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

by Peter Brandvold

  Both men were across the shallow stream in three awkward leaps, Pauk slipping once and sending up a splash. On the far bank, they pushed through the wheatgrass under the cottonwoods.

  Salon stopped suddenly. Fifteen yards before him, the horse stood eyeing them warily, a tuft of green grass in its jaws, twitching its ears.

  "Damn, that's a fine-lookin' beast," said Pauk. "Look at that big broad chest and them pasterns. Legs straight as ladders!"

  "We'll admire him later," Salon said, moving toward the black. "Easy now, horse. Easy, boy ..."

  Spent, Faith slumped down atop Yakima.

  She flattened her breasts against his chest and buried her face in his neck. He ran his hands through her hair, down her back. His heavy breathing kept time with hers.

  "I don't want to go anywhere," Faith muttered, her lips warm and wet against his ear. "I want to stay here forever."

  "I can't recommend it." Yakima ran his hands up her back, the skin smooth as porcelain beneath his fingers. "In a few hours, we'd be getting right chilly."

  "You'll move the fire over here."

  Staring dreamily at the cobalt sky, he remembered the fire he'd built downstream. He took a deep breath and was about to suggest they drink a cup of tea, then saddle up and ride for another hour, when a shrill whinny rose on the breeze.

  Wolf.

  Yakima gave Faith a brusque shove, rolling her into the grass, then leapt to his feet. He grabbed the Winchester and, crouching and whipping his gaze from right to left, rammed a fresh shell into the rifle's breech.

  "What was that?" Faith said behind him.

  As if in reply, the horse whinnied again. Then he snorted, and they heard the loud thuds of hooves hitting the ground hard.

  "Stay here!"

  Taking no time to dress, Yakima lunged forward, breaking into a run upstream, crashing barefoot through the tall grass, leaping logs and fallen branches. He ran around a mossy boulder and jumped a freshet. Ahead, his fire smoldered, burned down to white ashes. He flew past it and into the brush where he'd hobbled Wolf.

  No sign of the horse but trampled weeds.

  He'd begun following a trail of bent brush downstream when another shrill whinny rose. He stopped, dropped to a crouch, and swung the rifle around.

  Fifty yards ahead and to the right, two riders trotted out from a crease between two hogbacks, the tails of their clawhammer coats blowing in the breeze. One of the men was leading Wolf by his bridle reins. Wolf fought the lead, jerking his head back and lifting his tail as he reared.

  Yakima spat a curse and bolted between two cottonwoods. As he ran out from the grove and into the sunlight, he snapped the rifle to his shoulder.

  His right foot clipped a deadfall, and he fell hard. Ignoring the burn of his scraped elbows and knees, he heaved himself back to his feet and snapped another look at the horse thieves.

  While one rode southwest with Wolf, booting his own horse into a halting gallop toward a bend in the stream, the other—stocky, blond, sunburned—raised a rifle to his shoulder. Smoke puffed around the barrel. The crack followed, the bullet plunking into the branch Yakima had tripped over.

  Yakima threw himself to the left as the rifle boomed again, another slug tearing up sod where he'd just been standing. Rolling off his shoulder and rising to one knee, Yakima raised his own rifle.

  The blond shooter had turned to follow his partner and Wolf. Frightened by the gunfire, the horse was no longer fighting the lead with as much vehemence as before, but trotting along behind, tail raised, shaking his head.

  Yakima stared down his Yellowboy's barrel and fingered the trigger. He cursed and lowered the rifle. If he took a shot, he might hit his own horse.

  He stared after the two riders splashing across the creek and heading for the game trail on the other side. They would no doubt follow the trail downstream.

  Yakima took his rifle in one hand and sprinted across the flat ground rising toward the western hogbacks, which were beginning to glow copper in the waning light. Reaching the base of the closest bluff, he bounded straight up the side, pursing his lips as he dug his bare heels into the short brown weeds, avoiding patches of prickly pear and Spanish bayonet.

  He crested the butte in five swift strides, paused for a few seconds to catch his breath, then ran west along the ridge. Spying a game trail, he plunged into the crease on the other side, bulled through the thick shrubs at the bottom, and traced a slanting course up the face of the far butte. Seconds later, he was at the crest, his lungs on fire, chest heaving, a copper taste in his throat.

