The Lonely Breed : A Western Fiction Classic (Yakima Henry Book 1)

by Peter Brandvold

  She looked at him through a wing of hair fallen over an eye. "He thought..." She let her voice trail off, frowning down at her bent knee.

  Yakima lifted his tin cup in both hands and stared at her. "What?"

  She kept her eyes lowered as she said haltingly, "Someone must've seen me sneaking you food from the kitchen, I reckon, and ... spread the rumor that..."

  Yakima gave a wry snort. "Cavortin' with a half-breed. Bad for business." He threw the last of his tea back, then wiped his fingers on his buckskins. "Eat up. I'll saddle Wolf and bring him around."

  Faith swabbed her bowl with a finger and watched his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped figure disappear in the brush and the rocks, long hair sliding across his back. She had a passing image of his naked chest forming an inverted V toward his corded neck, his thick arms gristled with taut muscle.

  Her face warmed. It had been a long time since she'd felt anything but revulsion for the male form.

  She licked the grease from her fingers, stood, gathered the dirty dishes, and carried them off toward the creek.

  Chapter Nine

  Roy Brindley had blown out one horse and sent it home before he raced a sleek, long-legged claybank around a long bend in Ute Creek and reined up at the edge of a breeze-rippled cottonwood copse.

  He took a deep breath and scrubbed sweat from his brow as he stared at Ute Creek Station—a dilapidated log-and-sod hut, log-and-sheet-metal barn, and peeled-log corrals. Ute Creek's hostler, Melvin Hanson, was currying one of the six sweat-shiny horses milling in the main corral. Over the yard, a thin sheen of dust lingered.

  "Goddamn it," Brindley barked, heeling the claybank out from the cottonwood shade and into the yard. He turned in his saddle to yell at Hanson, "Melvin, the stage just pull out of here?"

  The beefy hostler, who'd stooped to pry something from a dapple gray's right front hoof, straightened, glanced toward the far side of the yard, and nodded.

  "Did you see two of Thornton's whores on it?"

  The hostler nodded again.

  "Shit!" Brindley spat and turned the clay toward the shack. He'd hoped to catch up to the bounty hunter, Wit Bardoul, before he caught up to the whores. If he caught up to Bardoul first, he wouldn't have time to kill the whores, because he'd be too busy fetching Bardoul back to Thornton.

  Brindley had never laid a hand on a woman, much less killed one. Killing a woman, even a whore, was just too much to ask of a man with Brindley's sensitivity. Besides, his salary of twenty-five dollars a month was hardly recompense for carrying a woman's death to his grave.

  Brindley swung down from the saddle, slapped his hat against his thighs, puffing trail dust, and tossed the reins over the hitchrack. He mounted the sagging porch, opened the creaky wooden door, and stepped into the roadhouse's smoky shadows.

  Glancing around at the five vacant tables and the wood-stove stoked against the lingering morning chill, he felt his heart fall. No sign of Bardoul. Shit. That meant he'd have to run down the stage and kill those whores. He probably wouldn't catch up to Bardoul before the bounty hunter was halfway to Denver City.

  "What brings you way over here, Roy?" said an English-accented voice to his right.

  Brindley turned. The tall, gangling Englishman who managed the Ute Creek roadhouse for the stage company stood on a ladder behind the bar. Dressed in a buffalo coat and gloves, Leo Black was resetting the banjo clock on the wall above a line of dusty brown bottles and below a moose head with two bullet holes in one of its paddle-sized antlers. One hand on the clock, he adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles with the other. "Thornton hasn't had rustlin' trouble again, has he? I'm fresh outta spare horses."

  Brindley opened his mouth to respond but stopped when a husky, Russian-accented female voice rose suddenly. Black had come to this country with a Russian he'd married back in Indiana. Brindley had once worked for Black, but he'd never been able to savvy the big woman's broken English, and he still couldn't. All he knew was that Black was being summoned pronto.

