Holding Down the Ranch by Jake Logan

Author:Jake Logan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Teddy LeGrande had slipped out of town with no one the wiser, even that old hack, Cassidy. And what kind of a first name was “Drug” anyway? LeGrande snorted. Now he was slowly making his way due west out the road to the Jamison place.

That Cassidy was really something, wasn’t he? The man was plain as an old boot, for one thing. And he was old, for another. LeGrande shook his head and gave another snort. Why, he didn’t know how Cassidy could face him again after he’d been outfoxed on the bounty. Hell, LeGrande couldn’t even remember the bastard’s name—the one he’d turned loose, then shot and turned in for the reward over in Jackson. But he’d bet that Cassidy did.

So when Cassidy told him to lay low for a while, to just bide his time, he figured Cassidy to be playing some sort of game with him. He hadn’t figured it out exactly, but it was probably something like Cassidy sneaking out to the S Bar J and gunning Slocum all by himself.

The rat bastard.

He was going to show that Cassidy up, he thought with a smile. Show him up again, more like.

Which was why he was headed toward the S Bar J, long after dark and all by his lonesome. Hell, maybe he’d get to pick up Cassidy’s share, too.

And then he mentally kicked himself. He should have asked McMahon about that part.

Well, too late. Come morning, he’d have already killed Slocum and picked up his bounty, and be headed back to New Mexico. Which would leave behind a real big—and real unpleasant—surprise for Cassidy.

He grinned at that one.

This Slocum was all reputation. He’d heard of him, sure. But he’d also heard about a lot of men who were supposed to be fast or slick or cunning, or all three. The last one of those big-reputation guns that he’d run across was the Arapaho Kid, who happened to be all of sixteen years old.

LeGrande had tracked him to the bath house in Trestle Junction, New Mexico, and shot him while he was in the tub. He’d left the kid floating, facedown in the dirty water.

Some shootist.

But Perry Broadside, the man who’d contracted the killing—having listened to those stories about the Arapaho Kid, and wanting rid of anyone who could possibly cause his horse rustling operation any trouble—had paid him anyway, boy or not.

That was the kind of client LeGrande liked. No questions, just pay the money.

Tate McMahon struck him as that sort.

LeGrande figured Slocum wouldn’t suspect he was coming. Hell, the man hadn’t set foot into town, not once! He was probably already scared out of his britches. Probably quivering in his boots!

He’d never suspect Teddy LeGrande was coming to call . . . and blow him to Kingdom Come.

The moon was bright and the road was clear. He began to whistle.

This would be about the easiest five hundred he’d made all year.

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