Adam Steele 16 Nightmare at Noon by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

As he crossed the street, Steele dropped into his pants pocket the seven shells he had taken from the jacket before giving it to the girl. With the four bullets in the chambers of the rifle's cylinder, it was the only ammunition he had. Somewhere out on the barren Texas plain to the south of Rain were a half dozen cartons of .44 shells to fit the Colt Hartford. Packed into a saddlebag on the roof of the stage. Usually, he had a larger supply on hand, chinking in the capacious pockets of a stained and torn sheepskin coat. But the coat, newly purchased for his ride to Washington for the never-to-be reunion with his father, was gone now: left aboard the burning sternwheeler as the boat cartwheeled to the whim of strong currents down the Red River. He regretted the loss of the coat—and the stickpin with the ornate head which he had taken to concealing behind a lapel—even though he realized the foolishness of such a feeling. But to a man like Steele, with so little stability in his life, such minor details became important. Nothing would ever be so precious to him as the Colt Hartford inherited from his father—to retain possession of which he had risked his life often. And soon, perhaps, it would be all that was left of what he had owned on that Friday night of April 14 in the year of 1865. With the exception of the coat and gloves, he had replaced his clothes as they wore out: his penchant for cleanliness and style overruling all other considerations. The tiny two-shot Derringer had been lost first. And he could not recall the circumstances: perhaps because the small handgun had no longer been vital to him after Jim Bishop gave him the revolving rifle. Then the first knife he had carried in the boot sheath. He had a vivid memory of seeing this go—its blade buried in the body of a man as the victim toppled off a high ledge beside a railroad track. Now the hard-worn coat was gone, along with the stickpin which had often changed from an ornament to a weapon. And he felt a mild sadness. Perhaps he had experienced such an emotion as he rode away from Twin Creeks—first astride a horse he had accepted as a final payment for the job completed and then aboard the ill-fated stage after his mount went lame. If he had, it would have been fleetingly, for his bitterness and self-anger about all else concerned with the job had been too strong. Now, as he stooped without breaking stride to pick up the empty Winchester discarded by Pat Grant, he silently chided himself for the futility of sentimental regret. And offered his mind a material reason for nostalgic thoughts about the sheepskin coat—the shells in its pockets.

"The situation ain't good, Steele," Grant announced morosely as he stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder sloping up into the loft. He

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