Preacher's Hell Storm
Page 29
Spud stopped wriggling.
“There’s more than one way to peel a potato. I’m going to scalp you, Spud.”
Too undone by terror to speak, Spud could only make a croaking gasp by way of protest.
“Scalping won’t kill you. It’ll put you in a world of hurt, but it won’t kill you,” Sam said brightly. “Every now and then you run into a fellow that’s been scalped. More than you might think. They get left for dead and don’t die. Scalped man usually keeps his head covered all the time with a hat or head scarf or whatever. For good reason: The top of the head is a mess of scars from crown to ears. It ain’t pretty.
“Back when I was fighting Sioux up on the North Range I got to be a pretty fair hand at taking scalps. They made a practice of lifting the hair of our people, men and women both, so we scouts figured turnabout was fair play. Now this Green River blade is no scalping knife but it’ll do the job right handily—”
“No, no! . . . Don’t!”
“Ah, you can speak after all, Spud. Thought the cat got your tongue, you were so quiet for a while. Long as you can talk, why not tell me where Vard is and save yourself a heap of grief?”
“I can’t tell what I don’t know!”
“Shh! Not so loud. You’ll startle me. If my hand slips I might put out your eye by mistake. Lord knows you’ll have misery enough without adding to your troubles.”
“Oh, why won’t you believe me when I tell you I don’t know where Vard is? Why, why?”
“Because you’re a liar, Spud.”
“I’m not lying—”
“What else would a liar say?” Sam asked reasonably.
“But so would a man telling the truth!” Spud insisted.
“Vard would have given up and thrown you over as soon as I started leaning on him, but you’re too dumb to do it to him first,” Sam said.
“Vard will kill me if I talk,” Spud whispered, wringing his hands. “Not that I know where he is,” he added quickly.
“If that’s your song, you’re stuck with it. Too bad for you,” Sam said, touching the knife blade tip to the right-hand corner of Spud’s forehead where the hairline met.
“Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he went on. “First, I’ll mark out the area to be cut along the hairline, down around the ears and then across the back of the neck at the collar. Done right, I can just sort of slip the flat of the knife under the top layers of skin, working it in deep, back toward the crown. Work loose a nice flap of scalp big enough to get a good grip on and, with a bit of luck, I’ll peel the whole scalp right off the top of the skull all in one piece!”
Sam pressed the knife blade tip a bit harder against Spud’s flesh, pricking it. A tear-sized, ruby droplet beaded at the surface.
Spud Barker shrieked. He went limp, eyes closed, head bowed. Sam thought the man had fainted but Spud was still on his feet. He slapped Spud’s jowly cheeks several times, trying to rouse him.
“Oww! That hurts,” Spud complained.
“You won’t even notice it once the scalping starts,” Sam said.
“To hell with that, I’ll talk!”
“Ah, now you’re showing good sense.”
“First you’ve got to promise me something.”
“You’re sorely trying my patience, Spud. We’re not horse-trading here. Tell me where I can find Vard and you won’t get scalped. That’s the only deal on tap today.”
“No conditions here, no strings attached. This is something you’ll want,” Spud Barker said, gripping Sam’s arm—not his knife arm. “You’ve got to kill Loman Vard first chance you get.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Sam said, taking Spud’s hand off his arm. No need to tell him that Sam meant to take Vard alive. Vard was a storehouse of information about outlaw alliances and criminal conspiracies in Texas and throughout the Southwest. Sam Heller would squeeze him dry of all he knew before sending him on to swing on a rope in Hangtree.
“Vard will know I’ve talked, and if you don’t kill him he’ll kill me.”
“You’ll be safe enough, Spud.”
Spud Barker nervously gnawed on a knuckle. “Vard’s hard enough to kill man-to-man, but he won’t be alone. He surrounds himself with top guns: Big Taw, the tinhorn they call Acey-Deucy, Kurt Angle and his cousin—they’re a pair of right bastards—Ginger Culhane, the Mex. Every one a killer and that’s not the half of them. Are you sure you can take him? What can you do? One lone man . . .”
“Chuck Ramsey had a five-man gang of stone killers siding him. They went down in a couple minutes shooting at Hansen’s Pass,” Sam said. “With a rifle you don’t have to work close.”
“I know you’re a sharpshooter, you can pick off Vard at a distance. You don’t even have to show yourself. That must be nice,” Spud said, not trying to hide the envy in his voice.
Color was coming back to his cheeks as he took heart. “You side Johnny Cross, a one-man army all by himself! If you could bring him in on this thing, Heller.”
“Better if Johnny doesn’t get involved . . . better for you,” Sam said. “Don’t forget that bit with Terry Moran. If Johnny finds out you had a hand in that, he’ll skin you alive.
“Which is what I’m going to do to you, Spud, if you don’t quit stalling and steer me to Loman Vard—and quick!”
“All right, I’ll tell you. Between you and Johnny Cross, Vard is finished. If you don’t get him Cross surely will.”
Sam Heller heaved a sigh of relief when Spud Barker wasn’t looking. He’d been afraid he’d really have to start scalping to get him to talk.
Spud Barker opened his mouth to speak but before he could do so a voice demanded:
“Let Spud go!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE was the author of over 220 USA Today and New York Times bestselling books, including The First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Eagles, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man, The Family Jensen, and The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty, as well as the stand-alone thrillers Suicide Mission, The Bleeding Edge, Home Invasion, Stand Your Ground, and Tyranny.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.