  Black's narrow face acquired a pained expression. "Coming, Elga!" As he hobbled down the ladder on a foot in which he'd taken an Arapaho arrow, he said over his shoulder, "Be right back, Roy. Help yourself to a drink."

  When Black had disappeared out the roadhouse's back door, Brindley sauntered up to the bar, jerked his gloves off, and tossed them down. He'd begun hoisting himself over the bar to feel around for a bottle below when he froze and turned toward the back of the room.

  What he'd thought was the wind moaning under the roadhouse's rear eaves wasn't the wind at all, but voices. A man's voice and a woman's voice. They rose from behind one of the two cribs Black had arranged at the far back of the room, behind two buffalo robes strung across the room on a rope.

  Brindley stood staring at the robes, listening. He heard a man's low voice and then a girl's hushed chuckle. The man laughed. If that wasn't Wit Bardoul's laugh, Brindley was a two-headed zebra.

  His heart thumping hopefully, he strode into the room's rear shadows, where the smell of sweat and sex overlaid the smell of pine smoke and spilled whiskey. Sidling up to the curtain, he canted his head to peek through the gap between the robes.

  Inside, Wit Bardoul reclined on a broad, fur-and-quilt-laden cot. Bardoul could see the bounty hunter only from his waist up. Snugged against his bare torso, bare back to Brindley, lay a slender, sandy-haired girl, twirling her fingers in Bardoul's chest hair. Bardoul was chuckling, lips spread back from his two tobacco-stained silver front teeth as he stared down past his belly toward his feet.

  Brindley cleared his throat loudly, shoved the right robe back about six inches, and peered through the gap. Bardoul turned toward him, frowning, his right hand reaching for something on a chair beside the bed—a gun, no doubt.

  "Who's there, damn it?"

  The girl gave a clipped shriek and turned her head toward the robes. Her eyes widened. Brindley's stomach fell, and bile churned. Mormon Claire, one of Thornton's runaway whores. Shit.

  Brindley cleared his throat again, his eyes on the whore. "Uh, can I have a moment, Mr. Bardoul? It's Roy Brindley."

  "Oh, shit," intoned another female from somewhere around the bounty hunter's knees. The other runaway whore, "Nettie the Pretty," shoved her head over Bardoul's hairy belly, staring wide-eyed at Brindley. "Is Thornton here?"

  Brindley removed his hat and cursed once more. The hostler, Hanson, must have seen the women ride in on the stage and only assumed they'd left with it. A fine damn pickle. Now he had no choice but to kill them. If Thornton got wind of them and him being here at the same time, and he hadn't followed orders, his life wouldn't be worth fishing bait.

  "No, ma'am."

  Bardoul was still frowning angrily at Brindley, the birthmark along the right side of his thick nose turning raspberry red. "What the hell you want, Brindley? Can't you see I'm occupied?"

  "Sir, I've come to discuss business," Brindley said.

  Then, before Bardoul could say anything else, he wheeled and strode back toward the front of the roadhouse. He tossed his hat on a table, retrieved a bottle and two glasses from behind the bar, and sat down at the table. Behind the robes, the girls were chattering frantically but too softly for Brindley to hear.

  The cot creaked, clothes rustled, spurs chinged. There was the sound of a gun cylinder being spun, and then the robes parted, and Wit Bardoul ducked under the rope. He drew the robes closed, then, adjusting the cross-draw holsters on both hips and his big bowie on his right, he ambled stiffly toward Brindley. He held a half-empty bottle in one hand, a long black cigar in the other. His shabby sombrero hid the upper half of his bearded face, and the wang strings on his buckskins danced as he approached Brindley's table.

  Pinching his buckskins away from his crotch, he set his bottle on the table and sagged into a chair across from Brindley. "Nettie needs to file a tooth down," he grunted.

  Brindley splashed whiskey from his bottle into a glass and shoved it toward Bardoul. "Where's your horse?"

  "In th
e barn. Had Melvin reset a shoe. While I was waitin', stage pulls in." The bounty hunter grinned, tossed back half his drink. "And guess who was on it?"

