Read Online Wild to the Bone by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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the steaming platters, one with a steak and fried green peppers and onions on it, one with a side of potatoes fried in butter, onions, and chili peppers, along with a tall ale and a shot of Sam Clay on the side, he grinned.
He doffed his hat and went to work in earnest, running a napkin across his beard a half hour later, when all three platters and the two glasses were sitting empty before him. He tipped the waitress, hitched his LeMat on his right thigh and his Russian .44 on his left hip, threw his saddlebags over his left shoulder, picked up his rifle scabbard and bedroll in his other hand, and headed on out into the afternoonâs bright sunlight.
The beer and bourbon sloshing around in his belly softened the light just a tad and dulled the din of horse hooves and ungreased wagon hubs and the yells of a teamster just then bounding into town atop a giant Pittsburgh freight wagon, behind six braying mules, dust dripping off the wagonâs iron-shod wheels. Sucking an unlit Cleopatra and smiling with satisfaction at the thought of spending time with the beautiful Raven York up in such remote country, Bear made tracks for the train station.
His partner had assured him that theyâd frolicked together like alley cats for the last time, as her conscience wouldnât allow her to continue breaking Pinkertonâs rules. But Haskell thought he could probably lure her off the primrose path if he worked at it hard enough. Remembering the urgent need in her long, slender, pliant, full-bosomed body, how her nipples had jutted as heâd licked them, he chuckled and registered a none-too-slight tug in the crotch of his gray tweed trousers.
He reached the station just in time to purchase his ticket for Douglas and stepped onto a day coachâs front vestibule as the locomotive gave several raucous clangs and roared on out of the station under a thick cloud of black coal smoke and steam. Haskell looked through both of the flyerâs coach cars, populated with cowboys, soldiers, cowpunchers, farmers, and more wild children than he liked to contend with, running up and down the aisles and squealing at the tops of their consarned little lungs.
But there was no sign of Agent York.
Haskell remembered that sheâd liked to travel in widowâs weeds, thus discouraging any unwanted sparks from male fellow sojourners. But after Haskell had trudged through both coaches twice, he hadnât seen a single woman decked out in mournful black, her face obscured by a cloudy black veil.
The snooty bitch either had missed the train or was hiding from him. He doubted that Raven York had ever missed any train in her life, so it had to be the latter. He wouldnât doubt sheâd somehow finagled her way into riding up with the engineers or perhaps back in the caboose with the brakeman.
Haskell gave a snort. They were working the same assignment, headed for the same place, so she couldnât hide from him forever.
Could she?
He was pleased to see that the combination included a club and observation car, trailing along behind the second day coach. When he walked in, still loaded down with gear, there were only four other customers sitting at the tables running along the left wall. Three sat together playing Red Dog, while the fourth sat in the rear corner with his nose buried in the Cheyenne Leader, his boots crossed on a chair.
âWell, Iâll be damned, if it ainât olâ Bear Haskell,â said the barman, whoâd just been closing one of the windows flanking the bar against the coal smoke wafting in. Burt Angel waved a hand in front of his broad, patch-bearded face, badly scarred from smallpox, coughing and saying, âAinât seen your big, ugly hide in a spell.â
âSeems I been workinâ mostly down south of late, Burt.â Haskell dropped his bags near the front door and leaned his rifle in the corner. He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, gritty with
He doffed his hat and went to work in earnest, running a napkin across his beard a half hour later, when all three platters and the two glasses were sitting empty before him. He tipped the waitress, hitched his LeMat on his right thigh and his Russian .44 on his left hip, threw his saddlebags over his left shoulder, picked up his rifle scabbard and bedroll in his other hand, and headed on out into the afternoonâs bright sunlight.
The beer and bourbon sloshing around in his belly softened the light just a tad and dulled the din of horse hooves and ungreased wagon hubs and the yells of a teamster just then bounding into town atop a giant Pittsburgh freight wagon, behind six braying mules, dust dripping off the wagonâs iron-shod wheels. Sucking an unlit Cleopatra and smiling with satisfaction at the thought of spending time with the beautiful Raven York up in such remote country, Bear made tracks for the train station.
His partner had assured him that theyâd frolicked together like alley cats for the last time, as her conscience wouldnât allow her to continue breaking Pinkertonâs rules. But Haskell thought he could probably lure her off the primrose path if he worked at it hard enough. Remembering the urgent need in her long, slender, pliant, full-bosomed body, how her nipples had jutted as heâd licked them, he chuckled and registered a none-too-slight tug in the crotch of his gray tweed trousers.
He reached the station just in time to purchase his ticket for Douglas and stepped onto a day coachâs front vestibule as the locomotive gave several raucous clangs and roared on out of the station under a thick cloud of black coal smoke and steam. Haskell looked through both of the flyerâs coach cars, populated with cowboys, soldiers, cowpunchers, farmers, and more wild children than he liked to contend with, running up and down the aisles and squealing at the tops of their consarned little lungs.
But there was no sign of Agent York.
Haskell remembered that sheâd liked to travel in widowâs weeds, thus discouraging any unwanted sparks from male fellow sojourners. But after Haskell had trudged through both coaches twice, he hadnât seen a single woman decked out in mournful black, her face obscured by a cloudy black veil.
The snooty bitch either had missed the train or was hiding from him. He doubted that Raven York had ever missed any train in her life, so it had to be the latter. He wouldnât doubt sheâd somehow finagled her way into riding up with the engineers or perhaps back in the caboose with the brakeman.
Haskell gave a snort. They were working the same assignment, headed for the same place, so she couldnât hide from him forever.
Could she?
He was pleased to see that the combination included a club and observation car, trailing along behind the second day coach. When he walked in, still loaded down with gear, there were only four other customers sitting at the tables running along the left wall. Three sat together playing Red Dog, while the fourth sat in the rear corner with his nose buried in the Cheyenne Leader, his boots crossed on a chair.
âWell, Iâll be damned, if it ainât olâ Bear Haskell,â said the barman, whoâd just been closing one of the windows flanking the bar against the coal smoke wafting in. Burt Angel waved a hand in front of his broad, patch-bearded face, badly scarred from smallpox, coughing and saying, âAinât seen your big, ugly hide in a spell.â
âSeems I been workinâ mostly down south of late, Burt.â Haskell dropped his bags near the front door and leaned his rifle in the corner. He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, gritty with
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