The Old Wolves Read Online Free PDF

his hands together on the table behind his plate, and leaned forward. His eyes behind the glasses were somber, frank. “I’m saying the marshals service has gotten . . . well, it’s gotten more complicated in these more modern times, Spurr. Colorado turned from frontier territory to a bona fide state almost five years ago now. The laws have gotten more complicated. Outlaws have gotten more complicated, too. More sophisticated.”
    When Spurr was about to interject, Brackett had lifted a hand to forestall him and said, “All that aside . . . well, you know as well as I do, Spurr, that with that old ticker of yours, you could go at any time. Face it, Spurr. Your best days are behind you. Leave it to the young folks to bring law and order to the
new
frontier.”
    Spurr had to admit, he’d considered it, just as he’d told Henry Brackett he’d do. He’d consider it over one more assignment—tracking the LaMona Gatling bunch from the spot of their last bloody robbery, though Brackett had insisted he ride “with three much younger but still very capable men, the new breed of deputy United States marshal.
    â€œWhen you’ve ridden with these young professionals, Spurr, I think you’ll be able to turn in your badge with confidence that civilization is in good hands.”
    â€œYoung professionals, my ass,” Spurr said now, setting his hat on his head in Jane’s warped mirror. He laughed, still boiling over with glee, despite the bottle flu, at his having turned the tables on the three snooty lawmen—the
young professionals
as the Chief Marshal had called them—and taken down the entire Gatling gang single-handed.
    â€œWhat’s that, hon?” Jane said, fully dressed and ready to go, sidling up to him in the mirror and wrapping an arm around his waist.
    Spurr turned to her, hesitating. Then he laughed again. “Oh, I was just sayin’ I think it’s time you and this ole lawdog headed out for some o’ the Chinaman’s chow, and then we head on back here and I give you one hell of a professional ash-haulin’. How’d that be, Sweet Jane?” He reached into a pocket of his corduroy trousers hanging off his lean hips. “I think I got one more silver dollar rollin’ around in here too lonely for words!”
    Jane chuckled, and then she frowned. “Spurr, is that all you got left from the money the governor gave you?”
    â€œJane, my dear beautiful gal—a pine box is a damn lonely place. You’re there a long time, and there ain’t one purty girl anywhere near for that whole long eternal time to spend it on.” Spurr winked, pecked the girl’s cheek. “Now, I’m so hungry my belly thinks my throat’s been cut!”
    Laughing, they left the girl’s room together and strolled down the wide, carpeted stairs of George Cranston’s Saloon, which everybody in Denver city proper and most of the county knew was a whorehouse—one of the best in Denver. Spurr didn’t usually have the money for such a place—he often swore that his store-bought pants came with holes in the pockets—but after the governor himself had oiled his palms a little, he saw no reason not to splurge.
    And he’d found this little blonde, who called herself Kansas City Jane, just a delight to make an old man’s weak ticker feel almost young and strong again.
    Spurr’s spurs rattled as he led Jane on down the stairs, her arm hooked through his. It was still early by saloon and whorehouse standards, so there were only about five men in the large, dark, cavernous room that housed a long polished mahogany horseshoe bar and vast, gaudy mirror on the left. There were about twenty or so stout tables on the right, amidst the square-hewn ceiling posts and a couple of potbellied stoves, both of which ticked and smoked with morning fires. It was late August, still summer, but