  From below rose the thuds of galloping hooves. He lifted his head to see the two horse thieves splitting ass along the creek, Wolf loping behind them and shaking his head stubbornly. The men were hunkered low in their saddles, casting wary looks over their shoulders.

  Yakima started to raise the rifle to his shoulder but stopped. They were too far away.

  Taking the rifle again in one hand, he ran along the butte crest, paralleling the riders. Where the slope gentled, he ran down and crossed the canyon bottom toward the creek, aiming for a beaver dam and keeping his head low so they couldn't see him over the cattails.

  He was nearly even with the two riders when he pushed through the thick brush and leapt onto the tightly woven branches of the beaver dam. The rush of the water over the dam covered his footsteps. Midway across the dam, he stopped, planted his feet in the ankle-deep rushing water, curling his toes over a couple of solid branches, and raised the rifle to his shoulder.

  The men were straight across the creek, moving to his right at a fast clip, heads and shoulders bouncing above the swaying weed tips.

  Yakima planted a quick bead on the gent with the blond hair peeking below his frayed bowler. As he pulled the trigger, the man swung his head around to look behind. The slug sliced over his right ear and plunked into the chalky bluff beyond, puffing dust.

  The man ducked and turned his gaze toward Yakima, eyes wide, mouth forming a large, dark oval. As he and his partner continued downstream, Yakima quickly levered the Yel-lowboy and snapped off another shot. The report hadn't stopped echoing before the branch under his right foot gave way.

  He lost his footing, threw his arms up, tossing the rifle over his head, and tumbled into the stream.

  The cold water was like an electric charge through his bones. He ground his feet into the stream's stony bottom and lifted his head and chest above the water. Clearing his eyes and blowing, he staggered around in the hip-deep stream, getting his bearings in time to see the two horse thieves gallop around a southwestern bend.

  As the riders disappeared through a notch in the hogbacks, Wolf, fiddle-footing and chomping his bit several paces behind, looked back over his right shoulder.

  For an instant, the horse's dark, beseeching gaze met Yakima's.

  Then the fold swallowed him, and Yakima stood in the stream, hearing only the dwindling hoofbeats, the thieves' muffled laughter, and the breeze rustling the weeds around him.

  Yakima slapped the water and cursed, then stood staring at the notch in the hills as if he could will his horse back. He imagined his hands around the necks of the men who'd taken him ... squeezing ...

  Finally, he turned toward the dam. His right foot came down on his rifle. He stooped to retrieve it from the stream bottom, then scrambled up onto the beaver dam and back through the weeds and over the bluffs toward Faith.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was almost dark when Wit Bardoul and Roy Brindley walked their horses into the yard of Thornton's roadhouse. Bardoul, smoking a cigarette stub, stopped his horse in the middle of the yard, raking his gaze over the nearly dark roadhouse, only a couple of windows lit, two saddle horses hanging their heads at the hitchrack.

  "Looks like business has slowed down," he remarked without turning to Brindley on his left.

  Brindley spat over his horse's shoulder. "Nothin' like a crazy half-breed shootin' up the place to sour trade."

  "Nothin' like losin' your best whore, too
," Bardoul snorted, shoving his sombrero back on his salt-and-pepper curls and swinging down from the Appaloosa's saddle. He tossed his reins to Brindley, then beat dust from his shotgun chaps and buckskins and started toward the roadhouse. "Tend the hosses. I'll go see if Thornton's still kickin'."

  As Bardoul mounted the creaky porch steps, Brindley muttered behind him, at a volume not meant to be heard, "Tend your own damn horse, ya kill-crazy coot."

  Bardoul stopped atop the porch and turned. "What's that, Roy? You say somethin'?"

  Brindley was leading both horses toward the barn. He glanced over his left shoulder and quickened his pace. It was too dark for Bardoul to see his expression. "Uh ... nothin', Mr. Bardoul. I was just askin' these hosses why they couldn't unleather themselves." He chuckled nervously and turned toward the barn, where a light shone in the lean-to room off the east side.

  Bardoul doffed his sombrero and beat it against the road-house wall as he stepped through the batwings. He paused inside the door, looked around.

  The big redheaded bartender, Avery Sykes, was trimming his nails with a skinning knife. Two saddle tramps stood at the bar, drinking beers in stony silence. One of the whores sat at a table near the piano, laying out solitaire by the light of a bracket lamp hanging on a nearby joist.

