Rapid Fire (A Gatling Western #7) by Jack Slade

Author:Jack Slade
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: elmore leonard, western fiction, louis lamour, old west fiction, westerns ebooks, william johnstone, ralph compton, bn rundell
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Eight

IT TOOK THREE more days to reach the New Columbia landing. The ship passed through a hundred-mile zone where the blinding, biting gnats were at their worst. Gatling, who had been in the Canadian woods where the black flies were pretty bad, decided he had never been so tormented in his life. The tiny bastards were like clouds of dust that never settled. They got into his eyes, ears, nose; he inhaled gnats when he took a breath. Tolliver said that nothing kept them away, not the greasy shit sold to tenderfoot travelers, not even a cake of mud. No matter what they did, the tiny fuckers found a way to get at them.

It got hotter, and then it got hotter still. There were more crocodiles than there had been; if a man fell into the river, more than piranhas would come after him. Tolliver said there were electric eels in the tributaries, none in the Amazon itself. The only sign of human life for two hundred miles was a big riverboat flying the Peruvian flag that passed them, heading downriver. But they were ready to fight the boat before it even got close; everybody was in a fighting mood. People lining the deck rails waved as the Peruvian boat went by.

Both banks of the great river looked deserted, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched. They kept to the middle of the river as much as they could, which wasn’t always possible because of sandbars and small islands covered with jungle growth. Some of the islands were big enough to hide hundreds of men. These islands were the places from which they could expect an attack. But none came, and there was no long-range sniping from either shore.

On the afternoon of the second day, Tolliver told Gatling they were in Parimba Province. The gnats were behind them, and it was just hotter than hell. The men were more lively; they talked and smiled more because they were close to home. There was no sign of Jorge Suarez or his bandit army.

It was too early for supper and the rum ration, so Tolliver was drinking coffee with Gatling in the shade of the top deck. A hot breeze blew through the open area they were in. The coffee was dark and rich, real Brazilian coffee; and for all the danger that surrounded them it seemed peaceful. Maybe because it was Sunday afternoon, Gatling thought. That morning there had been a religious service conducted by one of the riflemen, a middle-aged man named Briggs, some kind of lay preacher. Gatling did not attend, neither did Tolliver.

The Maxim guns had been cleaned and reloaded and covered with tarpaulins. It rained a good deal on the upper Amazon, and even when there was no rain the air was wet. The Ruffin ran steady at medium speed, and the only sounds were the crash of the stern wheel and the drone of men’s voices.

“We’ll be home tomorrow,” Tolliver said. “Least I will. You married, Mr.

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