Wayward Wind Read Online Free PDF Page A

What the hell were Clayhill riders doing over on the other side of the Blue? They must be a hundred miles from Clayhill land.
    “The old man said hang ’em as a warnin’ to anybody athinkin’ they’ll squat on that range.” Saddle leather creaked as a rider
     stood in the stirrups to toss the rope over the limb.
    On the shelf above the trail the man’s mind worked furiously to sort out the information he’d just heard. The slimy old bastard
     was spreading out west. It was the only direction he could go now that Logan Horn had bought the south range.
    “We ain’t ort to be adoin’ this so secret like. It ain’t no crime to hang a horse thief. And that’s what ya said he done.”
     The voice held obvious distaste for the job they were doing.
    “Nobody’s askin’ you. We’re adoin’ it like the ole man said to do it. If’n yore so womanish, ya can hightail it back to the
     ranch ’n draw yore pay. Then, by God, you’d better hot-foot it out of the country if’n ya ain’t got shit for brains.”
    The voice of Clayhill’s foreman was heavy with sarcasm, and anger stiffened the man lying in the grass. He remembered the
     time several years ago when that same voice had urged the crowd to hang his half brother. Dunbar hadn’t been foreman then—just
     a paid gunman hired to do the old man’s dirty work. The hatred the listener felt for Adam Clayhill choked him. With an effort
     he swallowed it down, lest it goad him into being careless and doing something foolish.
    “Quit yore jawin’, Dunbar, and get on with it.”
    “Goddammit! Don’t be givin’ me no orders. I’m aramroddin’ this here outfit.”
    The concealed man was sweating, and he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. Once he’d witnessed a legal hanging and
     felt the murderer got what he had coming, but this was a lynching. This was a dark and ugly bunch carrying out the orders
     of a rich, powerful, old sonofabitch who was too rotten to live. Goddamn that old cuss! he fumed. He should have killed him
     a couple of years ago when—He held himself still, blocking that time from his mind as he took stock of the odds. Against three,
     even four, he might have a chance, but with six… If he drew down on them, they’d be sure to shoot the luckless homesteader
     they were going to hang. Poor bastard would probably rather be shot than hanged anyway, he decided, and pulled his rifle up
     beside him. He strained his eyes to sort out the shadowy figures of the Clayhill riders. He’d have to be careful to not shoot
     the horse out from under the nester.
    “Pull that horse out easy ’n let ’em down! I want the sonofabitch to hang thar ’n think ’bout that slash he put in my leg.”
    “That ain’t no way to hang a man, Dunbar! Do it quick, if’n yore agoin’ to, ’n get it over.”
    “Shut yore mouth! I’m arunnin’ this show.” There was a snarl in the deep voice.
    The listener heard the creak of a rope taking strain, then the jerking of it as the hanged man kicked and struggled. Hell!
     The only chance now was if they’d leave and he could cut him down.
    A horse took off on the run back up the trail and Dunbar laughed. “Goddamn yellow belly!” he yelled, his voice thick with
     irritation.
    There was a sudden pounding of hooves as if the other riders were anxious to leave the grisly scene, too. Dunbar looked over
     his shoulder at the man kicking at the end of the rope. “Choke, goddamn ya!” He spurred his horse cruelly; the animal sank
     back on its haunches and leaped to follow the others.
    The listener moved out of the grass and shimmied down the bank like a shadow. He held no liking for lynching a man, and there
     was a slight chance he could reach him before he choked to death. He ran soundlessly on the leaves and grass, keeping back
     from the rocky trail until he reached the tree. He went up it with swift agility, crawled out on the limb, and with a quick
     slash of his knife cut the rope. The body tumbled to the