William W. Johnstone by Savage Texas Read Free Book Online Page B

himself was not immune to the lure of the loot, the seductive siren call of that much prime lethal hardware laid out at his feet. The corners of his eyes and mouth turned up. He reached into the crate and hauled out a weapon, holding it up for all to see.
    “Take a look, boys: one brand-spanking-new Henry repeating rifle. Twelve to a box, twelve boxes in all. With thousands of cartridges in some of the other crates. There’s more massed firepower in that wagon than anywhere else on the frontier,” Harper said.
    “Now—what kind of hell do you think you can raise with that?!”
    All of the outlaw band were appropriately enthused and excited. There were shouts of appreciation, roaring laughter, backslapping. Even Hap Englehard’s sour-faced expression looked a little bit less funereal than usual.
    Harper crowed, “What do I always say?—‘Trust Brock Harper.’ Well, seeing is believing. When Harper tells you something is so, it’s so! You can take it to the bank.”
    He paused for effect, then went on:
    “I should say, you can take the bank—every bank in the Southwest! And every town those banks are in! Bust them wide open like ripe melons and rip out all the meat and juices until you’ve had your fill!”
    That raised a cheer.
    “You said a mouthful, Brock!”
    “You’re the bull of the woods, boss!”
    “Sure called the tune on that one, Brock!”
    Harper handed the rifle around so the others could examine it. It was passed from hand to hand, stroked with all the tenderness that none of these hard cases would ever expend on a lover. They fondled it possessively, caressing its smooth lines and well-wrought workings. When someone had held it for too long, the next in line was sure to demand his turn.
    Dutchie Hiltz reached over the shoulders of some of the others, proffering a bottle of red whiskey. “Here go, Brock!”
    Harper grabbed the bottle. It was one-third full. “Didn’t leave me much did you, ya greedy bastards,” he said.
    “It’s a wondernation that there’s any left a-tall,” Fenner said. His hat was back on his head.
    Harper pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it out. He upended the bottle, taking a long pull, gulping greedily, draining the bottle. Gripping the empty bottle by the neck, he flung it out high over the creek.
    He drew his gun and fired, one lightning-fast move. The bottle exploded in midair, raining shards of broken glass into the water.
    “Now that I have your attention,” Harper said, “let’s get back to work. There’s plenty that needs doing. You’ve all had a chance to paw that gun. Now give it here. Come on, give it up!”
    Groans and protests sounded from those complaining they hadn’t had time to examine the goods.
    “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Harper said. “Every mother’s son of you will each get his own personal rifle at the share-up at the hideout, along with plenty of cartridges. I know you’ll put them to good use!”
    The rifle was passed hand over hand to Harper, who put it back in the crate from which it came. He closed the broken lid as best he could, hammering it into place with a thud from his clublike fist. “Load it back in the hopper,” he said.
    A couple of men hefted the crate into the wagon. The tailgate was closed, locked in place. The flap of the tarp was pulled down, covering the crates.
    “We’re taking the gun wagon to Ghost Canyon,” Harper said. “Too bad we’ve got to travel by day but there’s nothing for it but to do it. Those of you picked for the cleanup—you know who you are—will have to load the bodies on the flatbed wagon, cover ’em up, take them north into the hills and get rid of them. Then join us at the hideout.
    “Kimbro! Fenner! We’ve got to get rid of these bluebelly duds, get them all gathered up for burning later. That’s important. Make a clean sweep of it. Any scrap or rag of bluecoat is a ticket for a oneway ride to the gallows.
    “Remember that, all of you—no