The Black Hills by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-10-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 23

“Damnit, Hunter—get your big bear paws off’n me! I’m gonna stay here and fight for the ranch we carved out of these Hills or die in a blaze of holy glory, whistling Dixie, as they burn it to the ground!”

Old Angus tried to wriggle out of the arms of Hunter and Annabelle, who were half carrying and half dragging the rowdy old Rebel toward the supply wagon parked in front of the Buchanon cabin. He twisted around, trying to turn and stride back to the cabin out of which every window had been shot when Chaney’s men had attacked the previous day.

“Pa, stop fightin’ us, damnit!” Hunter scolded the old man. “You’re gonna jerk Annabelle’s stitches loose an’ start bleedin’ again. I am not letting you stay here, an’ that’s final. Stayin’ here is sure suicide.”

“What’re you talkin’ about—suicide?” The old man stopped and turned to his much younger and much taller son, scowling up at him. “We built that damn cabin to withstand a Sioux attack. A cyclone. Hell, the only thing that could pester that timbered fortress is—”

“Fire,” Hunter finished for him. “With Shep and Tye dead, and you laid up, there ain’t enough of us to defend all four sides against attackers running a burning wagon of brush up and setting fire to the place. Even if they didn’t burn us out, they could starve us out. We don’t have enough food and ammunition. I was going to refill the larder the other day in town, but as you’ll remember, I had a change of plans.”

Old Angus opened his mouth to refute Hunter’s argument, but he checked himself. Doubt flickered in his washed-out eyes bleary from all the whiskey he’d drunk to dull the pain of his bullet wound. He slid his crestfallen gaze to the stalwart lodge, its wide timbered front porch trimmed with bleached-out animal skulls and old traps and other implements hanging from spikes in the thick, chinked walls.

A water gourd with a gourd dipper hung from the rafters of the veranda’s pitched roof. At the moment, a mountain bluebird—as blue as any blue had ever been—was perched on the edge of the gourd, bobbing its head forward and dipping its beak to drink.

Angus glanced at Annabelle standing to his right. He turned to Hunter and, with a tear dribbling down his leathery cheek, said, “Just leave me here, boy. Leave me here to burn. I’ll die where Shep and Tye died. It’s my time. I’m old . . . an’ I’m tired!”

Hunter grimaced, shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Pa. You see, if I left you here, I’d have to stay too. And where would that leave Anna? When she threw in with us two Graybacks, she pretty much burned her bridges.”

Angus made a pained look and turned to Anna, who said, “Please, Angus. Come with us. You want to live to see your grandchildren, don’t you? To rock one on your lap?”

Angus drew a deep breath and turned back to Hunter.

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