White Apache 10 by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: indian culture, colt 45, apache indians, piccadilly publishing, southwest usa, david l robbins westerns, frontier and pioneer usa, western ebook series
Publisher: Piccadilly

Eight

Close to sunset, Marshal Tom Crane was talking to Rafe Skinner on a corner near the jail. A commotion up the street made both men turn. A team in harness and the rush of wheels gave the lawman an inkling of the nature of the disturbance.

“About damn time,” Crane said. “The stage is over two hours late.”

Skinner grinned. “Don’t tell me that you were worried? I thought you didn’t care about her.”

“Be mighty careful, friend,” Marshal Crane said. “I won’t be prodded.”

The owner of the Acme chuckled and held his hands up, palms out, to show he meant no insult. “The least you could have done was bought her some flowers. After all, the poor girl has come a long way to see you.”

“I won’t warn—” Crane stiffened as excited shouts broke out, spreading along the street like wildfire. He stepped to the end of the boardwalk, cocking his head to hear better. Loud and clear above the bedlam rose a bellow for someone to fetch the doctor.

Crane sprinted to the center of the street. A thickset man who seemed vaguely familiar was bringing the stage to a stop. Up on the box beside him was a thin man wearing jeans and a wool shirt. Crane recognized Slim Reece, a prospector. The thick set man was Reece’s partner. A few months earlier, Crane had arrested them both for being drunk and disorderly.

People were converging from all over. The marshal had to shoulder through a babbling pack to reach the stage. Reece saw him and jabbed a bony finger at the coach.

“It’s just awful, Marshal! We’ve got a dead one inside and one bad wounded.” The prospector jabbered on while climbing down. “Bob and me were headin’ east along the Tucson-Mesilla road when the stage came roarin’ toward us. Right away we knew somethin’ was wrong. There was no sign of Curly or the shotgun. We was able to bring it to a stop, and once we saw what was inside, we lit a shuck for town.”

Crane shoved aside a citizen who stood on tiptoe trying to peer inside. The man complained, but Crane didn’t give a damn. Yanking the door open, he looked in. The rank odor of blood and urine made him gag. Taking a shallow breath, he pulled down the folding steps and climbed up.

Lying crumpled on the floor was a young cowboy or rancher, a sizable chunk of his face gone. Flies crawled over the wound; a few buzzed into the air when Crane entered.

Curled up on the right-hand seat was a tall man in black, his eyes closed. Tucked under a red sash around his waist were a pair of expensive Colts, butts forward. The front of his white shirt bore a wide scarlet stain and he was grimacing in torment.

“It’s Gallagher!” Rafe Skinner said from behind the lawman. “I sent for him a couple of weeks ago to come work for me.”

Crane had met the gunman before. Crane would never admit as much, but Gallagher was one of the few men he made it a point never to cross.

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