Bloody Trail by Ford Fargo Read Free Book Online Page A

Reloading, he waited for another butt-wipe to
ride on the livery, but none came.
    Spike did have money in the bank, and that
concerned him, for raiders would surely make it their first target.
But from many battles under many different conditions, he knew one
thing for sure. It was better to evaluate your position, and the
odds, before you set off half-cocked—to coin a particularly
appropriate phrase. That is, if you wanted to stay
alive.
    More shots rang out from different areas of
town. Either there were plenty of raiders or some damn
townsfolk-fools were shooting at each other. He and Em held their
ground until the shooting quieted down. Then he dismounted the
ladder, bade Em to take up his position in the loft, and retrieved
his shirt. He buttoned up—he normally worked bare-chested in the
shop’s heat—and strode out for the bank, only a block down Lincoln
Street. Moving from cover to cover, keeping close to the walls of
the buildings he passed, he kept a sharp eye for strangers or
anyone armed.
    As he neared the town’s most substantial
masonry building, he realized the situation was damn bad. Not only
were some men shot up, but a fine young lady, the schoolmarm, Miss
Ann Haselton, and a child, one of the Li children—the youngest,
Spike thought—lay dead.
    His throat went dry, and heat coursed his
backbone.
    Spike had seen enough death to last him
several lifetimes and had thought he was immune to it, but the
woman and the child got to him. He stopped and stared at the
weeping women who bent over the prostrate bodies, and old snakes
started wiggling in his belly. He hated the thought of it, but
innocent blood had been spilled—and that meant that blood had to be
taken.
    ****
    Bill stood, numbed, alongside the bodies of
his friend, Jed, and Jed’s horse. The Danby gang had raced west
along North Street and out of Wolf Creek, leaving death and
destruction in its wake. Powdersmoke, mingled with the smoke from
burning wagons and three blazing buildings, formed a haze which
burned Bill’s eyes, already filled with tears over Jed’s loss.
Those tears mercifully blurred his vision as he looked over the
carnage on North Street. He could see the bodies of at least three
people, plus those of nine or ten horses. Somewhere down the street
a dog howled mournfully, undoubtedly at the loss of its master. The
cries of the terrified, wounded, and dying sounded as if Satan and
his legions were invading Wolf Creek. Of course Jim Danby, Wes
Hammond, and Satan were one and the same to Bill.
    “ Cholla!”
    Bill tucked Jed’s pistol into the waistband of
his pants, then headed inside the stable, the dead outlaw’s horse
following, eager to get away from the smoke and blood. Bill’s vow
to never again use a gun had been shattered when he saw Jed
murdered, and Rojo, along with who knew how many other helpless
horses, gunned down where they stood. He had acted strictly on
instinct when he grabbed the gun from Jed’s dying hand and shot his
killer. The man had turned away from Jed and toward Bill’s stable,
clearly intent on killing the horses inside, then burning down the
barn. There was no way Bill could let that happen. A quick bullet
in the back was the only solution.
    The few horses remaining in the stalls were
still nervous, pacing, snorting and nickering, eyes rolling and
nostrils flaring at the scent of smoke.
    “ Cholla!” Bill called again. His
paint came charging from his corral and up to Bill. He stopped and
nuzzled Bill’s chest, then whickered. Bill wrapped his arms around
the big gelding’s neck.
    “ Dunno why you didn’t follow me
like you always do, boy, but thank God you didn’t,” Bill murmured.
“Somethin’ must’ve told you to stay behind. Cowboy once told me
there’s a saint—Francis if I recollect right—who protects animals.
Guess he was watchin’ over you, ol’ pard. If he was, I’m sure
grateful. Meantime, I’d better try and calm your friends down, then
see where I can help