Lone Star Law by Louis L'Amour & Elmer Kelton & James M. Reasoner & Ed Gorman

Author:Louis L'Amour & Elmer Kelton & James M. Reasoner & Ed Gorman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2005-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

The heat from the glowing stove hit Armstrong like a gloved fist.

He was crossing the room as the old man, Hart, rose from his chair near the stove, staring toward the stairs. “Ann?”

Confused, his Colt extended before him, Armstrong took the stairs two at a time. He’d taken two strides down the hall now lit by a single smoking bracket lamp when the door to his prisoner’s room opened. The boy, Michael, stepped out, Ann behind him. The boy’s face was strangely expressionless. Ann saw Armstrong and smiled.

She didn’t appear to be hurt. Who had screamed?

“I guess he didn’t like my soup.” She shrugged, and Armstrong saw the soup bowl in her left hand, a plate of crusty bread in her right. The boy was carrying a black coffeepot and cup.

Hart ambled up behind Armstrong, his raspy voice tremulous. “Daughter, what in blue blazes?”

“I thought I’d see if our Mr. Renfrow could eat anything,” she explained to Armstrong in an ironic, humorous tone. “One look at my soup, though, and he let out quite a bellow! I guess you heard.”

Armstrong stared at her, amazed she could be so composed when the scream had nearly made him jump out of his boots. Frowning, he peered around the young woman, trying to get a look into the room.

“The soup’s good,” Hart said, incredulous. “Me and the other men are eatin’ it. I ain’t heard no complaints.”

“He’s out of his head,” Ann said. “He might be hungry later.” She gave Michael a gentle shove, and the two of them brushed past the Ranger, heading for the stairs.

Armstrong nudged the door wide and stepped into the room, aware of Hart shuffling up behind him, wanting to check out Renfrow himself.

The prisoner was cuffed as the Ranger had left him, but now his eyes were open. He looked at Armstrong, gaze brassy and enervated. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes found Hart. His lids snapped wide. His face crumpled with fear.

“Oh, Jesus, you!” He twisted, pulling against the cuffs. “Get that old bastard outta here! What the hell’s goin’ on around here? What’re you tryin’ to do to me?”

Armstrong felt his face warm with anger. “Hey, watch your mouth, mister, or I’ll—”

“That’s all right, Ranger,” Hart said, glancing down distastefully at Renfrow. He offered a humorless laugh and turned away. “I don’t think ole Hatchet Face ever did have much for manners, but ’pears to me he’s gone loco to boot.”

With that, Hart snorted and shuffled out the door.

Armstrong stared down at the prisoner. “The lady was only offering food, which is a hell of a lot more than most people would have done for you.”

Renfrow gazed up at him, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Ranger,” he wheezed. He licked his lips, glanced at the open doorway, returned his wretched expression to Armstrong. “This…this ain’t right. Somethin’s bad wrong here.”

“Shut up,” Armstrong said, turning. “You’re out of your head. Nobody’s done nothin’ to you.”

He’d taken two steps when Hatchet Face

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