Ambush at Apache Pass: An Apache Wars Novel by Leslie Frank

Author:Leslie, Frank
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-09-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The driver, yelling and shaking the reins over the mule team’s backs, snapped a hang-jawed, wide-eyed look at Yakima, who lurched forward into the boot around the brake handle. The driver dropped half of the reins onto the floor near his boots and reached for the Remington revolver riding in the cross-draw position on his left hip.

The wagon lurched, swayed, and bounced as it cut past the last of the fort’s original adobe buildings and headed for open desert to the east, and Yakima threw himself at the stocky, bearded gent, grabbing his right hand just as it started to come up, filled with iron.

Yakima drove the man to the floor beneath the spring seat, and pressed his right forearm across the man’s bearded neck, trying to cut off his wind. As he did, he looked down at the pistol. The barrel was snug against his ribs. The driver was trying to cock it, but Yakima had two fingers clamped over the hammer.

“You lousy dog eater,” the man raked out through gritted teeth, spittle flecking his lips as he glared up at Yakima.

As they wrestled, the gun came up slowly, the driver trying to hold on to it and cock it, Yakima trying to take it away from him. Yakima was vaguely aware of the galloping horses surrounding the wagon—some riderless cavalry remounts, some belonging to the marauders. A couple of those riders were closing in on the wagon, yelling and raising pistols. A couple of those pistols popped. One of the bullets slammed into the seat not far from Yakima’s head.

Yakima clamped his forearm down harder against the driver’s throat. The man convulsed and gagged, his eyes growing glassy as he kicked desperately. When his right hand started to go slack, Yakima wrapped his hand around the grips, poked his index finger through the trigger guard, turned the barrel until the end of it was snug up against the underside of the driver’s stout, furry jaw, and squeezed the trigger.

The Remy lurched and hiccupped.

The bullet exited the crown of the man’s skull in a spray of blood and white brain matter. Beneath Yakima, the driver fell instantly slacken.

Yakima glanced up. A rider had closed in on the right side of the wagon—the lean, copper-eyed gent with the arrowhead sideburns. He flared his nostrils as he barked out, “You son of a bitch!” and aimed his Colt at Yakima’s head. Yakima pulled his head down against the driver’s still-quivering chest.

The copper-eyed rider’s bullet clanked off the iron part of the wooden seat. Yakima lifted his confiscated Remington and fired twice. The wagon was bouncing so violently that his first shot sailed wide, but his second caused the galloping rider to grimace and clamp his left hand against the right side of his neck. His horse faltered and turned away and fell back behind the driverless wagon.

Then Yakima remembered the blonde and the Gatling gun.

As he grabbed the seat and carefully gained his feet, careful not to be thrown to either side, he glanced into the wagon’s box.

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