Widowmaker Jones by Brett Cogburn

Author:Brett Cogburn [Cogburn, Brett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-05-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-one

Late in the morning and still four miles from Zaragoza, the judge’s hand was already swollen to twice its size, and he was babbling nonsense and his eyes were swollen slits and his face turned lumpy. Twice he called Newt by some other name, and he held conversations with himself or with others riding along with them that only he could see.

At first, Newt found it at least something to pass the miles, but the more he thought about it the more it began to bother him. It dawned on him that the judge was talking to ghosts—people who he had known who weren’t anymore. Newt had seen his own share of troubled times, and even the good times scattered in between left memories that a man can’t shake and that come back to visit time to time when someone’s mind is fevered or when they’re clutching at anything they can lay hand to. Newt preferred to leave his ghosts in the past and shut out of his thoughts.

He was beginning to doubt that the judge would be able to ride the rest of the way to Zaragoza. He didn’t know what to do for him and was considering if he could tie him over his saddle. It also didn’t go without notice that he was going through an awful lot of trouble for an old sharper that he’d sworn to punch in the face and leave behind the first chance he got, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon a wounded man, no matter how annoying he was. Maybe the scorpion had done him a favor. If he could get the judge to a doctor he was bound to be laid up for a while to recuperate. That would give Newt more than time enough to get shed of him.

He was thinking those things when he saw the odd-looking and brightly painted wagon. It was crawling along the road at the bottom of a long hill ahead of him.

The judge groaned again, and Newt grimaced and kicked his horse back up to a trot, heading straight down the road after the wagon. The judge’s gray nag followed him like a faithful hound, picking up its pace to match Newt’s. The judge reeled in the saddle like he was drunk.

“Onward, my good man,” the judge said.

Newt shifted over to the upwind edge of the road, trying to avoid the dust the wagon was raising. The first thing that struck him when they had almost caught up to the wagon was that it was pulled by a little brown mule and a black draft horse twice its size. The harness and collar the mule wore were obviously made for a twin to the draft horse, and the little long-ear looked absurd and comical in the ill-fitting gear and walking alongside the horse. Whoever owned the outfit wasn’t one to take much pride in a matched team, nor did they appear to give a damn for appearances.

The wagon was as odd

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