The Lonely Breed : A Western Fiction Classic (Yakima Henry Book 1)

by Peter Brandvold

  Another voice, lower-pitched, said, "We're in for a real treat here tonight, boys ..."

  Faith said something Yakima couldn't hear, but her hard tone told him she wasn't happy. There was a sharp crack. "Told you to shut up, bitch!"

  Yakima bent down, raised his buckskin cuff above his right boot, and removed his Arkansas toothpick—six inches of ugly, double-edged steel, bone-handled and boasting a brass hilt.

  Straightening, he turned the doorknob. The latch clicked. Yakima swung the door half open and stepped into the nearly dark room. On the dresser to his left, a single candle offered the only light.

  Before him, Faith lay naked on the floor. One of the four men knelt between her spread legs, his back to Yakima. The man's cartridge belt was coiled on the floor beside him, and he was fumbling with his fly buttons. Two of the other three were kneeling on either side of Faith, pinning her down, one holding his hand across her mouth.

  The fourth—the red-faced hombre who'd stopped Yakima on the stairs—stood before her. He had his boots and pants off and was removing his shirt.

  Looking up, he saw Yakima, and his eyes snapped fire. "Told you to make yourself scarce, Injun!"

  The man holding his hand over Faith's mouth snarled, "Step out and move off, breed. Thornton owes us for an overdue freight note. We're just settling the debt."

  Yakima stayed where he was and closed the door without turning around. He held his toothpick down low at his side. "I don't think the girl much cares for the way you're settling Thornton's bill."

  The man kneeling between Faith's legs, staring furiously up at Yakima, was inching his hand toward his cartridge belt.

  Yakima's voice was even. "If you like that hand, keep it where it is."

  "Careful, Horsehead," said the man holding his hand over Faith's mouth. "These breeds know how to wield a pig stick— ow!" He jerked his hand from Faith's mouth. "Bitch bit me!"

  Faith's eye found Yakima's. "Get Thornton and Willie." Willie was the hardcase Thornton hired to ride shotgun on the saloon—and the girls and anyone else in Thornton's employ.

  "Now, now, let's not get hasty," said the red-faced man standing over Faith's head, staring at Yakima. "Tell you what, breed, if you just sit over there in the corner, quiet as a mouse, we'll let you have her when we're done. How'd that be?"

  Yakima held his stare with a dark one of his own. "Get out."

  "That ain't sportin'."

  "You got one knife," said the red-faced hombre, with a devilish grin, slowly turning toward the bed and his weaponry. "We all got guns."

  "I'll tell you one more time," Yakima said, his voice an even, menacing purr. "Get out."

  "Yakima, don't," Faith said, glancing fearfully up at the men kneeling and standing around her.

  In the next room, a bed was pounding the floor, and one of the girls was laughing hysterically. The din from the saloon below caused a perpetual vibration in the puncheons beneath Yakima's boots.

  The one-eyed man squatting at Faith's left shoulder slowly straightened and stepped back. His right arm moved suddenly. Yakima couldn't see it, because the man called Horsehead obscured his view, but One-Eye was obviously grabbing the six-shooter from his low-slung holster.

  Yakima shot his left hand out, throwing Horsehead into One-Eye. Horsehead bolted back with a grunt, boots thumping and spurs chinging, and the red-faced man made a dive for one of his three guns nestled among the leather atop the bed.

  In a blur of motion, Yakima tossed the toothpick end over end. As the red-faced man hit the bed and rolled to his right, bringing up a short-barreled Schofield in his right fist, the toothpick plunked into his middle upper chest, six inches below his throat. The man groaned and threw his head back, his pistol exploding, the slug sizzling to Yakima's right and plowing into the doorframe with an angry whack!

  On the saloon's first floor, the din instantly quieted, and the laughing woman next door fell silent.

  The man to the right of Faith bolted up and forward, launching his head and shoulder toward Yakima, who turned at the last second, grabbed the man's collar, and, pivoting, rammed his head into the room's closed door, splitting the panel down the middle.

  As the man fell straight down, hissing in pain, Yakima saw Horsehead pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the crossdraw revolver from his left hip. Yakima leapt three feet in the air, throwing his arms out, pivoting and bringing his left foot up and to the right, slamming the heel savagely against the man's left jaw.

