The Jackals by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-11-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Mother of Mary,” Harry Henderson wailed. “Is that some wild animal?”

Jed Breen felt the bile rising in his throat. He started to answer, but then he remembered Gwen Stanhope right beside him.

“No,” Sean Keegan said bluntly. “It’s not.”

The shriek sounded like complete agony and terror, but not human, more like the screams one would expect to find in the deepest pits of Hell. The newspaper editor walked toward the closest window, drawn by his ingrained curiosity as a journalist—or maybe by some unholy trance.

“Stay away from that window, Griffin,” Keegan said.

Griffin stopped, and his face cringed tightly when the scream pierced the black night again.

“My God,” Gwen Stanhope said.

Henderson clamped both hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut as though that could block out the terrifying, demoralizing yells.

Tied up and stretched out on the floor, the Apache grinned.

McCulloch and Breen walked to meet with Keegan.

“You know what that is?” Breen said. “Don’t you?”

Keegan nodded a grim nod.

“Who is it?” McCulloch asked.

They spoke in whispers. Breen nodded at the woman: “She came in on the stagecoach with Griffin, Henderson, and some others that didn’t make it.”

“I smelled them when I snuck past the stage,” McCulloch said.

“Yeah,” Breen said. “The jehu was dead. He’s somewhere along the side of the road, I reckon, or what the Apaches left of him, I imagine. The shotgun took over in the seat and got the coach here. Got brained with a tomahawk when that second band of savages swarmed us. Anyway—”

“Rourke?” McCulloch interrupted, but still kept his voice down. The three men were quite aware that Gwen Stanhope, Sir Theodore Cannon, and Alvin Griffin were staring at them, desperate to hear what they were saying. Henderson, on the other hand, kept his hands over his ears and his eyes clamped shut.

“Yeah,” Breen answered. “You know him?”

“He served with the Rangers for two years. Got a better offer from the stagecoach company.” McCulloch spit the foul taste out of his mouth. “Thought it was safer, too.”

“And would be,” Keegan commented, “if the Apaches weren’t on the prod.”

“Go on,” McCulloch told Breen.

“That’s about it. Apaches were chasing the stagecoach. They pulled up. I went out to help and we all made it inside. Barely. Rourke came out to cover me when I fetched the handcuff keys from the dead deputy. That’s when he got beaned with the tomahawk. I swear, I thought he was dead.”

“Nobody’s blaming you,” Keegan said. “I was out there, too, and I could’ve dragged him inside.”

“If you had tried that,” McCulloch said, “chances are the Apaches would have gotten inside. Then you’d all be dead, and I’d be alone. Don’t blame yourself. I know Rourke. Rode on many a mission with him. He wouldn’t want you to have risked your hides for him.” Suddenly, McCulloch grinned and shook his head. “He always said if he lived past thirty it would be a miracle.” He nodded. “By my recollection, he’d be thirty-four about now.”

The scream echoed, sounding like ten other men being crucified.

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