’em go. Didn’t recognize either one till Willoughby gave me that little look of the devil just before they was about to help themselves to our beans.”
Mason shoved his Colt down into its holster with a snick of iron against leather. “They see you at the hotel yonder?”
“If they did, I didn’t see them. Most likely, they seen us from a distance and got after our horses but recognized me just now and decided to go ahead and bushwhack us all and get it over with before I recognized them.”
“I’ll be damned,” Gentry said, chuckling and staring down at the burning Beauchamp. “Can’t take you anywhere, can we, you old whore banger?”
Mitchell bounced the bean pot in his hand. “You mind if I fetch that water now?”
“Yeah, go ahead,” said Spurr.
When Mitchell had put the fires out and Mason and Gentry had built up their own cookfire again in its stone ring, Spurr threw back a long slug of Gentry’s tanglefoot and smacked his lips. “Shit, I was gonna take the first watch after young Strang here. But I reckon this miserable episode just frazzled my old, tender nerves like lightnin’ streakin’ along telegraph wires.” The craggy-faced federal lawman popped a nitro tablet into his mouth and washed it downwith another pull from Gentry’s bottle. “I’m gonna have to sit here awhile, get myself settled down.”
With that, he lay back against his saddle and pulled his hat brim down over his eyes. He was snoring inside of a minute.
Mason, Gentry, and Stockton snorted.
TEN
Clell Stanhope’s Colt revolver was so close to Erin Wilde’s right hand that it made her hair tingle and her heart flutter.
She looked down at it now as she rode on the back of Stanhope’s grulla, behind Stanhope himself, as they trotted across the flat top of a dusty mesa. She held on to the back of his cartridge belt to keep her purchase. The man himself repulsed her, and she only clutched him around his waist when they broke into a lope or a gallop or headed up a steep hill, when she was in danger of being thrown.
She stared at the gun, then at her hands. She needed only to slide her right hand a few inches across the small of the rawhider’s sweaty back to grab the revolver’s wooden handle and draw it from where it rested in the holster lashed to his thigh.
Erin’s heart quickened. It skipped a beat. She lifted her gaze to the man’s upper back; his black-and-red calico shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders. He’d lashed his duster behind his saddle. She’d grab the gun, his own gun,and shoot him in the back with it. She wanted very much to watch him die slowly as payback for shooting her boy, Jim, as well as for the abuse he’d visited on her last night, her first night on the trail with the passel of snakes known as the Vultures.
But she’d settle for blowing out his heart through his back with his own sidearm.
She didn’t care what happened to her after that. The rest of the gang riding to each side and behind her and Stanhope would doubtless shoot her. She’d kill him and then she’d kill herself to deny the other brutes in the wolf pack the satisfaction of abusing her further before they slit her throat.
Erin couldn’t bear her racing heart any longer. She removed her right hand from Stanhope’s cartridge belt. Quickly, she flicked it down around his side to where the handle jutted from his thigh, the butt quivering in its holster with each pitch of the trotting horse. She’d rather shoot him with the shotgun, the same gun he’d used to blow that terrible hole in Jim, but it was out of her reach in front of him. She closed her hands around the pistol’s handle and, gritting her teeth harder, pulled.
It wouldn’t budge.
Just as she remembered that it was probably held in place by a strip of leather across the hammer and fastened to the holster itself, Stanhope closed his gloved hand over hers. He held her hand there atop the butt of his gun, pressing down hard until she groaned
Mason shoved his Colt down into its holster with a snick of iron against leather. “They see you at the hotel yonder?”
“If they did, I didn’t see them. Most likely, they seen us from a distance and got after our horses but recognized me just now and decided to go ahead and bushwhack us all and get it over with before I recognized them.”
“I’ll be damned,” Gentry said, chuckling and staring down at the burning Beauchamp. “Can’t take you anywhere, can we, you old whore banger?”
Mitchell bounced the bean pot in his hand. “You mind if I fetch that water now?”
“Yeah, go ahead,” said Spurr.
When Mitchell had put the fires out and Mason and Gentry had built up their own cookfire again in its stone ring, Spurr threw back a long slug of Gentry’s tanglefoot and smacked his lips. “Shit, I was gonna take the first watch after young Strang here. But I reckon this miserable episode just frazzled my old, tender nerves like lightnin’ streakin’ along telegraph wires.” The craggy-faced federal lawman popped a nitro tablet into his mouth and washed it downwith another pull from Gentry’s bottle. “I’m gonna have to sit here awhile, get myself settled down.”
With that, he lay back against his saddle and pulled his hat brim down over his eyes. He was snoring inside of a minute.
Mason, Gentry, and Stockton snorted.
TEN
Clell Stanhope’s Colt revolver was so close to Erin Wilde’s right hand that it made her hair tingle and her heart flutter.
She looked down at it now as she rode on the back of Stanhope’s grulla, behind Stanhope himself, as they trotted across the flat top of a dusty mesa. She held on to the back of his cartridge belt to keep her purchase. The man himself repulsed her, and she only clutched him around his waist when they broke into a lope or a gallop or headed up a steep hill, when she was in danger of being thrown.
She stared at the gun, then at her hands. She needed only to slide her right hand a few inches across the small of the rawhider’s sweaty back to grab the revolver’s wooden handle and draw it from where it rested in the holster lashed to his thigh.
Erin’s heart quickened. It skipped a beat. She lifted her gaze to the man’s upper back; his black-and-red calico shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders. He’d lashed his duster behind his saddle. She’d grab the gun, his own gun,and shoot him in the back with it. She wanted very much to watch him die slowly as payback for shooting her boy, Jim, as well as for the abuse he’d visited on her last night, her first night on the trail with the passel of snakes known as the Vultures.
But she’d settle for blowing out his heart through his back with his own sidearm.
She didn’t care what happened to her after that. The rest of the gang riding to each side and behind her and Stanhope would doubtless shoot her. She’d kill him and then she’d kill herself to deny the other brutes in the wolf pack the satisfaction of abusing her further before they slit her throat.
Erin couldn’t bear her racing heart any longer. She removed her right hand from Stanhope’s cartridge belt. Quickly, she flicked it down around his side to where the handle jutted from his thigh, the butt quivering in its holster with each pitch of the trotting horse. She’d rather shoot him with the shotgun, the same gun he’d used to blow that terrible hole in Jim, but it was out of her reach in front of him. She closed her hands around the pistol’s handle and, gritting her teeth harder, pulled.
It wouldn’t budge.
Just as she remembered that it was probably held in place by a strip of leather across the hammer and fastened to the holster itself, Stanhope closed his gloved hand over hers. He held her hand there atop the butt of his gun, pressing down hard until she groaned
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