Shooting to Kill: A Wild West Omnibus by Gordon Landsborough

Author:Gordon Landsborough [Landsborough, Gordon]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Pioneering Press
Published: 2016-09-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 4

Sunup found him saddled and ready for the trail. He thanked Piute Charlie and his wife for their hospitality, gave each of the children a couple of dollars to buy candy, and bid them ‘So long’.

The shore trail was broken by many small creeks, each of them literally swarming with wild fowl, but except for the quacking of the drakes, the birds paid him little heed. Twice Ugly put up geese who merely took a short flight and dropped serenely on to the lake. A mile or so offshore he saw a log-raft with two men aboard, drifting down with the current.

Turning west at the red buttes Steve rode leisurely along a dirt road where there were stretches of skids where felling had taken place and would-be stump farmers had set alight the hemlock and vine in the hope of one day tilling the land. The forest being all free land, the clearing of any forty acres gave the clearer the right to a homestead.

Plug found the skid road hard going. The great baulks of timber were grooved and torn by the massive trunks that had been dragged over them. The sound of shouting and the clank of an axe told Steve that he was coming to a patch where logging was in progress and there he met up with his first bull-team — six massive oxen, sweating and panting from a recent haul, yoked in pairs to an iron chain the end of which was fastened to a giant fir a full hundred and thirty feet long.

A man and a youth wearing red shirts, heavy homespun pants and high-legged caulked boots, sat on this monster trunk. They eyed Steve curiously and there was no friendliness in their greeting. A gruff ‘Howdy, stranger,’ came from the man as he acknowledged Steve’s greeting and his enquiry if he was heading the right way to Lone Pine.

‘Mebbe you are and mebbe you ain’t. Depends on what your business is with the folk there.’

Steve did not like his manner. It was only with difficulty he forced a smile: ‘My name’s Steve Blondel,’ he said. ‘At Kybes they figureed I should have a word with Doc Forster.’ At the mention of his name the boy’s face lit up. ‘By golly, Paw, he’s “El Cougar”.’

‘What of it? Why would the likes of you, mister, be comin’ callin’ on us folk?’

‘That’s my business and mebbe I’ll tell it to Doc Forster.’ The scowl left the bullwhacker’s face: ‘Reckon that’s fair enough. Keep a-goin’ on this road and you’ll come to it. But I’m warnin’ you, strangers ain’t liked at Lone Pine — at least not folk like you who can’t be callin’ for no good.’

‘Oh, heck, Paw,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t you realize it’s an honour for us folk?’

‘Hold your noise. Get to work afore the bulls gets cold.’ Reluctantly the boy grabbed a can of thick grease and began to daub the edges of the baulks of timber and Steve understood the meaning of

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