Lawless Trail by Ralph Cotton Read Free Book Online

man.” He gestured toward Claypool.
    â€œYou’re one of the Traybos,” Garand said in a scornful tone.
    â€œI already knew that,” Wes said sharply. He saw Carter Claypool reach out and lift a big Starr conversion revolver from Folliard’s holster. The badly beaten outlaw stood up on wobbly legs beside the detective, raising the Starr to Folliard’s chest as he steadied himself on his feet.
    â€œMy, oh my,
Detective
,” he whispered to Folliard through swollen lips. “Look at what a spot you’re in.”
    Folliard clenched his teeth and stared down woodenly at the dusty plank floor.
    â€œI expect you’ll kill me now, with my own damn gun,” he murmured in a shaky voice.
    â€œGood guess,” Claypool said, cocking the hammer on the big, heavy Starr.
    Wes Traybo looked at the wound in Claypool’s left shoulder. “Are you able to ride out of here, amigo?”
    â€œMore than able, and
ready
,” Claypool managed to say, keeping his swollen eyes on Folliard’s lowered face. “I just need to kill this skunk first.”
    â€œThen kill him. Let’s get going,” said Traybo. He looked around at the frozen, frightened faces. “Nobody move,” he demanded.
    â€œOn your knees,
rail bull
,” Claypool said to Folliard, jamming him with his own pistol barrel.
    â€œOh no, oh my God, no,” Folliard said as realization set in. Even as he sank slowly to his knees, he said to Claypool in a trembling voice, “Please, mister, I was only doing my job.”
    â€œI know,” said Claypool. “So am I.” He put the tip of the barrel against the detective’s trembling forehead. “So long, turd,” he said.
    Folliard’s eyes flew open wide in terror as he watched the battered outlaw pull the Starr’s trigger. The whole room gasped as the hammer fell. But Claypool, even with his senses and reflexes dulled from the beating, caught the falling gun hammer with his thumb at the last split second. A wicked smile drew across his swollen lips. He saw urine crawl down the detective’s trouser leg in a widening dark stream. Folliard shuddered in relief and closed his eyes.
    Wes Traybo and Claypool gave each other a look. Then Claypool swung the Starr wide and laid a vicious swipe across the detective’s jaw. Folliard flew backward onto the plank floor and didn’t move. A puff of breath sent two broken, bloody teeth rolling from inside his mouth.
    Claypool said to the knocked-out detective, “There’s those teeth you predicted.”
    Traybo watched as Claypool stepped over to where his gun belt lay coiled like some strange metal and leather reptile. His short-barreled Colt stood in a cut-down slim-jim holster. Beside the gun belt sat the canvas sack of bank money he’d been carrying. He looped the gun belt over his wounded shoulder, hefted the money sack over it, revealing no sign of the pain it caused him, and carried Folliard’s Starr cocked and ready toward the door. On his way to the door, with his gun in his hand, he grabbed a battered bowler hat from a townsman’s head and put it on.
    â€œYou’ll not get away with this,” Garand said in a tight, angry voice. He gestured a nod toward the doctor. “If anything happens to that poor wretch, we’ll hunt you down and hang you on the spot.”
    Traybo gave a tug on the rope and shotgun in his hand.
    â€œCome on,
poor wretch
,” he said to Dr. Bernard. “The quicker we get where we’re going, the sooner we’ll set you free.” He looked at Claypool. “About ready, pard?” he asked, ignoring Claypool’s wound and his battered condition.
    â€œWaiting on you,” Claypool said through his swollen lips.
    Traybo looked at the faces as he backed out the door with the doctor, Claypool covering him.
    â€œWe get a half hour start,” he called out. “Anybody comes out this door before