Hell on Wheels (A Sheriff Ben Stillman Western) by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold [Brandvold, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641196239
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2019-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

DEPUTY SHERIFF LEON McMannigle forded Little Porcupine Creek, gigged his steeldust into a trot, and followed the narrow trail to the crest of a sandy knoll.

Hanging their heads with boredom, two quarter horses trailed on a lead line, which the deputy jerked with his gloved right fist. He reined up on the knoll and, clutching his bullet-burned thigh with his left hand, gave a relieved sigh.

A couple hundred yards west, the little town of Clantick clung to the sage-tufted, short-grass bench on the south bank of the Milk River. Clantick was the county seat of Hill County. Ben Stillman was county sheriff, McMannigle, his sole deputy. McMannigle was damn glad to see the town again. He'd been riding all night, clutching his bullet-burned thigh, and the jolting ride from the Hog's Head Buttes had set his whole leg on fire.

It was in the Hog's Head Buttes he'd been wounded while hunting the horse thieves who'd long-looped the two quarter horses he now had in tow.

He eagerly anticipated a stiff drink and for Doc Evans to patch the wound. After that, McMannigle would soak in a hot tub and have the girls at Rooms by the Hour, the nameless brothel he called home, make the pain go away.

Just thinking about Miss Rachel's or Miss Allie's otherworldly ministrations soothed the throb. The pain lines in the deputy's mahogany forehead softened a little as he gigged the steeldust westward along the trail, jerking the quarter horses along behind.

Clad in blue denims, blue shirt, black vest, and black plainsman hat, Leon McMannigle was a rangy, muscular black man with chiseled features and pleasant, humorous eyes. At least, they were mostly humorous. At the moment — shoulders slumped as he clutched his thigh, riding toward the log shacks, corrals, and false-fronted business buildings looming on the horizon — his expression was a restless mix of nettling discomfort and sweet anticipation.

He may have had a painful night's ride, but not many men had twelve women at their beck and call and a brothel to call home . . .

Ten minutes later he cleaved the false-fronts lining First Street, weaving through the lazy afternoon traffic, sun-gilded dust rising around him. A couple of dogs ran out from the boardwalk to bark at him and the two horses he trailed.

"Tiff, Buford, behave yourselves!" he growled at the strays who lived under the boardwalks and fed on restaurant scraps. McMannigle often saved his own steak and chicken bones for the dogs, whom he'd named after two of his cousins. Wagging their tails, the ill-tempered mutts — one large and liver-colored, the other wiry and white with a black head and rump — slunk sheepishly back to the shade of the blacksmith shop.

The deputy angled his horse toward the hitch rack before the jailhouse and frowned. The shade was drawn over the single front window, which meant Ben wasn't inside. Leon had expected the sheriff and Doc Evans back last night from their weekend trip to Sulfur. The deputy

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.