Dry Gulch Outlaws by George Snyder & 9780719826238

Author:George Snyder & 9780719826238 [Snyder, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780719826238
Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
Published: 2023-01-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Spike Carp wept real tears of sorrow when Wesley gagged his dying breath. He stood looking down at his dead brother and twisted in pain. But reality set in. He had to get out of the shack. He had never trusted the black man and was sure the scout now knew about them and was coming to wipe out the last of the Carp clan.

On the other corner bunk, the Mexican groaned. His dark eyes rolled around the room to stop on Carp – Carp sitting on a table bench, his head low, breathing quick and shallow. ‘Señor, agua, por favor. Please, señor, water, please.’

Carp pushed to his feet and pulled his Remington. ‘If I ain’t got the strength to bury my poor, dead brother, I sure as hell ain’t fetching you no pump water.’

‘Please, señor.’

Spike Carp shot the Mexican in the chest, then again through the cheek. The sound of gunfire in the small shack blocked his ears for seconds. He sat back down, smelling gunpowder and seeing white smoke around him. He shook his head, fighting for a deep breath. He had to get moving. The stagecoach driver was probably already on his way.

The effort to saddle a horse opened his side wound and he began to bleed again. He rode for Colorado City and the drunken doc. After the doc patched him, he told the doc there was no need to send the old Apache woman to the cabin any more. Everybody in it was dead. The doc said she had a few things to pick up so would make one more trip. Carp figured the ‘things’ were anything of value on the bodies and in the gear. He had all the bank cash – except the five-thousand the black man stole from him.

Coming out of the doc’s office in glaring sunshine, Spike Carp reckoned what would set him right was a couple glasses of whiskey – no matter that it was rotgut red-eye souped up with pepper, tabasco, tobacco juice and maybe a couple spoons of kerosene in every bottle – it would put a shot of clear thinking right through his cloudy head.

He stumbled slowly through batwing doors and sat heavily in an arm chair at one of the empty tables. A girl who looked about ten, with whisker burns all over her neck, bent low for him to get a sight and took his order for a bottle and two glasses, one for her. Of the ten tables, four had old, grizzled, regular drunks and the young, restless and lazy. Two young men in their early twenties stood at the bar, dressed cowboy and a month from any kind of bath water. The bartender leaned back against a shelf of bottles in front of a bar-length mirror and stared at his shoes, a bored look on his face. He had short, black hair and a handlebar mustache. His pink shirt used wide, red garters to keep the sleeves up. Other than muted conversation,

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