by John Legg
Squire would never mention it to anyone, but he, too, was happy to have the woman back. It was hard, if not impossible, for him to display such feelings. But there were small, telltale signs that gave him away.
It was still early afternoon when Squire found Willis’s spent horse dying. He mercifully killed the animal before riding on. A few miles farther, he spotted Willis, fleeing on foot.
Willis, alternately running and walking, would frequently glance behind him. Then he saw Squire. But here, in a wide flat, there was nowhere for him to hide, or run, though he tried for a while. At last he stopped and waited. When the giant mountain man was within range, Willis aimed, trembling in his fear, and fired. He missed.
Squire kicked his horse into a run, finally stopping a few feet from Willis before the renegade had time to reload. Willis let his rifle fall to the ground. Squire dismounted, leaving his Hawken in its scabbard. He pulled his tomahawk. “Your time’s done, boy. You’ll be doin’ no more thievin’, rapin’ and runnin’.”
Willis whipped out his flintlock pistol and fired at Squire, who was barely six feet away. Squire had no time to react.
The weapon misfired, and blew apart in Willis’s hand. He yelled and dropped the splintered weapon, then shook the blood from his hand. Panic flared in his eyes. Wildly he reached for his tomahawk, an ornate one with a pipe bowl and decorated with feathers and rawhide on the handle. He had grabbed it in his hasty retreat from the Blackfoot camp.
Squire stalked forward, showing no sign of wear from his wounds or the energy spent during the battle in the village. He slowly swung his hand ax in front of him.
Willis backed slowly away, fear wrapping around him like a tight jacket. As he retreated, his feet searched for a spot that would give him footing. He found it. Planting his left foot, he lunged, weapon swinging.
Squire batted the tomahawk away with his huge left arm, the power of the blow knocking the weapon from Willis’s hand.
Squire dropped his own weapon and bore in on Willis. Willis turned to bolt, but the earth was slick with ice and snow, and he lost his footing and stumbled to the ground.
Squire was on him like a flash, yanking him up and around so they were face-to-face. He started shaking Willis, ignoring the weak punches Willis threw at his head. Squire shook Willis as a terrier shakes a rat, bone-jarring shakes that rattled Willis’ head as it whipsawed back and forth. Each shake brought a grunt of pain.
Squire lifted Willis off the ground, and then smashed him down onto the hard, frozen earth. Willis lay, whimpering in pain, insides injured and probably bleeding. He curled into a ball, hoping to avoid the new agonies he knew were coming.
With his left hand, Squire yanked Willis up. With his right, he pummeled Willis’s face and body. Willis howled as his nose exploded in blood. He screamed when his ribs began cracking, each one sounding like a muffled rifle shot.
Squire slammed him once more to the hard ground, and then bent over the babbling renegade.
“Ye made yourself a big goddamn mistake, boy, when ye killed ol’ LeGrande. Aye, a big goddamn mistake. And for that, ye’ll roast eternal in the fiery pits of hell. I’ll be makin’ certain your spirit ne’er gets free. Aye, that I will.”
Squire gathered up all his power and lifted his huge right fist in the air. It hung there momentarily as he gave Willis enough time to realize that his life was over. The fist slammed down with all the strength of Squire’s two hundred and seventy pounds, and all the hatred and anger that seared through him.
The fist plowed into Willis’ chest like a crashing redwood, crushing the breastbone and shattering several ribs, driving shards of bone into the heart and lungs.
Willis’s chest collapsed and his shattered body tried to force in another breath. He gasped once and died.
With a few deft strokes, Squire sliced off Willis’s scalp and stuffed it into his belt. He slipped LeGrande’s scalp from Willis’s belt and tenderly tucked it into his possibles bag. He stared down at the twisted body, and then up at the bright winter sunlight.
“Goodbye, ol’ friend,” he said softly. “I hope the Great Spirit will be with ye, mon ami. Adieu, parrain. J’taime.. ”
A few tears leaked down his cheeks into the tangle of beard as he mounted Noir Astre. Star Path wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face into his back.
He swung the horse around and headed out, his woman’s arms still locked around him.
THE END
Death in Helltown, by John Legg
Harlan Bloodworth is a hard man, one who hunts the worst of the worst outlaws. So when someone starts butchering soiled doves in Dodge City, the men who employ those fallen women turn to Bloodworth. They’re losing business, and they can’t abide that. They don’t care how it’s done, they just want the killings stopped. And, they figure, Harlan Bloodworth is just the man for the almost impossible job of tracking down whoever is responsible.
Order your copy of Death In Helltown, now.
About the Author
John Legg has published more than 55 novels, all on Old West themes.
CHEYENNE LANCE and MEDICINE WAGON were published while Legg was acquiring a B.A. in Communications and an M.S. in Journalism. Legg has continued his journalism career, and is a copy editor with The New York Times News Service.
Since his first two books, Legg has, under his own name, entertained the Western audience with many more tales of man’s fight for independence on the Western frontier. In addition, he has had published several historical novels set in the Old West. Among those are WAR AT BENT’S FORT and BLOOD AT FORT BRIDGER.
In addition, Legg has, under pseudonyms, contributed to the RAMSEYS, a series that was published by Berkley, and was the sole author of the eight books in the SADDLE TRAMP series for HarperPaperbacks. He also was the sole author of WILDGUN, an eight-book adult Western series from Berkley/Jove. He also has published numerous articles and a nonfiction book — SHININ’ TRAILS: A POSSIBLES BAG OF FUR TRADE HISTORY — on the subject,
He is member of Western Fictioneers. In addition, he operates JL TextWorks, an editing/critiquing service.
Find more great titles by John Legg here
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John Legg
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Table of Contents
Beginning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-F
our
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
About the Author