Desert of the Damned by Nelson Nye Read Free Book Online Page A

long ago. He should have put a slug through Breen’s damn head, then dressed him up as Curly Ben and left the buckskin’s reins in his fist. That would have been the end of this deal.
    Instead he had left Breen free to squawk. And squawk he would — no doubt about that. The skunk would make his pitch to the first piece of tin he could latch an eye on. And anything he’d leave out wouldn’t be worth mentioning.
    Irascibly Reifel checked the roan and pulled up and took a long look behind him. He hadn’t been riding more than two or three minutes but the horse had covered considerable ground. Town lay well below and behind him, its lights like jewels in the moon-dappled night. He listened hard but caught no sound of pursuit.
    Breen, of course, would have to get some clothes on before he would dare set up an alarm. He’d never risk being seen bare naked. That would lose him too much face in this camp. He would get on some clothes and probably wait for the rest of the crew to ride in. Then he’d spin some yarn about Reifel cutting west with the gang’s buried swag and, after that, if the gang caught up with him Ben wouldn’t have a chance for talking.
    If the law came first he’d make sure they found out the man they were hunting was Curly Ben. They could get his description from anyone then and, acting downright surprised, he would probably admit to having seen the fugitive heading west like a bat out of Carlsbad. “Was on a blazed-face roan that looked a lot like that Bugler horse of Turner’s.”
    Breen would find a way. Or he would make one.
    He might even admit to having had a few words with him. Or an argument maybe which had ended in gunplay. There were plenty of lies Breen could tell which would give him the chance to guess Ben had been wounded. And once they knew that …
    He could feel the rough bite of the hemp around his neck. There was just one possibility. If he could get far enough east before Breen’s jaw got to working there was an outside chance he might still make it clear while they were scouting these mountains. Or get enough of a start that he could hole up some place they had already searched.
    But to get east at all he’d have to backtrack through Paradise. If anyone lamped him he would be a cooked goose.
    He would be cooked anyway if he kept traveling west. Turner hadn’t supplied him with that rifle he’d requested. He had no provisions and barely enough shells to fire three rounds from his belt gun. Against a man with a rifle you could do about as well with a peashooter.
    Even if he eluded Breen’s bunch and the law — which wasn’t hardly likely — there was still this hole in his chest to be reckoned with. When the fever set in he’d probably go off his rocker. Or he sure as hell would when the buzzards started gathering. He had seen guys before after the buzzards….
    Reifel swore.
    Already his cheeks were beginning to feel flushed.
    He kneed the roan around and sent him jogging back toward camp. He kept his eyes peeled grimly.
    He reached the camp’s west edge without trouble. Three shacks away, and to the left of the road, the front of Carradine’s showed in the moonglow.
    He slowed the horse to a cautious walk and turned him right through a stand of scrub ash that took him back of the buildings across the road from Turner’s. He clung to the gloom of the wind-tossed foliage until he saw the dark bulk of the gulch’s south wall before him and then moved east with both ears cocked.
    Crickets made a steady throbbing and the clatter of branches was an eerie thing but one which helped considerably to keep his progress secret.
    The ash gave way to sycamore, the roundabout darkness deepened and he knew he must be getting pretty close to the rear of Babcock’s. He could feel his muscles contracting as strain laid a heavier hold on his nerves and he raked the gloom with desperate eyes. Someplace pretty near here now was where he’d ground hitched Bucky….
    He slowed the