The Range Wolf

The Range Wolf Read Online Free PDF Page A

Book: The Range Wolf Read Online Free PDF
Author: Andrew J. Fenady
Tags: Fiction, Westerns
and stagecoach on its side came to a stop in a swirl of dirt while the raiders went about their business—killing Slim—cutting the horses loose—picking up Baldy’s rifle—and then before they had a chance to get to the passengers, dead or alive, inside the broken Concord—more shots from a distance—and other riders—maybe a half dozen, saddled and well armed—charging toward the coach as the Indians scattered—but not before I saw the leader of the rescuers fall from his horse—and that’s the last I remembered as I fell into a black pit, which at the time, I thought could be death.
    But it wasn’t.

CHAPTER V
    How much later I did not know.
    From out of the stillness, depth, and darkness of what I had thought was death, slowly through a vinculum—sounds, erratic, divergent, unintelligible, but foreboding—animal noises, hooves moving—and human voices murmuring—then one voice in particular—not murmuring—cursing.
    At me?
    I wasn’t sure.
    And didn’t care.
    â€œStupid son of a bitch . . . bastard . . . charging in like some crusading cavalier . . . risking your life and the lives of my men and for what . . . damn idiot . . . Donavan, you damn fool.”
    I finally managed to open my eyes, but the world was out of focus.
    I closed my eyes, then tried again. Better. I was on the ground and near me lay Flaxen unconscious, her dress tattered, her breast smeared with blood.
    More than a dozen of the fiercest specimens of mankind in an uneven semi-circle, and at the front stood the man who cursed at the fallen rescuer who had led the charge.
    Bending over him was another man, trembling.
    One word came to my mind as I gazed at the man who cursed.
    Power.
    At least six feet tall, but from my position, he was a giant.
    Dressed in western garb, all black—but it might as well have been a suit of armor—and smoking a cigar black as his boots.
    A face carved out of granite, eyes without a soul, a mouth without mercy. A serrated scar on his forehead just below the brim of his black hat. Boulder shoulders, a broad chest tapering to a narrow waist with a holstered gun strapped on his right side. The belt that sustained the gun was black and the brass buckle that sustained the belt was oval with the raised letters CSA—a buckle worn by officers of the Confederate States of America.
    The man, even while standing still, exuded energy.
    â€œWell . . . doctor ?”
    â€œBa . . . bad . . . very bad . . . I don’t think . . .”
    â€œYou don’t think! Never mind thinking, you damn drunk. Do something!”
    â€œToo . . . too far gone, Mr. Riker, I . . .”
    Mr. Riker kicked the fallen man viciously with his pointed boot.
    â€œDamn him and you, too, Doctor Picard.”
    There came a painful gasp from the wounded man.
    I had managed to move closer to Flaxen, touch her, and determine that she was alive—then struggle to my feet.
    â€œSir. Mr. Riker . . . she, she’s badly hurt. Can’t the doctor . . .”
    â€œNo!” Riker bellowed. “The doctor stays with Donavan.”
    â€œBut surely . . .”
    â€œSurely my trail boss is more important than some . . . piece of fluff.”
    â€œMr. Riker . . .”
    He reached out and roughly, but effortlessly, slammed me against the wheel of a wagon.
    There was a last coarse gasp from Donavan. His chest heaved, his eyes rolled upward, and his head fell to one side with a flush of finality.
    â€œHe’s dead,” the doctor said without looking at Riker.
    As Donavan had died, the sun settled beneath a distant saw-tooth peak, and darkness spread across the plain.
    I regained my balance and composure and staggered toward Riker.
    â€œSir, there’s nothing more the doctor can do for that man, may I . . .”
    â€œWhat are you, a preacher?”
    â€œI am a gentleman,” I replied. “And that is a lady and I demand . .
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