Part 7 (2/2)
Lluna and the third hombre laughed.
”That's real funny, Boyd,” Suggs said, rising stiffly while dabbing his cut temple. ”Put the son of a b.i.t.c.h back in his cell, will you? There'll be a couple nights' free stablin' for all three you boys if'n you don't tell Speares.”
”No need,” Boyd said, grinning at Yakima. ”We're gonna throw a necktie party in the breed's honor-out front of the saloon. A couple of the boys are building a bonfire, and Old Antoine is tapping a fresh keg.”
Suggs grabbed his underwear and held them over his crotch. ”Speares ain't gonna like it.”
”Sheet,” said the big Mexican. ”Speares ain't comin' back. They make him look bad. Take his girl. He'll fight, but them Thunder Riders will fill him so full of holes he won't be able to hold one leetle leetle sip of wheeskey.” With that last, the Mexican held up his right hand, spreading his index finger and thumb about an inch apart and squinting at it. sip of wheeskey.” With that last, the Mexican held up his right hand, spreading his index finger and thumb about an inch apart and squinting at it.
His middle finger had been chopped off at the first knuckle, leaving a swollen purple stump of gnarled flesh. Yakima hadn't meant to cut off the man's finger; he'd meant to bury the man's own stiletto in his gut. The Mexican had been faster than he looked, however, and he'd sidestepped while throwing an errant hand toward Yakima's wrist.
Not long after the finger had dropped to the floor and been kicked under a table, Speares and three deputies had run into the saloon, armed with Winchesters and a double-barreled shotgun.
The thin gent said, ”You an' Polly can stay here and hump. Now, get the h.e.l.l outta the way, Polly-less'n you wanna give the breed one last rut before he hangs.”
”Shut up, Boyd!” Polly dropped her arms and stalked into the cell where Suggs was quickly dressing.
Boyd chuckled as he moved forward and right, keeping his rifle trained on Yakima. At the same time, he removed two lengths of braided rawhide from the back of his belt, tossed them at Yakima's feet.
”Tie one around your wrists, the other around your ankles. We done seen how you can kick kick.”
”And Spanish here done seen what he can do with a pigsticker,” said the man by the door, a weasel-faced little hombre with no front teeth and a pinto vest.
”Shut up, Squires,” Spanish said, sliding his lower jaw from side to side, like a cow chewing its cud. ”'Less you want me to cut off your your finger and feed it to you raw.” finger and feed it to you raw.”
The Mexican moved slowly toward Yakima, holding his rifle up high across his chest.
”Back off,” Boyd ordered. ”Let him put the ties on.”
Yakima relaxed his shoulder and straightened his spine. ”This doesn't seem very sporting, boys. At least Spanish and I made a fair fight of it.”
”There's no fight, breed,” Boyd said. ”We wanna watch you dance without your boots touchin' the ground.” He frowned at the Mexican, whose bushy black brows beetled, black eyes bright with simmering rage.
”I said back off till he's got the d.a.m.n ties on, Spanis.h.!.+”
”He can put the ties on after after I've broken his I've broken his jaw jaw!” The Mexican thrust the rear stock of his rifle forward, checked the motion, and slashed the barrel toward Yakima's face. Yakima had leapt back to avoid the rifle stock. Seeing that the move was just a feint, he still managed to angle his head so that the barrel clipped only his left cheek.
”Spanis.h.!.+” Boyd shouted.
The shout hadn't died on Boyd's lips before Yakima had lunged forward and buried his right knee in the Mexican's groin. As the Mexican screamed, Yakima twisted, throwing the big man in front of him as Boyd's rifle exploded.
There was a dull whump whump as the bullet tore into Spanish's lower back. Yakima wrapped both hands around the Mexican's rifle and aimed it toward Boyd. Before he could get his own finger through the trigger guard, Spanish tripped the trigger himself. as the bullet tore into Spanish's lower back. Yakima wrapped both hands around the Mexican's rifle and aimed it toward Boyd. Before he could get his own finger through the trigger guard, Spanish tripped the trigger himself.
”Owwwww!” Boyd cried, collapsing over his bullet-torn belly, knees bending as he dropped his rifle. Boyd cried, collapsing over his bullet-torn belly, knees bending as he dropped his rifle.
The third hombre shouted, ”Son of a b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h!” as he triggered his own Spencer repeater. The slug sizzled through the air over Yakima's right shoulder and sparked off a cell bar behind him. Yakima jerked the Winchester from Spanish's grip and, turning toward the door, racked a fresh sh.e.l.l.
