Days of Thunder by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2017-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWO

“Who the hell are you?”

“Why, it’s Gila River Tom, Dag!”

Enberg’s heart quickened. He felt like a fool for letting one of the gang get the drop on him. At the same time, frustration raked him. The stage was barreling toward the trap Perrine’s bunch were setting for it.

“What the hell you doin’ here, Gila?” Enberg asked, trying to keep his voice mild, conversational. “Last I heard you were still shovelin’ shit in some pen up north.”

“Don’t bullshit an old bullshitter, Dag.” Boots crunched gravel as the man walked up behind Enberg. “Old Charlie Grissom saw me out by the Diamond in the Rough the other day. He tried to look like he didn’t see me, but when I seen that look he got—like he just swallowed beer that had a dead rat in the tub it was brewed in—I knew he seen me, all right. And told you, most like.”

Gila River poked a cold, hard gun barrel against Enberg’s back, and ordered with quiet menace, “Hold the popper out to the right, one-handed. Any fast moves, and I’ll blow a hole through you wide enough to drive that stagecoach through.”

Enberg drew a deep breath in frustration, and did what he was told. He didn’t see any other option. At the same time, he heard the distant thunder of the stage hammering in from the south, probably within a hundred yards now of Bloody Gulch and Perrine’s gang waiting for it. Charlie would have to slow the team to enter the gulch, and that’s when the gang would hit him.

Gila River wrapped a gloved hand around the sawed-off shotgun, and lifted the lanyard up and over Enberg’s head. He also pulled Dag’s Bowie knife out of the sheath Enberg wore on the back of his belt. The outlaw rammed the shotgun’s butt against the shotgun rider’s back, between his shoulder blades. It was a hard, hammering blow.

Enberg grunted as he stumbled forward, knees buckling.

He hit the floor of the wash with a groan, and rolled once, gasping. His hat tumbled off his shoulder.

The blow had knocked the air out of him.

“You son of a bitch!” he wheezed, trying to work some air back into his chest.

When he rolled onto his side, Gila River stepped forward, aiming Enberg’s own shotgun at Enberg’s face. Gila River grinned, showing his two prominent and chipped eyeteeth that resembled fangs.

The outlaw wore two pistols in holsters on his hips. He was a good six feet, unshaven, his hair hanging long and greasy to his shoulders. He didn’t wear traditional riding boots but high-topped, Apache-style moccasins that he’d rolled down to just below his knees.

The hide-wrapped handle of a Bowie knife jutted from the top of the man’s right moccasin.

“You shouldn’t call me names, Dag,” said Gila River. “We was friends once—remember?”

“We might have tossed back tequila together a few nights, a long time ago, but you and me were never friends, Gila.”

“Now, that makes me sad to hear you say it.” But Gila didn’t look sad.

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