence go unfinished, keeping his thought to himself.
Chapter Five
Colonel Thomas McClean leaned his shoulders against the stump. The ropes were tight and his wrists hurt abominably. His ankles, also bound, did not. The outlaws had tied the rope around his boots, and if they gave him a chance he thought he could slip his feet out and get away, but there seemed small chance that he would find the opportunity. He was closely watched. At least he wasn't tied to the stump.
Yet something had happened at last, something that gave him hope. The horses had been stampeded and temporarily the renegades could not move. To try to leave here would put them out on the bald prairie, visible and vulnerable to searching cavalry and prowling Indians alike.
He eased his position a little. He had told them repeatedly that he was not Sherman, but some of them believed he was lying. That they planned to torture and kill him he understood; facing that, any development could raise a man's hopes.
Yet he was puzzled. From talk in the camp--and nobody attempted to keep him from hearing--the horses had been stampeded by three or four white men. Who could they be? Not the Army, not yet. One of Parley's gang had been shot, and now they had sent the man Noble off into the night after their horses, with Murray following him.
For a day, perhaps even two days, they would not dare to move. He considered that. They had told him that the telegraph wires had been cut, which he had guessed, and that they had torn up the track; but those were only temporary setbacks. His orders had been to report on conditions at once. He was known for his efficiency and speed of action, so when no report appeared, authority would begin to move at once. The disappearance of the train would be investigated from both ends of the track, the seizure of his person discovered, and several troops of cavalry or Indian scout detachments would move out.
Within forty--eight hours, surely, the search would begin; forty--eight hours in which Parley and his renegades had hoped to escape into Cherokee country, where they could scatter and become hard or impossible to find.
The stampeding of their horses had been a shrewd stroke on somebody's part. Now they were immobilized and the situation altered.
The man called Silver Dick strolled over, tugged at the bonds to make sure they were secure, then squatted on his heels. "Don't get your hopes up. This is just a temporary delay. Our men will be back with the horses in no time."
"Perhaps." McClean paused, then said, "Contego, I wish you would consider the situation. You believe, as Parley does, that I am General Sherman. I am not. My name is Thomas McClean, my rank is that of colonel."
"You're wearin' a general's insignia."
"True. I was a brevet--general during the last months of the war, and that means, really, a temporary general. My permanent rank is only that of colonel. Actually, I am an inch taller than General
The hawk--faced man who called himself Murray, squatting by the fire, spoke up as Noble came near. "Pete, you take a walk over that direction. That gray of mine, he surely did take to that grass at our last camp. He's apt to wander back there, and where he goes, others will."
Pete Noble nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Murray. I'll give it a try."
He walked off into the night, and Murray finished his coffee and stood up. Sometimes, as now, he wished he was back in Hannibal, loafing along the river front.
He considered Noble. The man was all but useless, so he had better go himself. He gathered some rations and extra ammunition, and turned to the men at the fire. "We'll need those horses. I'll have a try myself."
Let Pete Noble go on ahead; he would follow. Let Pete draw the fire. Pete would answer it while he could, and then Murray would get the horses.
"And then," Murray said aloud, "I'll--"
He let the sentence go unfinished, keeping his thought to himself.
Chapter Five
Colonel Thomas McClean leaned his shoulders against the stump. The ropes were tight and his wrists hurt abominably. His ankles, also bound, did not. The outlaws had tied the rope around his boots, and if they gave him a chance he thought he could slip his feet out and get away, but there seemed small chance that he would find the opportunity. He was closely watched. At least he wasn't tied to the stump.
Yet something had happened at last, something that gave him hope. The horses had been stampeded and temporarily the renegades could not move. To try to leave here would put them out on the bald prairie, visible and vulnerable to searching cavalry and prowling Indians alike.
He eased his position a little. He had told them repeatedly that he was not Sherman, but some of them believed he was lying. That they planned to torture and kill him he understood; facing that, any development could raise a man's hopes.
Yet he was puzzled. From talk in the camp--and nobody attempted to keep him from hearing--the horses had been stampeded by three or four white men. Who could they be? Not the Army, not yet. One of Parley's gang had been shot, and now they had sent the man Noble off into the night after their horses, with Murray following him.
For a day, perhaps even two days, they would not dare to move. He considered that. They had told him that the telegraph wires had been cut, which he had guessed, and that they had torn up the track; but those were only temporary setbacks. His orders had been to report on conditions at once. He was known for his efficiency and speed of action, so when no report appeared, authority would begin to move at once. The disappearance of the train would be investigated from both ends of the track, the seizure of his person discovered, and several troops of cavalry or Indian scout detachments would move out.
Within forty--eight hours, surely, the search would begin; forty--eight hours in which Parley and his renegades had hoped to escape into Cherokee country, where they could scatter and become hard or impossible to find.
The stampeding of their horses had been a shrewd stroke on somebody's part. Now they were immobilized and the situation altered.
The man called Silver Dick strolled over, tugged at the bonds to make sure they were secure, then squatted on his heels. "Don't get your hopes up. This is just a temporary delay. Our men will be back with the horses in no time."
"Perhaps." McClean paused, then said, "Contego, I wish you would consider the situation. You believe, as Parley does, that I am General Sherman. I am not. My name is Thomas McClean, my rank is that of colonel."
"You're wearin' a general's insignia."
"True. I was a brevet--general during the last months of the war, and that means, really, a temporary general. My permanent rank is only that of colonel. Actually, I am an inch taller than General
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