The third hombre screamed like a marauding Indian as he c.o.c.ked his own repeater and, squaring his shoulders and spreading his feet, extended the Spencer from his waist. He screamed again, toothless mouth wide, and stared down at the Spencer's jammed action.
Yakima squeezed the trigger of Spanish's Winchester. Impossibly, the hammer clicked, empty.
At the same time, the toothless man and Yakima tossed aside their rifles. As the toothless hombre reached for the b.u.t.t-forward S&W on his left hip, Yakima crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing the man's gun hand with one of his own while smas.h.i.+ng the other fist across the man's jaw.
The jawbone broke with an audible crack, and the hombre yowled. At the same time, Yakima took the man's gun arm in both his hands and jerked forward and down, lifting the man off his feet to turn a forward somersault and hit the floor on his a.s.s, facing the desk.
Yakima leaned toward him, wrapped his right arm around the man's neck, and jerked.
Crack!
The man fell sideways to the rock floor without a peep.
Yakima froze, staring toward the cell in which the redhead was cowering behind the half-dressed Suggs, peeking around the burly man's shoulder, her eyes wide and glistening with horror. Outside, men were yelling, their voices growing louder.
Yakima sprang forward. The redhead yelped and pulled her head back behind Suggs, who dropped the s.h.i.+rt he'd been holding and raised his hands, palms out. ”Please, don't . . .”
As Yakima slung their cell door closed, Suggs and the redhead stumbled back toward the outside wall. The door latched with the loud crack of a rifle report.
Yakima scooped his hat off the floor, then dashed into his cell for his sheepskin vest. Shrugging into the vest, he grabbed his six-shooter and holster off the peg over the sheriff's desk and quickly wrapped it around his waist as the voices outside and the thud and ring of spurred boots grew louder.
He plucked the dead Mexican's Winchester off the floor, found a box of .44 sh.e.l.ls in a desk drawer, and shoved a handful of cartridges into his vest pockets. Running to the door, he glanced outside, thumbing cartridges through the Winchester's loading gate.
Several men-it was too dark to see how many exactly-were moving toward the jailhouse, within fifty feet and closing. Lamplight winked off gun iron and steel spurs.
When Yakima had shoved six sh.e.l.ls into the Winchester's breech, he bolted outside and into the street. He stopped about ten feet out from the hitchrack, planted the Winchester's b.u.t.t against his right hip, and levered five sh.e.l.ls into the ground in front of the approaching men.
He must have misjudged one shot and drilled it through a boot toe, because a high-pitched howl rose amid the shouts and curses, one man dropping and grabbing his knee as the others ran for cover on the near side of the street.
As the men continued shouting and the man with the wounded foot continued howling, Yakima ran straight out from the jailhouse and down a side street, clinging to the shadows on the right side of the street while thumbing more sh.e.l.ls into his Winchester's magazine.
Above the shouting, howling, and milling behind him, Suggs yelled as though from the bottom of a well, ”Don't let the redskin git away, boys, or Speares'll have my hide hide!”
Another man screamed, ”Son of a b.i.t.c.h shot my toe toe off!” off!”
Yakima stopped before six horses tied in front of a wh.o.r.ehouse. A girl's laughter and the squawk of bed-springs rose from behind the red-curtained windows. Yakima quickly ran his glance over the horses, then, picking out a blue roan with straight legs and a broad chest and a sorrel that appeared second-best of the lot, he unwrapped the reins from the hitchrack, backed the horses into the street, and leapt onto the roan.
In less than a minute, he was on the outskirts of Saber Creek, galloping east through the chaparral, leading the sorrel along behind.
When he'd pushed the horses hard for a good mile, he checked them down to a trot. No point in risking a broken leg. He was a good twelve or thirteen hours behind the Thunder Riders, but he had to be patient. He'd tracked in the dark before-his eyes were keen and there was more light than one might figure-but he'd have to take his time, riding one horse, then the other, and keeping a close eye on the sign.
He was trotting through a creosote-stippled flat about three or four miles from town when the thud of hooves- three or four sets-rose behind him. He reined the horses down and turned his head, listening. Voices rose in the silent night, and bridle chains jangled.
s.h.i.+t. Men from town were following him.
He turned the horses off the trail and into a nest of rocks and saguaros. Tying the horses a good thirty yards away from the trail, he ran back to the rock nest and hunkered low, peering above the V formed by two boulders.
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