Windstar by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Read Free Book Online Page B

his right hand to the deadly six-shooter strapped to his thigh and caressed the pearl handle. A brutal smile tugged at his lightly whiskered cheeks, then he pulled on the reins, turning his mount to maneuver it down the small rise and to the place he’d picked to waylay the stage.
    With his black Stetson shielding his steely eyes from the blistering sun, he gently kicked the horse into a slow gallop to gain the ambush point before the Wells Fargo coach. His black duster flapped in the wind behind his legs and his silver spurs flashed as he kept the heels of his dusty boots down. He rode easily, his mind on his objective, a muscle jumping in his sun-darkened jaw. When he reached his destination, he reined in the stallion and threw a long leg over the horse’s back and slid to the ground, his spurs jingling as he landed. Tying the horse to a piece of deadwood, he pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard, worked the lever and stepped out onto the roadway over which the coach would soon be traveling, knowing the vehicle would have to slow significantly to take the sharp turn that skirted the boulders of the rocky canyon. With the rifle up and pointed, legs spread wide in a deadly stance, he waited for the rumbling, jangling, squeaking stage to approach. As soon as the two men appeared sitting high on the wooden seats, he fired a warning shot and cocked the rifle again.
    “Whoa!” he heard the driver shout as he began sawing on the reins to stop the coach’s horse, saw the man riding shotgun start to lift his weapon. Harper fired again and the shotgun went flying out of the other man’s hands which then immediately went up in the air in surrender.
    “Throw down your side arms!” Harper ordered, his rifle trained on the driver, and the two men promptly obeyed. “Now, climb down.”
    Getting to the ground, the two men held their hands above their head as they stepped away from the coach at Harper’s command. “On the ground,” he told them and with alacrity the driver and his companion dropped to the dirt.
    Keeping an eye on the driver and the other man, Harper walked to the stage’s door and flung the door open. “Out!” he barked, stepping back.
    The first one out of the stage was a peddler, his jowls wobbling as he hurried off to one side, his hands up. The only other occupant remained in the coach for a moment longer, then an older woman stepped down the dusty steps, her reticule clutched tightly in her trembling hand. She gave Harper a worried look then joined the peddler.
    “You Dalton’s daughter?” Harper demanded, sweeping an insulting glance down her portly frame.
    The woman nodded, face pale, lips trembling.
    “You,” Harper snapped, switching his gaze to the peddler. “Back inside.”
    The overweight man hesitated. “What of the lady?” he asked.
    “You didn’t help her out,” Harper replied. “You aren’t helping her back in.” The rifle lifted a bit. “Now, get!”
    Scrambling to climb back inside the coach, the peddler spared his traveling companion an apologetic look before settling down on the seat.
    “You two,” Harper called out to the driver and his assistant. “Back on the stage.”
    The two men pushed up from the ground. The driver cast the woman a worried look. “What about the lady? We can’t just leave her here.”
    “You can and you will,” Harper told them.
    “W … what are you gonna do with her?” the driver asked.
    Harper didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his finger tensed on the rifle’s trigger, and the driver made haste to climb back up to his seat, his companion scurrying up the other side. He stood where he was until the stage was set into motion and the horses were picking up speed before he shifted his stony glower to the woman.
    “Come here,” he ordered.
    She lifted her chin, finding a bit of backbone as she stood there shaking from head to toe. “What are your intentions, sir?” she asked, her voice trembling almost as violently as her