  The jaw cracked like brittle sandstone. The man cried out and flew across the room, smashing the washstand, knocking the porcelain bowl to the floor, and landing on top of the shards.

  Watching One-Eye in the corner of his vision, Yakima leapt off his left foot and brought his right heel against the silvery flash of a pistol. One-Eye cursed as the gun flew against the wall, tearing the wallpaper and cracking the plaster.

  Yakima slammed both feet to the floor, faced the wailing hardcase from a yard away.

  The man threw a haymaker, yelling, "You fuckin' half-breed son of a bitch!"

  Yakima brought his right foot up, ramming it squarely into the man's groin. As the man's head dropped, Yakima punched his forehead hard. The man twisted around and fell hard on his chest, then rolled onto his side, wailing and clutching his privates.

  Yakima glanced around.

  Faith was sitting against the far wall, near the end of the bed, knees to her chest, mouth gaping. All four hardcases were out of commission. The one on the bed, with the knife through his chest, didn't appear to be breathing. Neither did the one by the door, whose neck was bent at a strange angle.

  The one whose jaw Yakima had smashed was kneeling in the corner, as though a naughty schoolboy being punished, his head down, shaking like a leaf in a spring blizzard. The only one making any noise was the man whose oysters Yakima had smashed. He cursed and groaned and miserably sucked air through his teeth.

  Yakima reached down, removed two more pistols and a knife from a sheath on the man's cartridge belt. He dropped the weapons on the floor, kicked them under the bed.

  "What the hell's goin' on up here?"

  It was Thornton's voice, booming in the building's eerie silence. Even the piano had stopped. Yakima realized he'd heard the man yell twice before as boots pounded the stairs. Now, several men were marching down the hall, boots and chinging spurs getting louder.

  "Yakima!" Faith said sharply. "You have to get out of here now. These men have friends downstairs. Bad hombres!"

  Yakima moved to the bed, pulled his knife from the dead man's chest, wiped the blood on the man's long underwear. The door burst open, nudging aside the man with the broken neck. In stepped Thornton, holding a pepperbox revolver in his beringed right hand. The house bouncer—a big, walleyed hombre known as Willie—bolted in behind him, stepping to Thornton's left and swinging his sawed-off shotgun around the room.

  Several men and two girls stood in the hall behind them, peering in.

  "Jesus Christ!" Thornton exclaimed, glancing around the room. His eyes settled on Yakima. "What in the hell is goin' on up here?"

  "They all tried to take me, Bill," Faith said, hugging her knees to her chest. "Only One-Eye paid. They said they were gonna mark me when they were done—as a message to you."

  "Fuckers," Thornton said. "They thought I underpaid 'em for that last freight run they made for me." He looked at Yakima. "Thought I told you to help with the stage."

  "I saw these boys follow Faith up the stairs."

  "That's what Willie's for."

  "I didn't see Willie."

  A man muscled between Thornton and Willie—a short, blond kid in a bowler hat, chaps, suspenders, and a threadbare underwear shirt. "Christ almighty!"

  "Get out of here, Bilk!" Thornton shouted.

  "The half-breed done this?"

  "You heard the man—get outta here!" Willie turned and shouldered Bilk out of the room.

  Thornton turned his angry, sweat-glistening face to Yakima. "You, too, breed
. Clear out."

  "He saved my hide, Bill," Faith protested, pushing her back to the wall and slowly gaining her feet. "It ain't fair to kick him out!"

  "He's trouble," Thornton barked, glaring at Yakima. "You heard me, breed."

  Yakima held out his left hand, keeping the toothpick in his right. "I'll be drawin' my time."

  Thornton glared at him, his face flushing. Finally, he reached into his jacket, produced a wallet, and withdrew several bills. He slapped the money into Yakima's hand.

  "Don't let me catch your troublemakin' hide in these parts again, breed." Thornton gritted his teeth and slitted his eyes. "'Less you want it perforated with Willie's double-ought buck."

  Yakima glanced over his left shoulder. Willie aimed the barn-blaster at him, grinning. The shotgun's hammers were cocked.

