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

gelding’s pace still more.
    If the buckskin hadn’t wandered off he might catch their scent and whinny. Or someone may have found him and, even worse, be waiting now for Ben’s return.
    But these were things he had to chance. Unless he were willing to risk the street he had no other means of getting east of his town except by continuing the way he was headed.
    He lifted the sixgun out of his holster. This was a sample of life on the owlhoot. This was what it meant to be hunted, to know no rest, no security ever. Eternal vigilance was the price a man paid for continued living the moment he stepped outside the law. No place you dared call your own. No friends.
    Cold sweat broke through the pores of Ben’s skin. He commenced to see spots in the darkness, to conjure up shapes where none existed. The gloom seemed to curdle; it appeared to close in on him with a creeping stealth that shortened his breathing and once, when the wind tapered off for a moment, he thought to catch the rumor of booted feet making toward him.
    Every nerve in his body was twisting and jerking. Dilated, his eyes stabbed wildly about. Blind panic was reaching its hands out for him when, about to scream, he got hold of himself with a lifting anger which recognized this for what it was. He slipped his gun back in leather and, trembling a little, urged the roan circumspectly forward again.
    The wind turned more violent, slamming through the trees with the roar of a waterfall, tossing their tops about, whipping them savagely. It was impossible to hear any lesser sounds but there wasn’t as much danger from nickering now. No man could hear their approach in this racket. It seemed a good time to hunt for the buckskin. If he could get hold of Bucky he would have his rifle and that was something that was certainly worth trying for.
    So he reined the roan gelding north for a bit in the direction of the street until he saw lights gleaming from what he took to be Babcock’s. He was twenty feet away before he found it wasn’t Nick’s at all but the dancehall two doors east of it. Even then he might not have guessed where he was except a leather-lunged voice abruptly bawled from the guts of it: “Grab yo’ podners fo’ chase that rabbit!” and a wail of fiddles rode the wind.
    He eased Bugler off and wheeled him under the trees. He urged him into the thickest of shadows and held him there while he tried to decide if the advantage of recovering his Winchester would offset the time it might take him to find it. His need for such a weapon might become very urgent, especially if pressed or if driven to cover. But suppose he went back and then didn’t find it?
    Time wasn’t going to stand around for nobody. With each passing moment Reifel’s danger was mounting for there was no way of guessing what a snake like Breen would do. He might be content to wait for the law but if the other boys showed he might decide to use them — and he could damn well do it. He had only to tell them he had caught Ben Reifel plundering their cache and he would have them hellbent to murder Ben for him. He could show them the empty hole beneath the floor and tell how he’d found Ben fighting with Turner. He could say he’d tried to stop him — that they’d exchanged a couple shots — he could tell them Ben was wounded.
    Breen could do it all right.
    Or he might even now be riding for the law with some other fine story brewed up to finish Ben. Whichever thing he did Breen would be right along with them, determined to make certain Ben had no damned chance to talk.
    Nor would the law be picking any daisies, either. The star-packing tribe would be wild to avenge Schmole and, while it might take them weeks to associate this camp with the bunch they were after, if they happened on Breen’s trail they might be very near here now. It was a cinch Breen hadn’t stopped to hide his trail any.
    The wind wasn’t cold yet Ben Reifel shivered. He had a moment of giddiness then when the