  Sykes and the saddle tramps regarded Bardoul expectantly. The bounty hunter crossed to the bar, asked for whiskey, and didn't bother to drop any coins when Sykes had set the bottle on the mahogany.

  The bartender looked at him from beneath his bushy red eyebrows; thick mustache lifted so that the waxed ends nearly touched his nose.

  "Do I still have an employer?"

  Sykes set the bottle on the bar, tossed the cork down beside it. "Rage is a healing elixir. By the time you bring those heads back, he'll be good as new."

  Bardoul grabbed the bottle by the neck, took a pull. "The patient in his room?"

  "Where else?"

  Holding the bottle by the neck, Bardoul sauntered past the two saddle tramps nursing their beers and regarding him warily. As he headed for the stairs, the whore, who'd stopped playing solitaire when he'd entered the saloon, cleared her throat and said, "You didn't see Nettie and Claire along the road, did you, Mr. Bardoul?"

  Halfway up the stairs, Bardoul turned toward the girl and, winking, lifted the bottle to her. "Sure did. They said to say hi!"

  The girl's face blanched.

  Bardoul sipped the whiskey and continued up the stairs. When he got to the top of the staircase, he started whistling softly and didn't stop till he stood before Thornton's door. He knocked with the knuckles of his left hand.

  Thornton's gravelly voice, thick with drink, answered: "Who is it?"

  "Santy Claus."

  "Get in here, Bardoul!"

  The bounty hunter threw open the door and stood in the doorway, stovepipe boots spread wide, whiskey bottle in one hand, the other hand resting on the horn handle of his big bowie knife. His bushy tobacco-and-whiskey-stained beard spread with a grin, lifting the birthmark beside his nose.

  On the bed before Bardoul, Thornton lay naked except for the bandage around his waist, the sheets and quilts twisted about his hairy, potbellied frame. A pan of water was wedged between his legs. On his right lay one of the remaining whores—a plump youngster with pear-shaped breasts and short brown hair. Eve, Bardoul thought she was called.

  She reclined on one elbow, regarding the bounty hunter with little interest as, with her left hand, she slowly mopped Thornton's chest with a wet cloth. Her brown eyes reflected the wan light of the two lamps atop the cluttered dresser and the flames snapping in the charcoal brazier.

  Bardoul stepped forward and tipped the bottle back, taking a long pull. Lowering it, he raked his lusty gaze over the whore—from her breasts brushing Thornton's side to her full hips and creamy thighs to her pink feet lying one atop the other beside Thornton's hairy calves. "Heard you're havin' whore trouble. But not at the moment, I see."

  Thornton lifted his head slightly from his pillow. "Did Brindley kill those other two bitches?"

  "No. I did."

  "You bring the heads?"

  Bardoul smiled sheepishly. "We had to ... uh ... get outta there fast."

  Thornton chuffed knowingly.

  Bardoul kept his eyes on the whore. She stopped swabbing Thornton's chest for a moment, one eye half closing. Then she dropped the cloth in the basin, squeezed out the water, and went to work on Thornton's neck.

  "I reckon Brindley told you I'm offering a thousand for one more—and the rock worshiper."

  "A thousand dollars. That ain't a whole lotta dinero for two."

  "Five hundred now, five hundred when you've delivered the heads."

  "Like I said..."

  "Take it or leave it, Bardoul. I am in no mood to be diddled. If you don't want the job, I'll send someone else." Thornton tilted his head so the whore could scrub under his left ear. "You aren't the only headhunter around."

  "But I'm the most reliable." Bardoul tipped back the bottle, gulping, whiskey streaming down both sides of his mouth and running down his beard. Then he sauntered across the room, dragged an overstuffed leather chair over to Thornton's bed, and sat down heavily, resting the whiskey on his right knee. "But I reckon a thousand's a respectable number, if you throw in a few other enticements."

  "Such as?"

  "I'm gonna need a coupla boys to tend horses and help track. Not that I can't track a tick through a pine forest, but that savage might be tougher than your run-o'-the-mill white-eyes, and my own eyes ain't as good as they once was. Three sets are better than one. That Brindley and your other hostler will do, though I will not share one cent of the bounty with them."