  "They're runaways."

  "I know. They offered me free pokes"—Bardoul winced as he slid his right hand under the table—"and other sundry pleasures if I escorted 'em both to Denver City. The stage driver was givin' 'em a hard time. I reckon he knew who they belonged to and didn't want nothin' to do with 'em." Bardoul tossed back the rest of his whiskey and slid the glass toward Brindley's bottle. "Anyway, what the hell you want, Roy? The girls? Less'n you got somethin' better, you can't have 'em."

  Brindley waved the subject of the girls off for later and refilled Bardoul's glass. He slid the glass toward the bounty hunter, then reached inside his canvas coat and slapped a wad of greenbacks on the table. "The half-breed's alive. He came back to Thornton's. He's got Thornton's prize whore, and they're heading into the mountains. Thornton's offering you a thousand dollars for their heads."

  Bardoul was lighting his cigar, puffing smoke. His eyes were on the money. "Just the heads?"

  Brindley nodded. "He's right piss-burned."

  Bardoul stared at Brindley as he continued lighting his cigar, smoke puffing around his head, the match flame leaping, flashing in the bounty hunter's close-set eyes. He blew out the match, tossed it on the floor, and sucked a deep drag from the cigar. "That damn dog-eater got away after all, huh? Well, that rubs my fur in the wrong direction. It sure does. Wouldn't want it gettin' out I let a quarry slip away. This is a competitive business. A man's gotta guard his reputation."

  "You'll do it?"

  Bardoul lifted a shoulder. "Can I finish my cigar first?"

  Brindley threw up his hands. "You can finish anything you want." He glanced at the buffalo robes. The whores had gone quiet.

  "I'm done with that" Bardoul said, sipping his drink and sagging back in his chair. "Sometimes a man just wants to enjoy a drink and a good cigar. Study on things ..."

  Brindley shifted uncomfortably, glanced at Bardoul sitting sideways to the table, a boot crossed on a knee, his brooding gaze canted toward the floorboards, his birthmark crimson. Brindley splashed more whiskey into his glass. Outside he could hear Black and his wife arguing about a skunk trapped somewhere—in the henhouse, probably.

  When Brindley had taken another sip of his whiskey, he squeezed his whiskey bottle in both hands and regarded the bounty hunter reluctantly. "There's one more thing, Mr. Bardoul."

  Bardoul glanced at him, one eye slitted, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

  Brindley leaned forward and flicked his eyes toward the buffalo robes. He kept his voice low. "Thornton wants the whores dead."

  Bardoul lifted a shoulder. "So kill 'em. My plans have changed."

  Brindley cleared his throat. "Would you do it?"

  "Why can't you do it?"

  "I don't think I could shoot a woman."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "I ain't sure. There's somethin' inside me that makes me kind of sick to think about it."

  Bardoul chuckled and tapped ashes on the floor. "Close your eyes and pretend they're men."

  "Please, Mr. Bardoul. You've probably killed a woman before, but—"

  The bounty hunter turned to him sharply, brows ridged. "Only ones that deserved it. I don't abuse women for no good reason—slappin' 'em around and the like."

  "I understand, I understand. That's damn commendable. But since killin' those whores would cause you less strife than it would me, couldn't you do it?"

  "How much is it worth to you?"

  "Huh?"

  "You don't expect me to do it for free, do you? My gun's for hire, mister. I don't do charity work."

  "Well, hell, I don't have any money."

  "Would you shovel shit from Thornton's barn for free?" Before Brindley could respond, Bardoul slapped his left hand on the table, palm up. "Give me what you got in your pockets."

  Brindley looked at the thick, callused hands forever etched with grime. "I don't have but a few dollars in change."

  Bardoul rapped his knuckles on the table. "Come on, come on."

  Brindley leaned back, shoved his right hand into his pocket, and dropped a cartwheel and a few nickels on the table. They rattled around, spinning and rolling and bumping against the bottles. "That there's all I got till payday."

