The Plains of Laramie Read Online Free PDF

boys. Every second counts. Fer gosh sakes don’t drop him.”
    The cowmen were grim-faced as they carried the last of the Proutys through the brush. As soon as their hunched forms appeared over the thicket, rifle fire sent winging messengers of death slashing into the sage and manzanita. Jack watched them until they were out of sight, then he swung back to Wes. “Come on, kid. We’re the whole damned posse now.”
    Together they wormed their way through the thicket until they were back on the overhanging slope where the dead man was lying, sightless, glazed eyes on the clear sky overhead. Wes took a quick, startled look, turned away quickly, and shoved his rifle forward.
    Sheriff Masters searched for a worthwhile target. In this speculative, unhurried existence, he used his bullets as sparingly as his words. There wasn’t any movement down below. Wes sighted at the edge of the porch and let drive. Two thunderous replies came immediately back from the edge of the house. Jack grunted a little, a perplexed frown on his face.
    “Shoot down there again, Wes.” The deputy aimed closer this time and squeezed off a round. Again the twin rifles snarled back, snipping the brush close by. Jack nodded thoughtfully. “That’s bad. I don’t like it.”
    “What?”
    “Only two of ’em firin’ now. Where’s the third one?”
    Wes looked apprehensively around and squinted down at the adobe. “Maybe we got one of ’em.”
    Masters shook his head. “The last time we traded slugs, they were all three shootin’. Now only two of ’em are shootin’.”
    Wes looked up at the descending sun and uncertainty began to reflect itself in his face. “Be hell of a note if they got away. Two slips in one day is bad enough, but we won’t be real popular if they get away, too.” He threw another shot into the adobe and drew two quick replies. Jack let his .30-30 slip out of his hand and shoved himself to his hands and knees.
    “Where you goin’?”
    “I’m goin’ to try an’ finish this thing before it gets so dark they can get past us. You keep on firin’ every once in a while. Try an’ get one of ’em, if you can. It’ll make it a lot easier from my end.”
    “But, Jack, one man’s in a poor way to do much down there. Hell, they’ll kill…”
    “Maybe. I’ll make ’em damned well earn it, Wes. You stay up here an’ make ’em think we’re both here. Be careful.”
    Flourney watched the sheriff disappear in the copse ahead of him. He was white-faced now as he glowered down at the house, looking for a halfway target. There was none. For a long, uneasy while there was silence, then someone down in the house let go an exploratory shot. Wes cocked his rifle, sighted for a long moment, then relaxed and let the gun barrel droop. The silence was nerve-wracking. Two quick shots whipped into the underbrush far to the left. Wes still didn’t fire back. His eyes held a crafty, exultant gleam in them as the shadows grew longer.
    He almost smiled when a side of a face came around the battered adobe house, sighting down a shiny Winchester barrel. Still he held his fire. The full face came into view and Wes figured about where the forehead would be, under the low Stetson’s floppy brim. He drew a careful bead but didn’t fire. The face disappeared briefly and Wes looked anxious. A man stepped into view, his rifle at the ready. Flourney lowered his head carefully, picked up the body over his sights. His finger was tightening over the trigger when a violent explosion down in front of him, in the brush, shook his nerve and he ducked without firing. Angrily he saw his target lunge out of sight behind the house.
    Jack had reached the lower fringe of brush at the base of the slope behind Cobb’s Ferry. He was prone and slit-eyed as he surveyed the nearby adobe house. He wanted to find some way of getting in close, but the clearing immediately around the adobe was devoid of any cover at all. Crossing it, even in a zigzag run, would be