  The girl wrung out the cloth in the pan, then dabbed gently around Thornton's bandaged wound. The roadhouse manager winced and slapped her hand away, his eyes on Bardoul. "Pour me a drink."

  Bardoul set his own whiskey at his feet, then reached over and filled a glass on Thornton's bedside table from a flat brandy bottle. He gave the glass to Thornton, then picked up his bottle, lifting it in salute.

  "I want plenty of grub and whiskey, and I want free drinks and"—he shuttled his flat gaze to the whore, who was now cleaning Thornton's right thigh—"free women and free room and board."

  Thornton scowled. "For how long?"

  "What sounds fair?"

  "Three months."

  "Make it six and you got a deal. Starting tonight."

  Thornton looked at the whore crouched over his waist, her nipples dragging along his thigh. "She makin' you think manly thoughts, is she? She ain't doin' nothin' for me, not with this damn hole in my side. Eve, you'll go with—"

  "I done had Eve last time," Bardoul said. "I don't think I've had the one downstairs, though."

  "Who's downstairs?" Thornton asked the whore.

  "Kansas Jen."

  "Well, then," Bardoul said, standing and taking another pull from the half-empty bottle. "I reckon we got us a deal, Thornton."

  "Don't go ridin' off with your tail in the air," Thornton warned, extending his whiskey glass at the bounty hunter, poking his index finger out. "You seen what he did here the other night. The son of a bitch has invisible wings, and he's damn good with a knife."

  "I used to hunt bounties down in Apacheria," Bardoul said, moving toward the door, pivoting drunkenly at the waist. "Two dollars a head. Nothin' harder to catch or kill than an Apache." He turned back toward Thornton. "This Yakima breed—he won't be no trouble at all."

  Bardoul's brows suddenly furrowed. "You sure you want me to kill that whore—Faith? Sure you don't want me to bring her back alive? You and her—weren't you ... ?"

  Thornton stared at him, a thoughtful cast to his gaze. He rested his head back against the pillow. Eve, who had moved down to the bottom of the bed and was gently washing his feet, looked up at her boss.

  "Kill her," Thornton said, staring at the ceiling. "Kill 'em both and be done with it."

  Bardoul nodded and raised the bottle, salut
ing again. "Have a good rest of the evenin'." He opened the door, went out, drew the door closed behind him, and began whistling again as he meandered back the way he'd come.

  Halfway down the stairs, he stopped whistling and peered into the saloon's main hall. The saddle tramps were still standing before the bar, but one had the whore wrapped around his waist, rising up on her bare toes, nibbling his chin and giggling.

  "I told you, Jen," the saddle tramp said—a tall lad with sandy hair combed back from a widow's peak, "I ain't got no money."

  "I told you,” the whore said, pulling his head down, kissing his cheek, "I'd see about giving you a little discount this evenin'."

  Beyond them, near the door, Brindley and the other hostler, Higgins, were playing two-handed poker, a bottle and two shot glasses before them. Bardoul continued down the stairs. "Brindley, you and your pal are pullin' foot with me at first light. I suggest you start puttin' up trail supplies now and pick out two of Thornton's best horses for ridin' and one for packin'."

  At the bottom of the stairs, he turned toward the bar. "And don't forget the whiskey."

  Brindley scowled over his cards, eyes pinched to slits. “Thornton say so?"

  "You got it."

  Bardoul walked up to the tall saddle tramp and placed his hand on the girl's arm. She had long, curly brown hair, and while her legs and arms were willowy and her breasts were only a little larger than coffee mugs, she had a fine, round ass. "Come on, Jen. This is your lucky night!"

  Kansas Jen looked at him, her eyes dark, forehead wrinkled. "No ... I... I'm Bobby's girl tonight."

  "The hell you are. Bobby don't have nothin' but cockle-burs and horseshit in his pockets, anyway."

  Bobby pulled the girl away from Bardoul and stepped out from the bar. "You heard her. She's mine tonight, bounty man."

  "Sorry, but I got dibs."

  "No, you don't," Jen said, pulling her dress strap over her shoulder and stepping behind Bobby. "You don't got dibs on me. You're mean ... an' ... an' dirty ... and you're"—her voice cracked and tears rolled down her cheeks—"a coldblooded killer.”