  Yakima stuffed the folded bills into a pocket, shoved past Willie, and moved to the door. He paused, glanced at Faith, who stared at him sadly, brows furrowed, the corners of her mouth turned down. Yakima pushed through the onlookers and made his way down the hall toward the stairs.

  The crowd consisted of several girls and their customers in various stages of dress. A string-bean saddle tramp stood naked before an open room, sucking a cigarette and holding his hat over his privates.

  He grabbed Yakima's arm. His bloodshot eyes were wide with skepticism.

  "It true what Bilk said? You killed all four of 'em with a knife?”

  Yakima jerked his arm free of the man's clutches and rammed his face up close to the drifter's, showing the man the toothpick still flecked with blood. "Yeah, and I cut their livers out and ate 'em!" He lifted his boot, slid the knife inside, then continued down the hall and descended the stairs two steps at a time.

  Another job shot to hell.

  Where would he go? What would he do next? After eight weeks working here, he'd managed to save only twelve dollars. The flimsy roll of greenbacks, including what Thornton had just paid him, was tucked away with his knife in his right boot well.

  Halfway down the stairs, he stopped. Under the cloud of webbing tobacco smoke, the main hall had gone quiet as Easter morning. The men and a few girls stared at him from tables or their positions at the bar. Even the piano player had turned to regard him over the right shoulder of his soiled brown suit coat.

  Someone coughed.

  A few men in the back corner to his right, near the smoky woodstove, were conversing in low tones. One of them stood—a spidery gent with coal black hair and a ragged slouch hat shoved back on his head. He swept both flaps of his antelope jacket back, revealing the smooth walnut butts of two Colt revolvers positioned for the cross-draw.

  Staring over the railing, Yakima turned the corners of his mouth up. Damn—why hadn't he taken the outside stairs? After a lifetime of trouble, you'd think he would have gotten better at avoiding it.

  The man on the floor slowly, deliberately, drew both guns, his jaw tight, his angry eyes fixed on Yakima. "Had you a little party up there, did you, breed?" He slid his gaze around the room. "According to Marty Bilk, the rock worshiper did a little sharp blade work on Smith, Snead, Dallymeyer, and Horsehead."

  "Horsehead?" someone grumbled. A chair scraped back, and a big man at the bar set his beer mug down and turned toward the stairs. "That's my brother-in-law."

  "Was your brother-in-law, accordin' to Bilk," said the man in the black slouch hat, aiming both long-barreled revolvers at Yakima. "All four were my business partners."

  'Trick Dallymeyer's my half-brother, you fuckin' redskin!" shouted a man up near the front of the room. He stood drunkenly, tossing the whore from his lap, and grabbed the old Springfield rifle leaning against his table.

  "I'm thinkin'," said the man in the slouch hat, staring down his extended pistol barrels at Yakima, "it's time to invite this breed to a necktie party."

  Yakima glanced around the room. More men were rising from their tables and drawing their guns, several moving toward the stairs. The three half-dressed girls ran back behind the bar, breasts jiggling, hair bouncing on their shoulders.

  Dallymeyer's half-brother drew his own pistol and shouted, "Forget the rope. I’m gonna ventilate the son of a savage bitch where he stands!"

  Chapter Three

  Cursing, Dallymeyer's half-brother extended his cocked pistol. Yakima hoisted himself over the railing. The shooter's revolver popped, the slug slicing the air where Yakima's head had been a quarter second before and plunking into a step.

  Four feet out from the stairs, Yakima dropped straight down, both feet smashing into a baize-covered table as the man in the slouch hat fired both his pistols at once.

  As Yakima's boots rammed through the table, the four men who'd been sitting there drinking and playing cards leapt to their feet. In the corner of his eye, as he jumped off the falling table, Yakima saw one of the shooter's slugs baste the head of one of the gamblers. The other men yelled as the wounded man stumbled back against the stairs, blood flying.

  Everyone in the room seemed to be yelling now, and a good half of them seemed to be shooting.

  Yakima hit the floor on his feet, took two running strides, and leapt onto another table. Pistols and rifles popped around him, slugs stitching the air over his head, smashing the backbar mirror and several pictures on the room's opposite wall.

  Yakima sprang left and forward, bounded off another table to his right, sprang again and headed for the faro layout behind a square-hewn support post.

