The Jackals of Sundown (A Bear Haskell Western Book 2) by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: outlaws, the old west, texas rangers, western ebook, steamy novel, western ebook online, bear haskell, gunfighters of the 1880s, old west action adventure, pete brandvold
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Eleven

“Shut up,” Haskell told Jordan Tifflin.

Dismounting, the lawman slid his Henry from its scabbard.

He walked out ahead of the horses and stared toward the orange-hued rimrock rising in the east. Gunfire continued to crackle sporadically. A small battle was being pitched on the other side of the ridge.

Haskell walked back to where Tifflin sat straight-backed in his saddle, staring anxiously in the direction of the pops and wicked-sounding belches.

“Climb down from there,” Bear ordered.

Tifflin quickly swung down from the saddle to stand before Haskell, looking up at the taller man imploringly. “Please! I need a gun! You gotta take these bracelets off!”

“Like hell.” Haskell reached into his war bag. He withdrew a five-foot length of hemp and pointed the Henry at a rock at the edge of the trail. “Sit.”

Tifflin looked astonished. “What do you mean—sit?”

“Look, you little dung beetle. I could be hauling you into federal court for the attempted murder of a deputy United States marshal. You could be sentenced to twenty years hard labor and used as a love toy by men much bigger than you. I’m doing you a big favor by taking your raggedy ass back to your old man for a good, old-fashioned trip to the woodshed. Now, sit down. I’m gonna tie your feet, and I’m gonna cuff your hands behind your back. If you keep complaining, I’m also gonna gag you, to boot!”

That cowed young Tifflin enough that Haskell was able to tie his ankles and cuff his hands behind his back with no more sass from the spoiled rancher’s son.

When he was done, he returned the handcuff key to his pants pocket and walked over to where he’d tied the horses to a gnarled cedar off the side of the trail.

“What’re you donna do?” Tifflin asked in a cowed but wary tone, sitting on the rock.

“I’m gonna see if I can see who’s shootin’ who. You sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

As Bear slipped the bits and latigo straps of both horses, so they could forage and breathe easier, young Tifflin said, “If somethin’ happens to you ... ”

“You’re gonna be in a bad spot.” Haskell gave a wry wink. “Best send up a prayer for me, huh?”

Tifflin only gave him a constipated look then lifted his fearful gaze to the ridge.

Haskell crossed the trail and dropped into a dry, sandy wash that ran along the base of the ridge. He climbed up the opposite bank, pushed through some thorny brush, stepped between two sotol cacti, and started up the slope, meandering between boulders and more brush clumps. The slope was steep enough to get Haskell’s heart thumping quickly, and the muscles bunching in his thighs and calves.

More sweat oozed from his bores to soak his already damp shirt. His suspenders pulled against his shoulders with each upward-lunging step. He grunted, holding the Henry in both hands across his shoulders, loosing sand and gravel with each step.

As he climbed steadily, breathing hard and grunting, he kept an eye skinned for rattlesnakes.

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