Savage 02 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: western series, ebook erotica, piccadilly publishing, adult western fiction, southwest usa, frontier west usa, westerns fiction ebook, paul wheelahan, e jefferson clay
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Six – Savage Rides

Savage rode the midnight miles with the stars his only company. Every so often the dim shape of a steer would drift by. He passed a windmill, a grove of aspen, rode over a salt pan and scared off a prowling coyote.

There was no need for him to be out here on the southern graze tonight other than he felt the urge to be alone.

He reined-in atop a gentle hill. He enjoyed the rare moments like this when he felt at peace with the world, not wanting or needing anything more than he had, no conflict or hatreds or simmering feuds.

Times like this he felt like an old graybeard seated on a front porch someplace, alone with his cigars and memories, rocking away what was left of his years.

It was a favorite image, all the more captivating because he never seriously believed he would ever see that day.

Long before he could hope to reach that venerable age, some dirty drygulcher, craven knifer, vengeful vamp or act of God would smite him down. He lived with danger, played with it, slept with it. One day a certain set of psychic tumblers would click into place, the name of Clint Savage would pop up in some ethereal place where the days and deeds of men of the gun were decided, and a line would be drawn through it.

By sundown, he would be in heaven or hell, and not one gray hair to be found on the head of his corpse.

“You’re a cheerful cuss, Savage,” he said aloud, and the ugly sorrel tossed its head. “No need for you to agree, you rusty-coated failure.” They traveled on through the night in a wide semicircle that would take them back to the ranch house.

He covered about two miles before sighting two nighthawks up ahead by the Two Mile gate. He called to them.

“It’s Savage. I’m comin’ up.”

The cowboys kept their Winchesters trained on him until they were able to make positive identification. Then they lowered their weapons and watched him warily. There wasn’t much liaison between the working hands on Clearwater and the gunfighter squad. The ramrod was about the only bridge. Barlow seemed to enjoy the confidence and respect of both the hands and the hardcases. Savage was unique insofar that neither faction seemed sure what to make of him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he grunted, and produced cigars. The men said nothing. One was middle-aged and going gray, his companion a baby-faced kid. They weren’t tough, Savage mused, touching flame to cheroot. And in this life, if you weren’t tough, you wound up nursemaiding a bunch of steers.

He decided he would take tough any day.

“I ain’t bit anyone all day,” he said by way of breaking the ice. He hazarded a grin. “Peach and Kilrone, ain’t it?”

They were surprised he knew their names. But Savage had been interested in names since coming to work on the ranch. He kept hoping to flush the name Dooley Quinn.

“How are you settlin’ in, Savage?” Kilrone asked.

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