by Jon Sharpe
That Fargo had never heard of it didn’t surprise him. There were dozens just like it, forgotten and empty of everything save bugs and dust.
He rode down the street until he came to the creaking batwing. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a spell. He was about to climb down when something squeaked and a rat came scuttling from between two of the buildings, ran out into the middle of the street, promptly wheeled, and ran back into the shadows again.
“It’s my day for stupid animals,” Fargo said, and chuckled. It died in his throat the very next moment.
Around the bend at the other end of town loped the four huge mastiffs.
Running shoulder to shoulder, their sleek muscles rippling under their hides, they made straight for Kill Creek.
And for him.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 88d8618f-13da-42c0-a886-6871b571158d
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 16.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.50, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jon Sharpe
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