A Quiet, Little Town by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2020-12-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The heat of the noonday sun on his back convinced Donny Bryson that waiting for the blonde woman to return from Fredericksburg was backing a loser. He cursed under his breath. Heck, she might spend days in the dress and hat shops.

Donny had coffee on the boil and was about to leave the rise when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He bellied down again, raised his telescope, and trained it to the west, about half a mile on the far side of the wagon road. Yes, there it was again . . . two figures, only one of them riding, emerged from the heat shimmer and moved slowly in his direction.

The sun baked him, a dry breeze parched his skin, and his mouth was as dry as mummy dust. But as enduring and patient as an Apache, Donny remained still for a long fifteen minutes, the glass to his eye. Damn, there might be profit in this. Little by little, the two figures came into focus . . . a man riding a mule and walking beside him a boy, or maybe a small, slight woman.

A few more minutes passed and Donny let them come within hailing distance before he rose to his feet, his Winchester cradled in his arms. The man on the mule saw him and drew rein. He was a graybeard, roughly dressed, with the look of a tin pan about him, and the woman seemed to be very young, no more than fifteen years old, wearing a thin, tattered, knee-length dress, washed out by the sun to a pale green color. Donny smiled. Things were starting to look up.

The rider mopped his face with a large red bandana and then said, “I smell something. Is that coffee on the bile?”

“Yeah, it is, and you’re welcome,” Donny said. He waved behind him. “My camp’s back yonder.”

“Well, I could sure use a cup,” the man said. He was chunky, white-haired, and looked to be about sixty. His eyes were bright blue, overhung by bushy brows, but his skin was as dark as a field hand’s, roughened to scuffed brown leather by sun and wind. He urged his rangy mule forward and followed Donny off the rise to his camp.

Before he told the man to step down and set a spell, Donny nodded in the direction of the girl and said, “Who is she?”

“Nobody,” the man said. “My name’s Lucas Bell. On my way to San Antone.”

Donny said to the girl, “What’s your name?”

“She don’t have a name,” Bell said.

The girl looked at Donny with dull, lifeless brown eyes. She was plain-faced, stringy hair, small breasts and narrow hips under her dress, large feet flopping around inside a mismatched pair of male, cast-off shoes.

“Does she talk?” Donny said.

“I don’t know,” Bell said. “Maybe she does, but I’ve never asked her a question or spoke to her much.”

“Where did you find her?” Donny said.

“I didn’t find her. I bought her for five dollars from a hog farm up Buffalo Gap way.

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