The Old Wolves by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold [Brandvold, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Westerns, General
ISBN: 9781101624661
Google: rzoE9fNpoKsC
Amazon: 0425250725
Barnesnoble: 0425250725
Goodreads: 19028917
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

Something hard bounced off Boomer Drago’s shoulder.

“Ouch, goddamnit!” the old outlaw intoned, lifting his head from his saddle and gritting his teeth.

“Rise an’ shine, old man,” Keneally called from across the ash-mounded fire ring. “Get your rickety ass up and start breakfast. Better be tastier than last night’s supper, or I’m liable to take a quirt to your double-crossin’ old hide.”

Drago looked over his shoulder at the blond-bearded man sprawled beneath his blankets and lifting his head toward Drago, squinting his hard green eyes. The others, blanketed humps around Drago and the cold fire ring, were groaning or snarling at the rude awakening.

“That hurt, you bastard!” Drago lifted his cuffed hands to rub his shoulder.

“Get to work.” Keneally lay his blond, massive, lantern-jawed head back against his saddle.

“Pipe down, goddamnit—I was sound asleep!” This from Tio Sanchez, lying under an aspen on the south side of the fire, left of Sam Keneally.

Keneally picked up another rock and threw it at Sanchez. There was a dull thud. The rock must have hit its mark because Sanchez lifted his head, clapping a hand to his temple. “Ow! That hit me!”

“I meant it to.” Rolling onto his back and sitting up, Drago saw the yellow-brown line of Keneally’s teeth against his blond-bearded face framed by bushy blond sideburns.

Sanchez sat up, glaring at Keneally, but he knew well enough not to push the matter. He gave an indignant grunt, rolled onto his side, and lay back down, drawing his blankets up to his chin.

“How’m I supposed to cook all trussed up like a pig?” Drago wanted to know, sitting up and holding his cuffed hands out in front of him.

“Get over here,” Keneally said and yawned.

Drago’s heart thudded. Keneally had taken off his cuffs and his shackles last night, so he could tend the camp like a house slave. Drago had gone to bed hoping he’d be freed again in the morning, because he’d contrived a few things on the upslope side of falling asleep. He’d thought about it so hard, in fact, that his anticipation, not to mention anxiety, had kept him from getting the kind of rest an old man needed.

Oh, well—he’d sleep once he was free of these killers, who would surely kill him after they reached Martín’s cabin and found out that he, Drago, had lied about stowing the money beneath the kitchen floor.

Feigning disgruntlement over having to play the kitchen help to this group, most of whom he’d once led, Boomer threw his blankets aside, rose with a heavy grunt, and dragged his shackled feet over to where Keneally lay against his saddle between Quiet Ed, who had not yet stirred, and the lizard-skinned, yellow-eyed Curly Ben Williamson, who lay belly up and grinning at the gang’s disgraced leader.

The young wolves were thoroughly enjoying their downtrodden former alpha male’s humiliation. However, they and Drago himself had known he’d mostly been a figurehead. He’d commanded respect because of his age and his reputation, but Keneally had for over a year

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