Dead Man's Trail (9781101606957) by Leslie Frank

Author:Leslie, Frank
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2012-10-23T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Yakima stopped Wolf west of the stage trail. Ahead, the stagecoach sat silhouetted in the darkness, moonlight glistening on the brass rail that ran around the roof. He’d heard something—the slightest squawk of a thoroughbrace in the coach’s undercarriage.

A figure squatted atop the roof. A gun flashed against the figure, and Yakima threw himself off Wolf’s back to hit the ground on his shoulder. He came up firing his Colt, purposely missing his target, watching the man give a terrified scream and drop to the stage’s roof, squealing.

Wolf gave a shrill whinny, turned sharply, and, trailing his reins, galloped wildly off to the north. His hammering front hooves missed Yakima by mere inches. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” shouted another man crouched behind the stagecoach’s slanting tongue. “Goddamn it, that’s Coble!”

“I figured.” Yakima heaved himself to his feet, pistol smoking. He glanced to his left. Wolf was still galloping, though beginning to slow, snorting angrily.

Fury was an exploding keg of dynamite in the half-breed’s chest. He stared through his pistol smoke wafting around him toward the stage, where the shotgun messenger was rising to his knees. “Who’s that?” he asked.

Charlie Adlard said angrily, “The breed, goddamn it!”

“Well, hell,” Coble said, “how was I supposed to know that?”

“You weren’t,” Yakima said, his calm tone belying his fury. He was walking toward the stage, shaking the spent shells from his Colt’s wheel and replacing them with fresh from his cartridge belt. “You were just supposed to start shootin’.”

As he stopped in front of the stage, the shotgun messenger stared down at him, holding his pistol down low but aimed cautiously at Yakima. His voice was slow, defensive, as he said, “Figured you’d pulled out.”

Yakima reached up quickly, grabbed the man’s left ankle, and jerked it out from beneath him. “Hey!”

Thump!

“Ah, you son of a bitch!” Coble yelled, writhing around supine on the coach’s roof. His pistol bounced off the roof, as well, and dropped over the edge to land at Yakima’s feet.

“What the hell is going on over here?” It was Mendenhour, stepping out around the far side of the stage to stand beside the driver. “Don’t we have enough trouble without you men shooting at each other?”

His wife walked up behind him, though Yakima could only see her silhouette in the darkness. Because of the shooting, she was sticking close to her husband. That was wise. Yakima didn’t like it in some vaguely primitive way, but there it was. He didn’t like anything about this night. Or the past three days . . .

“I think he broke my back!” complained Coble, leaning forward on his knees and hooking an arm behind him.

Yakima looked from Mendenhour’s wife to the prosecutor to the driver. “You’ll find a blanket full of guns and knives out there where my horse left it. I suggest you haul it in and do something useful with them.”

“Such as?” Mendenhour asked.

“Make sure everyone’s armed. And I’d move your camp. The horses, too. They know where we are.

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