Ride the High Lines (An Ash Colter Western Book 2) by Bridges Ben

Author:Bridges, Ben [Bridges, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Bookends
Published: 2012-05-10T04:00:00+00:00

I hoped that Bill Johnson would see sense. Either that, or he would be too weak a man to hold out for very long. But somehow he held out for forty eight hours.

Two full days.

And in such pain, too.

My God.

One of Buckhalter’s men fetched a doctor out from Fort Wray. The doctor operated first on Buckhalter, and then on our prisoner. For a time there was nothing we could do but let him rest, despite what I had said to the contrary. But as soon as his morphine-induced narcosis wore off, we set about our onerous task of depriving him of his sleep.

I took my share at it, and I hated it every bit as much as did my companions. There in the cold gloom at the back of the barn I watched him moan and whine beneath his blanket, begging for rest.

His dark eyes sank deeper into his skull and turned wild. It was then, when we felt that he might be about to break, that I or one of the others would lean forward and almost beg him in return to cooperate and tell us all he knew. But every time he would simply curse us and then fall quiet for a while.

It was exhausting just to watch him fighting so hard to hold out against the inevitable. I came out of the barn after my first shift feeling twice my age, for it was a wretched, soul-destroying chore I had brought about. But finally he broke — he broke and when he did it was like watching a dam burst, because he told us everything we wanted to hear and more besides.

He told us that the rustled stock was held in a small box canyon about fifty miles east of the Buckhalter place. Kidd kept a couple of men there who were skilled in the art of altering brands — brand-blotchers, as we called them back then. From there the cattle were pushed southeast into Kansas in a series of small, manageable herds. There was a man in the Smoky Hills country who bought everything Kidd could bring him. Kidd even owned one of the small ranches along the trail, and paid hush-money to various of his neighbors in order to keep the operation a secret.

Once I had it all, I turned to Winch and asked him if he knew the box canyon Johnson had mentioned. He paused in his tobacco chewing for a moment and pulled at one of his pendulous ear lobes. ‘Iffen it’s there, I c’n find it,’ he allowed.

I nodded. ‘All right. Saul, we’ll need provisions. Go see what Miss Buckhalter can spare us. Henry, go with him. Bob — you’d better stay behind and keep an eye on Johnson.’

I could see in his eyes that he hated to miss out on whatever action might be coming, but when he still said nothing and just accepted his orders with a curt nod, I revised my opinion of him again, although sourly I wondered

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