Bloody Trail by Ford Fargo Read Free Book Online Page B

out.”
    Bill was more sickened by the killing of many
of Wolf Creek’s horses than that of several of its residents. After
all, his thinking went, men always had a way to fight back. Horses
had no such choice. They were innocent victims of man’s greed and
inhumanity.
    Deputy Fred Garvey’s horse, a blocky grulla
gelding, was in the stall closest to Bill. Bill stroked its nose to
soothe the frightened animal.
    “ Easy, Dusty,” Bill whispered.
“They’re gone. Nothin’ to worry about now.”
    “ Bill! You in there? Sheriff
Satterlee’s lookin’ for you. Needs you pronto.”
    Jimmy Spotted Owl was standing in the door of
the stable. The young half-Cherokee cowboy’s face was streaked with
gunpowder.
    “ Satterlee’s lookin’ for me? Why?”
Bill questioned.
    “’ Cause he’s gettin’ up a posse,
and needs horses. Gotta get on the trail of those renegades before
they get too much of a jump. Sheriff wants to know how many horses
you’ve got left.”
    “ Tell him half a dozen, not
countin’ my Cholla,” Bill answered.
    “ You’d better tell him yourself,”
Jimmy replied. “I’ve got to find Billy Below and Phil Salem. We’re
gonna ride with Satterlee. Whole town’s riled up over all the
killin’s, especially little Li Chang and the
schoolteacher.”
    Bill’s heart jumped into his
throat.
    “ You mean they killed Marcus
Sublette?”
    “ Not Marcus Sublette. Ann
Haselton.”
    Bill gasped. He felt like he’d just taken a
Comanche lance right through his gut.
    “ Miss Haselton? Are you
certain?”
    “ Saw her body myself. One of those
bastards shot her right in the back.”
    “ Jimmy, tell G.W. I’ll be at his
office in five minutes.”
    “ Bill, you don’t even wear a gun,”
Jimmy started to protest, then stopped short, when he noticed the
Colt snugged in the hostler’s waistband, and the grim look in
Bill’s gray eyes.
    “ Don’t matter none,” Bill
said.
    “ No, I reckon it don’t,” Jimmy
agreed.
    Once Jimmy left, Bill went to his room. He
pulled open the bottom drawer of his chest and removed two boxes.
The longer of these he set on top of the chest. He opened the other
and removed a pair of well-oiled Navy Colts, along with a
still-supple gunbelt and holsters. The bullet loops were filled
with .44 Henry shells. Bill settled the belt on his hips, buckled
it in place, then checked the action of the Colts before sliding
them into their holsters.
    Cholla was still waiting in the
aisleway.
    “ C’mon, pardner, we’ve got a job
to do, just like we‘ve done before,” Bill murmured to the
paint.
    ****
    Spike knew George Washington Satterlee, the
sheriff, and he’d want to bring these scum suckin’ pigs back to
town and make a big deal out of trying and hanging them. Hell, it
would probably make Leslie’s Weekly and the lawman would be famous.
But Spike had already made up his mind that these ol’ boys, who’d
ridden down innocent women and children, would rot out there on the
trail somewhere, and their trip to burn in hell would be as short
as Spike could arrange. The crows would be pickin’ their eyes
before many moons would pass, had he his way.
    But as was his custom, he didn’t mouth it,
just swore it to himself. A blood oath, for spilled
blood.
    He’d hoped he’d seen the end of it with the
close of the war, but knew as long as there were men, there’d be
killing.
    He spat on the dirt street in disgust, and
walked on.
    And to add insult to that injury, when he got
to the Wolf Creek Savings and Loan, he found his money was gone
along with the rest of the town’s. He’d worked hard for four years
putting money in that bank—as well as, thank God, some in a tobacco
can buried in his flower and vegetable garden out back of the shop.
Another reason to see the crows were well fed. More importantly,
more lay dead. Two young tellers, Hank Jones and Jeremiah Barnes,
lay dead on the floor, blood pooling around them. Hank was a
married man with a new child. Spike’s mouth