MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page A
Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
Ads: Link
shoulder and he was pointing it at Poke.
“You boys give up too easy,” Kingsley said.
“Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Poke shouted. He made a panicked grab for his pistol, but even before his hand reached his pistol, Kingsley fired. Pumping the lever of his rifle, he fired two more times, and all three men lay dead or dying on the ground.
Crack started toward the horses, aiming to capture one of them, but they were all frightened by the gunshots and bolted away. He still had no horse, but he also knew, now, that there was nobody else on his trail. That meant he no longer had to avoid the towns, but could go into the next one he saw. He had no choice now but to walk.
It was hard going. An hour or so into his walk, his feet began to swell inside his boots. As the day wore on, he began tiring, and he started breathing through his mouth. The hot, dry air created a tremendous thirst, and the more he thought about it, the thirstier he got. His throat grew more and more parched, and his tongue swelled. He tried to keep up the schedule of one swallow of water per hour, but he was working much harder now than he had been when he was riding, and it was nearly impossible to wait for an hour between swallows. In addition, there wasn’t much water left. He drank the last of his water at about five in the afternoon. He started to throw the canteen away, but decided to keep it in case he did stumble across a water hole somewhere.
Then, just before dark, a scattering of weathered buildings rose from the plains before him, somewhat distorted in the shimmering heat waves. Gathering what strength he had remaining, Kingsley started toward it. Staggering into the little town, he saw a pump beside a horse watering trough, and hurried to it. Moving the handle a couple of times, he was rewarded by seeing a wide, cool stream of water pour from the pump mouth. Putting his left hand in front of the spout, he caused the water to pool and, continuing to pump, drank deeply. Never in his life had anything tasted any better to him. With the killing thirst satisfied, Kingsley rose up from the pump, stuck a cigar into his mouth, lit it, then looked around the town. Just down the street, a door slammed and an isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around a nearby pile of horse manure.
These sounds were magnified because the street was silent. No one moved, and Kingsley heard no human voice, yet he knew there were people around. There were horses tied here and there, three of them in front of a building which was identified by a sign as the Silver Dollar Saloon. Kingsley walked over to make a closer examination of the horses, looking at their teeth and their eyes, and feeling their legs. He also examined the saddles, realizing that the more expensive the saddle, the more likely the horse is of good stock.
Across the street from the saloon, in Millie’s Café, Deputy Sheriff Stuart Mosley was having a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee. Because of his position near the window, he saw a man come walking into town, then drink water from a pump as if he were dying of thirst. When he finished drinking the water, he came farther into town, and Mosley got a good look at him. When the man reached the front of the saloon, he stopped and looked at the horses. He did much more than look. He made a very thorough examination of them.
Mosley knew every horse the man examined, and knew their owners, but he had no idea who the man was who was showing so much interest in the horses. He was looking at them as if he were about to buy one of them.
Or steal them!
Mosley got a real strong feeling, in his gut, that that was exactly what the man was planning. After all, he did walk into town, and that meant he needed a horse. And if he was planning on buying one, he would have gone straight to the livery, where a huge sign announced clearly: HORSES FOR SALE.
Thinking this needed further
“You boys give up too easy,” Kingsley said.
“Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Poke shouted. He made a panicked grab for his pistol, but even before his hand reached his pistol, Kingsley fired. Pumping the lever of his rifle, he fired two more times, and all three men lay dead or dying on the ground.
Crack started toward the horses, aiming to capture one of them, but they were all frightened by the gunshots and bolted away. He still had no horse, but he also knew, now, that there was nobody else on his trail. That meant he no longer had to avoid the towns, but could go into the next one he saw. He had no choice now but to walk.
It was hard going. An hour or so into his walk, his feet began to swell inside his boots. As the day wore on, he began tiring, and he started breathing through his mouth. The hot, dry air created a tremendous thirst, and the more he thought about it, the thirstier he got. His throat grew more and more parched, and his tongue swelled. He tried to keep up the schedule of one swallow of water per hour, but he was working much harder now than he had been when he was riding, and it was nearly impossible to wait for an hour between swallows. In addition, there wasn’t much water left. He drank the last of his water at about five in the afternoon. He started to throw the canteen away, but decided to keep it in case he did stumble across a water hole somewhere.
Then, just before dark, a scattering of weathered buildings rose from the plains before him, somewhat distorted in the shimmering heat waves. Gathering what strength he had remaining, Kingsley started toward it. Staggering into the little town, he saw a pump beside a horse watering trough, and hurried to it. Moving the handle a couple of times, he was rewarded by seeing a wide, cool stream of water pour from the pump mouth. Putting his left hand in front of the spout, he caused the water to pool and, continuing to pump, drank deeply. Never in his life had anything tasted any better to him. With the killing thirst satisfied, Kingsley rose up from the pump, stuck a cigar into his mouth, lit it, then looked around the town. Just down the street, a door slammed and an isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around a nearby pile of horse manure.
These sounds were magnified because the street was silent. No one moved, and Kingsley heard no human voice, yet he knew there were people around. There were horses tied here and there, three of them in front of a building which was identified by a sign as the Silver Dollar Saloon. Kingsley walked over to make a closer examination of the horses, looking at their teeth and their eyes, and feeling their legs. He also examined the saddles, realizing that the more expensive the saddle, the more likely the horse is of good stock.
Across the street from the saloon, in Millie’s Café, Deputy Sheriff Stuart Mosley was having a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee. Because of his position near the window, he saw a man come walking into town, then drink water from a pump as if he were dying of thirst. When he finished drinking the water, he came farther into town, and Mosley got a good look at him. When the man reached the front of the saloon, he stopped and looked at the horses. He did much more than look. He made a very thorough examination of them.
Mosley knew every horse the man examined, and knew their owners, but he had no idea who the man was who was showing so much interest in the horses. He was looking at them as if he were about to buy one of them.
Or steal them!
Mosley got a real strong feeling, in his gut, that that was exactly what the man was planning. After all, he did walk into town, and that meant he needed a horse. And if he was planning on buying one, he would have gone straight to the livery, where a huge sign announced clearly: HORSES FOR SALE.
Thinking this needed further
Similar Books
