Tyranny by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

alone.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what those movie cowboys you were always so fond of would say just before they beat the hell out of somebody.”
    â€œThey never beat the hell of anybody who didn’t have it comin’.”
    An uneasy silence fell between the two of them as Brannock drove on toward the ranch. Finally Kyle said, “I meant it, you know. If there’s anything I can do to help, I will. I don’t care if it gets me in trouble with the law, either.” He snorted derisively. “Hell, I’m used to it.”
    â€œYou never tangled with federal law, at least not that I know of.”
    â€œNo,” Kyle admitted. “I’ve steered clear of that sort of trouble. I’ve had my chances, too. Guys I knew in the army were mixed up in some sort of drug ring, and I could have thrown in with them. They promised me all kinds of money.”
    â€œHow come you didn’t take it?”
    â€œHonestly?” Kyle laughed. “Because I knew that if you ever found out about it, you’d kick my ass six ways from Sunday.”
    â€œYou got that right. Might even make it seven ways from Sunday.”
    Both of them chuckled as Brannock drove on. He’d been upset to get that call from Ernie Rodriguez and find out that Kyle was in trouble again, of course, but now that he’d talked to the boy, Brannock’s instincts told him that Kyle could still make something of himself.
    With all the trouble looming over his own head, Brannock didn’t know if he was in any position to give Kyle a hand with that job, but he would do what he could.
    One way or another, he thought, it was time his grandson started growin’ up.

Chapter 10
    T he GPS on Barton Devlin’s phone took him right where he needed to go. He brought the rental to a stop near the edge of a ridge that ran for more than twenty miles along a meandering path that followed a generally north-south orientation.
    The rocky drop-off down to the flats was about forty feet. The slope was easy enough that a man could walk down it if he was careful, but a vehicle wouldn’t be able to make it so the dirt road Devlin had been following—really just a barely discernible trace—ended here.
    He didn’t need to get any closer today. He was just here to indulge his curiosity.
    He picked up the binoculars lying on the seat beside him and got out of the car to walk to the edge. He had already taken the binoculars out of their case, so all he had to do was lift them to his eyes and peer through them.
    The valley spread out before him was several miles wide and greener with vegetation than much of the arid landscape around here. That was because it was watered by a clear, spring-fed stream that flowed down from the mountains on the other side of the valley.
    The creek disappeared almost as soon as it left the mountains, swallowed up by the thirsty ground, but the moisture was still there, trickling under the surface and making it easier for grass and other plants to grow.
    Because of that, this valley—designated Yucca Valley on official USGS topographical maps—was good ranch land and had been ever since one of G. W. Brannock’s ancestors had settled here almost a hundred and fifty years earlier.
    But there were other good uses to which Yucca Valley could be put, thought Devlin as he raised the binoculars and focused on the ranch house.
    It was a rambling, two-story frame structure that had been built onto several times over the years, those additions to the original house being easy to see.
    But that gave it a unique quality. There wasn’t another house anywhere in the world exactly like it. Brannock probably liked that about it.
    Several cottonwoods grew around the house and provided shade at various times of day. Again, the underground moisture allowed them to attain greater height than most of the rather scrubby trees in this area.
    Set about fifty yards behind the house and off to the