Adam Steele 29: The Big Prize by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2000-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

DOYLE’S HORSE WAS nowhere to be seen. The man stood in the final rays of the dying sun beside a dried-up stream bed under some trees: his badge and the barrel of his levelled Winchester glinting in the fading light.

‘I known you been behind us since we had the stop by the creek, Steele. How long before that?’

His blank face and dull-toned voice suggested he was not particularly interested in the answer—maybe because he was only seeking certain confirmation of what he was already almost sure of.

‘I was on the high ground when you and the others hit the house.’

Doyle nodded and vented a low grunt. ‘So you just followed my order. But you figure it wasn’t no lawman give it to you.’

‘You could always claim Henry and Martha were shot while you were doing your duty, Sheriff. Accidents happen.’

‘Claim to who?’

Steele nodded. ‘You’re right. You’ll always know there were a million reasons why you weren’t on law business at the homestead.’

A thought abruptly struck Doyle. ‘You knew them?’

‘No.’

‘You know their names.’

A nod. ‘Saw the hole in the yard and made the same mistake you and the others made. But I found out how wrong I was before any shots were fired.’

Embittered rage spread across Doyle’s square shaped face. ‘I should kill you where you stand, mister.’

‘You said it, Sheriff. Reckon that means you’re not going to do it.’

The lawman advanced on Steele, the Winchester still held in a rock-steady grip, aimed from the hip.

‘You’re out of the friggin’ saddle but still on your high horse, ain’t you?’

Steele shrugged, ‘You want me to be like Juan Lopez?’

‘What?’

‘To say aloud what you’re thinking, feller. That you’re in the same sort of situation that was sprung on you back at the farm. With a rifle aimed at something you don’t understand. A little different here, though. Because there’s no one else to fire the first shot.’

‘First and only shot, far as you’re concerned, mister!’ Doyle snarled.

‘So squeeze the trigger, feller!’ Steele responded in a similar tone. But more meaningfully. Convinced in his own mind that this was what he wanted. But not close enough to breaking point to provoke Arnie Doyle—to make a sudden move for the knife or the Colt Hartford so as to leave the Mesa sheriff no alternative. Force him to follow through on the threat that was actually an empty one. ‘Blast a hole in me and find out how you feel from doing it. Reckon I’ll feel a whole lot better.’

Doyle knew the challenge had nothing to do with bravado. That the impassive-faced, snarl-voiced man in front of him meant every word he was speaking. And it shocked the lawman.

‘You’re friggin’ crazy, Steele!’

‘Don’t they say talking to yourself is one of the signs, feller?’ the Virginian answered grimly. ‘Maybe talking to a horse is another.’

Doyle’s high emotion drained out of him. It seemed to take some of his great strength with it, so that even the rifle in his big hands sagged to aim at Steele’s legs.

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