Apache Flame Read Online Free PDF Page B

virulent. “You dirty half-breed! You killed my brother!”
    “Shut your mouth,” Mitch replied mildly. “Or you’ll join
him.”
    The outlaw fell silent, but he continued to stare at Mitch,
his expression filled with loathing.
    “Damn!” exclaimed a man standing near the newspaper office.
“That was some shootin’.”
    “Like greased lightning!”
    “Never seen nothing like it!”
    Mitch nodded as men came forward to slap him on the back.
Two of the bank tellers rushed out of the bank and began picking greenbacks up
from the street and boardwalk.
    Someone called for the doctor. Another man ran forward with
a piece of rope and tied the surviving outlaw’s hands behind his back.
    Holstering his Colt, Mitch turned away and almost bumped
into old man West, who had left his rocking chair across the way to get a
closer look at the dead men.
    “Where the hell’s your sheriff?” Mitch asked.
    Mr. West shrugged. “We’re sort of between lawmen at the
moment.”
    “Not anymore!”
    Mitch glanced over his shoulder to see who had spoken, and
saw two men walking toward him. They both wore dark suits, and they were both
smiling broadly.
    The taller of the two pumped Mitch’s hand vigorously. He had
wavy brown hair and guileless gray eyes. Mitch figured he was in his
mid-forties.
    “Casey Waller,” he said. “I’m one of the city fathers. This
here is Fred Plumber.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Mitch said. He nodded at the second
man. Fred Plumber had sandy-colored hair and pale blue eyes. He sported a
handlebar mustache and thick sideburns, and appeared to be about the same age
as Waller.
    “Unless I miss my guess, you’re worn a badge before,” Waller
said. “How’d you like to be our new sheriff? Pays ten dollars a month, plus
room and board.”
    Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so, but thanks for the
offer.”
    “Now, now, don’t be too hasty. We might be able to offer
more. Say, twenty a month?”
    “Cowboys make more than that,” Mitch said, “and they don’t
have to worry about getting shot.”
    “Twenty-five,” Waller said, “plus room and board.” He smiled
expansively. “That’s a mighty sweet deal for the right man,” he glanced over at
the activity in the street, “and we think you’re the right man.”
    “I was getting more than that in Virginia City. Anyway, it’s
not the money. And I don’t need a place to stay.”
    Waller held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All
right,” he said, obviously exasperated, “We’ll pay you forty dollars a month,
and pay for your ammunition, too. You can’t turn that down! No need to decide
right now,” he added hastily. “Why don’t you think it over for a day or two?
We’ll be in touch.”
    Waller pumped Mitch’s hand again, then hustled his silent
companion into the street where a tall, lanky man dressed in unrelieved black
was lining up the two dead bodies while a man Mitch assumed was a photographer
for the Canyon Creek Gazette set up his equipment and began to take
pictures.
    Shaking his head, Mitch turned and went back into the
saloon. Newspapers seemed to have a fondness for photographs of dead outlaws.
He remembered seeing a photograph of the Howard gang. All six of them had been
killed during a bank robbery in Tucson. The undertaker had laid them out side
by side in their coffins. The photograph had made the front page. Arizona was a
colorful place. Crawling with gunmen and gamblers, rustlers and stagecoach
robbers, it had earned the name the Southwest Corner of Hell. Mitch had spent a
little time there, and he had been inclined to agree.
    Resuming his place at the table, he poured himself another
drink. Sheriff, indeed. He planned to get shut of this town just as soon as
possible. Still, it would give him something to do until he found a buyer for
the old man’s house. He laughed soundlessly, humorlessly. For the first time in
his life, he didn’t have to work for wages. He could fix up the house, stock
the