The Wild Breed by Leslie Frank

Author:Leslie, Frank [Leslie, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2008-03-03T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

The dust from the Gatling slugs hadn’t settled before brush snapped and thrashed behind Yakima. Holding his frightened mount’s reins tightly in one fist, he turned to see a good seven or eight sombrero-wearing Mexicans—clad either in buckskin or cream canvas pantaloons and calico shirts, with cartridge belts crisscrossed on their chests—run out from the chaparral, wielding everything from Colt Patterson pistols to modern Winchester carbines.

A voice of indeterminate sex shouted from the scarp upon which the Gatling gun perched. “Reach for the sky, amigos, or die in a hail of hot lead!”

A figure rose up from behind the man still crouched over the deadly machine gun—a tall, shapely woman dressed in a bull-hide vest with nothing beneath it, and black leather charro pants with small, white horses sewn down the front and with the wide seams down the outside legs loosely tied with rawhide, revealing a good inch of bare skin. The tight vest was cut low and trimmed with small silver buttons, revealing deep, russet cleavage.

She wore a black, silver-stitched sombrero with a small stag-horn cross sewn into the horsehair thong drooping beneath her chin. Long, thick, black hair dropped to her narrow, naked shoulders. She was dark enough that Yakima figured she had a good dose of Mexican indio blood; she was oval faced and straight-nosed, with a firm jaw and a flat, dark brown mole off the left corner of her full-lipped mouth. A singularly beautiful, wild-looking woman, she appeared completely at home in her comely body, with flashing black eyes and shoulders thrown back, breasts out.

The sexy young woman swaggered up to the edge of the scarp, the large-rowled Mexican spurs adorning her hand-tooled black boots shrilling softly. She set her gloved fists on her hips and slitted her cunning eyes at the interlopers spread out before her on snorting, fiddle-footing mounts. “The Apaches call this the Devil’s Canyon for a reason, gringos. Those who enter rarely get out alive. Those who do wish they hadn’t!”

Yakima glanced at the still-smoking Gatling gun and gave a wry smile. “I wish I woulda known. I would have made other arrangements.”

Still on the ground, legs curled beneath him, his horse having run off buck-kicking, Lou Brahma said, “’Paches chased us in here!”

“Shut up!” the woman barked, scowling hatefully down at the big man. Sweeping her eyes across the group, she said, “Throw your weapons down, and be quick about it. Alejandro here”—she canted her head toward the square-faced man staring over the Gatling gun’s barrel—“loves his new toy, and he needs the target practice!”

Cavanaugh, holding his reins in both hands against his chest, cast an enraged look up at the girl and the glistening brass weapon seated on a wooden tripod beside her. “Listen, senorita—!”

A pistol popped. Cavanaugh’s hat flew off his blond head and tumbled into the brush on his right.

Yakima glanced to another, lower ledge to the right of the woman and the Gatling gun and where a tall, whipstock-thin man, dressed like the others

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