Savage 8 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gunslingers, colt 45, western ebooks, piccadilly publishing, old west fiction, pulp western fiction, western 1880s, adult theme western
Publisher: Piccadilly

Boy Clanton was silent as Petrolle told his story.

It began with his friendship in Riverville with Blackie McTigue, partner in crime long ago with Clanton’s Uncle Ben Ryder. It covered McTigue’s death sentence in the big house over a murder he didn’t commit, continued on to McTigue’s Death Row decision to break his silence of twenty years and tell Petrolle where to search for the Spanish Gold.

Half for Petrolle and half for McTigue’s soon-to-be widow was the deal.

But Petrolle was no trailsman, knew nothing of deserts, was only a moderately tough hardcase when it came down to bedrock. So, in the hope of both getting rich and staying alive to enjoy it, Petrolle contacted Savage, who, so someone had once said, ‘could track a bluebird across a cloudless sky.’

Savage was languishing in the Granite slammer and Petrolle had been considering ways of springing him. When he attended today’s reading, as a very interested party, he considered the long-ago partnership of Clanton’s uncle and his jail pard. Now Petrolle wanted to check out the mysterious envelope which Boy Clanton had securely tucked inside his tightly buttoned-up shirt.

And naturally wanted to know; had Ben Ryder left him information on where the Spanish Gold might be?

Boy Clanton was an innocent abroad. He had no guile, cunning or venom in him. Which was why old Ben regarded him so highly and placed him on a level infinitely above that occupied by his own offspring.

Clanton found he liked and almost trusted ex-con Petrolle, and the practical thought occurred to him that if he were to venture off into Furnace Desert to follow up Uncle Ben’s map, then he would certainly need a guide or maybe more. Someone just like Petrolle, perhaps?

But, naive and gentle as he was, the kid was no fool. And until he had time to adjust to what had fallen into his lap, and was able to make concrete plans concerning what he would do about his legacy, he was not about to put his trust in anybody. They argued, and eventually Petrolle quit the saloon to do some business, leaving the kid alone with a glass of lemonade in front of him, center point in a sea of eyes.

Until that moment, Clanton wasn’t aware of the interest his presence was creating. It seemed to him that scarce anyone was drinking, dancing, or climbing the steep stairs with any of the establishment’s girls.

Everyone from the red-eyed bartender to the hatched-faced faro dealer to the drunk leaning on the piano, was staring at him—Boy Clanton from Cottonwood Creek.

And Boy felt a chill that went to the bone as he realized that Uncle Ben’s legacy might be something less than a total bonanza after all.

After a time he sauntered to the rear, enquired where the washroom was, ambled out through the back door then took to his heels.

Proving again that he was something less than the lamb amongst wolves, Boy went looking for a place to lay low while he waited for the dust to settle.

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