Massacre of Eagles
Page 27
A team of six horses yoked in tandem drew the wagon. Two men rode up front at the head of the wagon, the driver and a shotgun messenger. A freight wagon with an oblong-shaped hopper, it was ten feet long, four feet wide, and three feet high. A canvas tarpaulin tied down over the top of the hopper concealed its contents. Crates, judging by the shape of them under the tarp.
The column came along at a brisk pace, kicking up plenty of dust. There was the pounding of hoofbeats, the hard breathing of the horses, the creak of saddle leather. Wagon wheels rumbled, clattering.
The driver wore his hat teamster style, with the brim turned up in front. The men of the escort were hardeyed, grim-faced, wary. They glanced at the cottonwood grove but spotted no sign of the duo on horseback.
On they rode, dragging a plume of brown dirt in their wake. It obscured the scene long after its creators had departed it. Some of the dust drifted into the glade, fine powder falling on Johnny, Luke, and the horse. Some dust got in the chestnut’s nostrils and he sneezed.
Luke cleared his throat, hawked up a glob of phlegm and spat. Johnny took a swig from his canteen to wash the dust out out of his mouth and throat, then passed the canteen to Luke. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
“You tell me,” Luke said.
“You’re the one who’s been back for a while.”
“I never saw that bunch before. But I don’t get into town much.”
“I’ll tell you this: they was loaded for bear.”
“They must’ve been Yankees.”
“How can you tell? They don’t wear signs, Luke.”
“They looked like they was doing all right. Well-fed, good guns and mounts, clothes that wasn’t rags. Only folks getting along in these parts are Yankees and outlaws. They was escorting the wagon, doing a job of work. Outlaws don’t work. So they must be Yanks, damn their eyes.”
“Could be.”
“They got the right idea, though. Nothing gets nowhere in Hangtree less’n it’s well guarded,” said Luke. “Wonder what was in that wagon?”
“I wonder,” Johnny Cross said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. A hard, predatory gleam came to his narrowed eyes as they gazed in the direction where the convoy had gone.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2011 William W. Johnstone
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-2349-3
Notes
1 Bloodshed of Eagles