High Lonesome by Peter McCurtin

Author:Peter McCurtin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: wild west, old west, gunfighters, western pulp fiction, american frontier fiction, jack slade, lassiter, peter mccurtin
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Eight

It gets cold in the high country of New Mexico. Lassiter had left the window open anyway. The few times they’d put him behind bars, even temporarily, had given him a hatred for little rooms without air. That and the fact that he wasn’t accustomed to sleeping for long in any one bed, in any one place.

Now he woke up when he heard the noise on the balcony outside his hotel room. The gun was in his hand while he slept. He didn’t have to reach for it or make any other move. The loose board creaked again. A shadow darkened the dirty muslin curtains and Lassiter fired three fast shots. A man screamed and there was the sound of a body falling.

Lassiter snaked his leg over the window sill and got ready to use the other three bullets. He didn’t have to. There was a full moon and Lassiter could see the coughing man from the jail lying face down on the balcony. His gun was lying several feet away. Lassiter thought he was dead until he started to groan. With the cocked .38 pointing at the cougher’s head, Lassiter turned him over with his boot.

Down in the street men were running from all directions. Lassiter could hear the chief deputy, Lloyd Ketchell, yelling what the hell was going on. Another minute and the balcony would be blasted to bits by a hail of lead. Lassiter yelled good and loud. Ketchell shouted back.

There was a bullet crease on the side of the cougher’s skull. No real damage in spite of all the blood. The cougher didn’t weigh much. Even in the best of health he wouldn’t have been able to hit worth a damn. He tried it anyway. Lassiter grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the side of the building.

“Easy, pilgrim,” Lassiter said. “You ain’t got the strength right now.”

The cougher found his voice and it didn’t sound good. “Go on, whoreson,” he gasped. “Kill me and may God damn you to hell. Rotten bastard!”

“Enough,” Lassiter cautioned him in a mild voice. “Don’t let your courage run away with your good sense.”

Lassiter heard the door of his room slam open. It was Lloyd Ketchell toting a sawed-off shotgun. Lassiter told him not to come out. When Lassiter dragged the cougher inside Ketchell lunged at him and Lassiter had to push him hard to get him away from the blood-spattered little assassin.

Ketchell didn’t like being pushed. The ex policeman thought about using the scattergun on Lassiter. Lassiter put his hand on the muzzle of the shotgun and pushed it aside.

“But the little shit tried to kill you,” Ketchell protested.

The cougher sent a gob of spit flying at the chief deputy and there was another tussle before Lassiter broke it up.

“Don’t you even want to know why he tried to kill you?” Ketchell complained, sounding very much like the policeman he used to be.

“Sure I do,” Lassiter answered. “And that’s what I aim to find out.”

“You’re wasting your time, bastard,” the cougher screamed.

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