Winter Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

The others wore packs full of supplies. The packs were tied off with neat diamond hitches.
    The horses were mustangs, but they had good clean legs, reasonably deep chests, and muscular rumps. Though obviously well cared for, the animals weren’t shod. They didn’t need to be. Any mustang that got sore feet fromrunning over stony ground didn’t last long enough to grow up in the first place.
    Pick of the litter , Case thought, looking at the three mustangs. Somebody around here knows horseflesh .
    When he went closer, he saw that all of the mustangs wore the same brand: S-C.
    S-C Connected , he thought. Sarah Kennedy’s brand .
    Wonder if she knows that three of her horses have wandered off to this outlaw’s nest?
    When he closed in on the three horses, he saw that there was a small seep at the head of the ravine. There had been enough rain in autumn and early winter so that the seep was running even after summer’s natural drought.
    Though the hooves of the other horses had cut deeply into the red soil around the seep, the water was still clear. He let Cricket drink, but not enough to make the stallion logy if they had to leave the settlement at a hard run.
    â€œSorry, boy,” he said as he reined Cricket away from the water. “You’re going to stay on duty for a time.”
    True to his word, Case left the saddle cinched up tight when he tied Cricket to a bush on the sunny side of the “church.” The spot he chose was close to the front door of the saloon—if a stained, tattered canvas flap could be called a front door.
    He knew that his greatest moment of danger would come when he ducked under the tarp and went from bright sun to smoke-filled gloom in the space of a breath. He didn’t hesitate. He simply slipped the thong that secured his six-gun in its holster as he bent and entered the saloon.
    A fast glance told him there were fewer men in the room than there were horses outside. He didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it.
    Maybe they’re sleeping off their toot somewhere in the brush , he told himself.
    But he didn’t count on it. He chose a place at the bar that would give him a clear view of the dingy room and the only door.
    No one came to wait on him.
    No one was asleep in the narrow room that had been dug out of rock behind the bar.
    He turned his back on the empty bar and looked over the rest of the saloon.
    Four men were playing cards. Two were Culpeppers, but Ab wasn’t one of them. Though there was little physical difference between Culpeppers—they ran to lean, squinty, straw-blond, and mean—Case had been chasing his enemies long enough to tell them apart.
    Quincy, Reginald, and no Ab , he thought in disgust. Damnation. That old boy never is around when dying time comes .
    He cooled the flick of irritation by reminding himself that Quincy and Reginald weren’t exactly wide-eyed virgins. Their names were on most of the “Wanted” posters in Cricket’s saddlebags. They were reputed to be gun handy and ready to draw at a sideways look. Though they were fast with their belt guns, it was whispered both men preferred to ambush their prey.
    Reginald and Quincy were infamous for gut-shooting anyone who displeased them and then betting on how long the unlucky man would live. One of their victims had lasted three weeks. At the end, the bets were on how often he would scream before he finally packed it in.
    A fifth man was sprawled near the fire, snoring. A thin, mangy dog was stretched out next to him.
    Case began sizing up the room itself. It was little more than a natural overhang walled off on three sides by brush and covered by canvas that had been old about the time Lazarus was raised from the dead.
    There was no chimney for the fire that burned inside a ragged circle of red rocks. Smoke just drifted through the room, joined by streams curling up from cigarettes and cheroots. If the wind blew hard