High Valley Manhunt: Laramie Davies #1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

when he does it? He enjoys it. Most of them do. That
damn Benny, I swear he's Harbin's kid. He gets the same look. I just
gotta get away from 'em Laramie.”
    Laramie
listened in silence and thought before he answered. He looked at
Slate and saw the pleading in his eyes and realised that he may come
in handy when it was time, “Alright Slate we'll do it your
way.”
    Slate's
relief was obvious as his face came to life, “Your best
opportunity to escape will be tonight while I'm on watch. If you can
get out, I'll have horses ready and we'll be gone well and truly
before they wake up.”
    “Make
sure you are ready,” Laramie said seriously, “because if
Blackie and his boys wake up, we'll need to shoot our way out.”
    “Don't
worry, we'll be ready.”
    Laramie
checked on Bo, and the appaloosa crossed to him and nuzzled his hand
as he held it out to rub the horse's nose, “Hang in there big
feller, it won't be long now. We'll be gone come mornin' and I'll be
needin' everythin' you have.”

    *

    Amongst
the cedar and cottonwoods, beside a fast flowing creek, the posse had
made camp for the night. In the wilderness surrounding their camp, a
Grey Wolf's low, mournful howl made the horses fidget nervously at
their tethers.
    “Whoa,
horses,” soothed Orson Blake, “he's just callin' to his
friends. He don't want to eat you tonight. Might take a chunk out of
old Grover over there though.”
    “That
ain't funny Orson,” grouched Grover Yates, the oldest man in
the posse, “I heard tell about a bunch of trappers once, camped
up in these mountains. They left a feller on watch one night and when
they woke up the next mornin' he was gone. All they found was a bunch
of wolf tracks and his old Hawken rifle.”
    Orson
Blake laughed at the old store owner, “And you actually believe
that story Grover?”
    “It's
a true story Orson, it was told to me by one of them mountain men
personally,” Grover said, indignant that Orson would make fun
of the tale.
    Jebediah
Coltrain stalked out of the darkness and stopped in front of the two
posse men, “When you two are finished with your bed time
stories, you might want to keep watch. We ain't the only ones out
here you know, or did you forget the Indian pony tracks we came
across this afternoon?”
    “Sure
thing sheriff,” mumbled Orson Blake, “we'll get right
back to it.”
    “And
damned well stay awake. I don't want to be wakin' up in the middle of
the night with some savage redskin standin' over me holdin' my hair
in his hand.” Coltrain ordered.
    Jeb
left them to it and strode back into camp where the rest of the posse
were camped out. There were seven men who formed the Judge's
vengeance posse; not all of them willing. There was the Judge, Jeb
Coltrain, Shell Coltrain and Jim Clancy. Orson Blake and Grover Yates
were on watch, while the seventh man, Clay Adams, stirred the fire
under the coffee pot.
    “Don't
go makin' that fire too big Clay,” cautioned Jeb Coltrain,
“Don't want to be givin' away our position to any of them
redskins floatin' around out there.”
    Clay
grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it on the orange flames to damp
them down some. He was a thin, young cow hand from one of the ranches
that surrounded Rock Springs. He happened to be in the wrong place at
the right time and got pushed into a posse against his will. He
wasn't alone. Grover and Orson were in the same boat.
    Jim
Clancy, on the other hand, was a gunman. He was tall and willowy, was
in his early thirties, and wore his dark hair collar length. His grey
eyes moved constantly. He worked for the Coltrains when they paid him
for it. He wasn't fussy, especially when the price was right.
    “What
was that you said?” Zeb Coltrain asked his brother, “Did
you see more Indian sign out there?”
    The
Sheriff shook his head, “Nope, didn't see a thing, except two
no good greenhorns lookin' the wrong damned way. Don't mean they
ain't out there though.”
    “So
is that filthy murderer who killed my