Savage by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: adult western, western stories, piccadilly publishing, wild west fiction, westerns ebooks, southwest usa, frontier and pioneer west usa, paul wheelahan
Publisher: Piccadilly

Yaqui Joe bounced off the jail wall.

The fat deputy punched him in the side of the head, but though he yelled like a sinner in torment, the blow wouldn’t have knocked a sick whore off a piano.

“Por favor,” Yaqui Joe pleaded, giving a good impression of a man in the grip of terror. “Please, companeros, no more.”

Sheriff Westlake hit a lot harder than his pudgy deputy. And while Milt Coggins just seemed to be going through the motions, Westlake really meant business.

“Savage got a knife from someplace, you flea-bitten polecat,” Westlake grated, seizing a handful of shirt front and twisting. “It had to be you got it to him on account there was nobody else in here. Admit it, breed. You were his goddamn accomplice. Weren’t you?”

The face of Yaqui Joe was bare inches from the sheriff’s, his black rogue’s eyes enormous.

“Dios Mio. Yaqui Joe help a rapist to escape? I swear on my mother’s dying breath that I would rather help El Diablo than such a one.”

There was a great clatter as Westlake flung him to the floor. The lawmen had taken his guns and wicked-looking knife when they hauled him in but hadn’t bothered removing his ammunition bandoleers which clanged and clattered each time he fell. They didn’t know that Yaqui Joe carried not one but two little sneak guns at all times—one strapped in a holster around his calf and the other secreted inside his big black sombrero.

The breed could have hauled a gun and shot them both. But, of course, he didn’t. He was almost enjoying convincing them that he was just as cowardly and disgusting as he looked.

He got to his knees and clasped his hands as if in prayer.

“No more, I beg you. Yaqui Joe is but a poor wanderer in your great land. A seeker of truth and peace who strives only to bring a little kindness and joy with him. I swear by the blessed blood of the Virgin that I do not know this Savage. I never help him, have no knowledge of where he is or what he does. You must believe me.”

“Maybe he’s tellin’ the truth, Sheriff?” Coggins said uncertainly. “After all, we don’t know nothin’, we’re just guessin’, ain’t we?”

“Savage had an accomplice,” Westlake panted, rolling up his sleeves. “We found the tracks of a jackass in the hills and this thing rides a jackass. He’s got no job, very little money and looks like somebody who’d sell his mother to the U.S. Army. I smell outlaw on him, by Judas, and I’m going to make him own up or else I’ll put the evil-smellin’ varmint in hospital.”

Westlake meant every word. He was one tough pilgrim who was genuinely suspicious of Yaqui Joe. When he reached for the breed again, it was with every intention of belting a few snaggled teeth down his throat. But if there were an angel who looked out for the interests of foul-smelling, light-fingered mixed breed rogues, it must have been on duty

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