  Behind him, Thornton bellowed like a poleaxed bull, "Hold your damn fire—you 're shootin' up my place!"

  Several men screamed as cross-fired bullets found flesh.

  The shooting and the shouting continued, the slugs plowing into wood and glass and plaster as Yakima hopscotched the tables and chairs, overturning two tables and breaking three chairs in his wake, twice nearly losing his footing.

  "Git that goddamn half-breed!" shouted the man with the muzzle-loading Springfield.

  He triggered the shot as Yakima bounded off the faro table. The ball burned across Yakima's left temple. Another bullet nipped nap from his buckskin tunic as the half-breed flung his arms up and wrapped his hands around the wooden ring of a chandelier. Yakima hurled himself forward, kicking the cocked pistol out of a shooter's hand and dislodging the straw sombrero from the man's head.

  Yakima landed on his feet, knees bent, two yards from the front wall.

  "Goddamn it, get him!" rose a brittle, frustrated screech above the din.

  Yakima took two more quick strides and, throwing his arms above his head, dove through the window. He landed on the porch in a hail of glass and lead and rolled off a shoulder. He bounded out to where half a dozen horses were tied at the three hitchracks fronting the roadhouse, the others having jerked loose at the sound of the gunfire.

  The stage horses nickered and whinnied, skitter-hopping. The hostlers held their headstalls, trying to quiet them down.

  "What is goin' on in there?" shouted the stage driver, running out of the barn.

  Yakima ignored the man and, hearing boots thundering across the porch, ripped a piebald's reins from a rack and jerked the animal onto the wagon trail. He aimed the horse westward and swung into the leather.

  Behind him, a rifle boomed, and a pistol popped. More boots pounded. Men shouted. Yakima ground his heels into the pie's ribs and yelled, "Gooooo, horse!"

  Snorting and bucking, the pie lunged off its rear hooves and, well before reaching the edge of the yard, stretched its stride into a gallop. Behind Yakima, more guns barked and men shouted.

  "Get that kill-crazy savage!"

  Yakima lowered his head as bullets cracked into the ground around him, several whining loudly as they ricocheted off rocks. Two more plunked into a boulder on the right side of the trail. He put the boulder behind him, followed the trail's northward curve, and kept his head down as the roadhouse yard and lights faded.

  In less than a minute he was winding into the foothills, shrubs and boulders stippling the hogbacks around him. Then t
he black columns of pines and Douglas firs pushed up along both sides of the steeply climbing trail, and the horse began to blow.

  Ahead, the trail forked. He took the right fork and descended into a hollow. At the bottom the trail leveled out, and the pie regained its wind.

  Yakima followed the meandering path for several minutes, then halted the horse on the bank of a trickling creek. He turned his head back the way he'd come, listening.

  Two sets of hooves thudded in the near distance, the horses blowing and the tack squeaking as two of the riders broke away from the main group and headed into the hollow.

  Yakima cursed and kneed the pie into motion. Five minutes later he'd followed another side trail out of the hollow and onto a flat.

  Hearing one set of hooves closing on him from behind— the second rider must've taken the other fork—he urged the pie into a shambling, halfhearted gallop. Yakima cursed again. No matter how much urging and coaxing he did, whipping the pie with his rein ends, the horse's pace remained plodding, frustratingly slow.

  Behind, the sounds of the approaching rider grew louder. A pistol cracked.

  Hunkering low over the pie's neck, Yakima glanced over his right shoulder.

  The rider was fifty yards behind, a bobbing silhouette against the star-flecked sky. The man's pistol flashed. A half-second later, the crack reached Yakima's ears, the slug spanging off a rock to his left.

  He urged the pie forward. A minute later, he was descending a slope in the rippling prairie when the pie suddenly fell out from beneath him, screaming. Yakima's chest slammed against the mount's neck, his momentum throwing him over the horse's head. He hit the ground on his back.

  The ground pitched to either side, and his ears rang.

  Groggily, he rose to his elbows. The horse lay six feet away, on its side, head turned at an odd angle, its neck broken. Its right front hoof had plundered a gopher hole. On the sand and dirt that the hoof had ripped out of the ground as the horse's momentum had propelled it forward, the leg lay Y-shaped, the bone exposed, blood glistening.