  "Christ, man!" Bardoul said, glowering down at the coins. "You need a different line of work."

  The bounty hunter sighed, took another deep puff from his cigar. He set the cigar on the table so that the coal hung over the edge. "You're beholden to me, Roy." He threw back the last swallow in his whiskey glass, then rose, shucked one of his big Remingtons, and spun the cylinder.

  Brindley stood, sliding back his chair. "I'll wait for you outside."

  "Fetch my horse from the barn," Bardoul grumbled, shoving his sombrero back from his freckled forehead as he began sauntering toward the buffalo robes, holding the big Remy straight down over his right holster.

  Brindley turned and hurried outside.

  As he jogged down the porch steps and headed toward the barn, he rammed a finger in each ear, wincing, steeling himself for the pop of the bounty hunter's pistol. He hadn't heard a single report by the time he reached the barn.

  Keeping a finger in one ear, he used his right hand to open the barn's double doors, then hurried inside, looking around for the bounty hunter's big Appaloosa. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the horse standing near the back door, reins tied around a stall post. Keeping his fingers in both ears, he walked down the barn alley, removed his finger from one ear to slip the reins free of the post, then began leading the horse toward the open front doors.

  Brindley's face muscles were bunched, eyes slitted, waiting ...

  What the hell was he doing in there?

  Maybe the bounty hunter wasn't as tough as he thought. Or... maybe the whores had turned the tables on Brindley and were hiring the bounty hunter to kill him instead.

  When Brindley and the Appaloosa were halfway across the yard, heading for the roadhouse, he removed his other finger from his ear and stopped, staring at the front door, one hand hovering around his own pistol butt.

  He was glancing at the claybank tethered to the hitchrack at his left, considering whether to make a break for the horse and get the hell out of there, when a pistol popped inside the roadhouse.

  Brindley leapt back, heart racing.

  A girl screamed shrilly. The scream was clipped by another shot.

  There was a thud, as though of a body hitting the floor.

  A rumbling, Russian-accented, female voice bellowed, "Vot's diss? Vot da hell you tink you do here?"

  Boots pounded and spurs chinged loudly toward the front door. Wit Bardoul bounded through the door, and in two steps he was across the porch and leaping into the yard. With a sheepish grin on his face, shaded by his sombrero brim, he grabbed the Appy's reins from Brindley.

  "Mount up, mount up!" the bounty hunter laughed, swinging into his own saddle as Brindley ran to the clay-bank. 'That big Russian's goin' for her shotgun!"

  "What the hell took you so long?" Brindley said, slipping his reins from the rack and grabbing his saddle horn.

  "Figured I'd have me one more French lesson," the bounty hunter chuckled as he turned the Appaloosa into the yard. "Since they was free an' all. Hyahh!"

  "Wait for me, blast it!" Brindley yelled as he swung into his own saddle and reined the claybank away from the roadhouse.

  Hearing the Russian's rumbling, incoherent bellows echoing inside the roadhouse, growing louder as the woman stormed toward the front door, Brindley slapped his hat against the claybank's rump and raked his spurs against its flanks.

  The horse whinnied shrilly and lunged forward in an instant, ground-eating gallop.

  He was passing the last corral on his left and a dilapidated springhouse on the right when he heard the woman shout in Russian behind him. He lowered his head and winced as the claybank galloped after Bardoul
, a tan smudge racing through the cottonwoods ahead.

  "You tink you can make a mess in my house?" the Russian screamed.

  Brindley kept his eyes forward, lowered his head another two inches. A shotgun blast frightened blackbirds from the cottonwoods on both sides of the trail.

  "I'm gonna make a mess out of you!”

  Chapter Ten

  Yakima gigged Wolf up an easy incline through sage and fading wildflowers. Faith rode behind him, arms around his waist, head resting against his back. He could tell from her rhythmic breathing that she was asleep. She'd slept for a good hour or longer.

  He halted the black at the top of the ridge and looked down on a narrow valley bordered on the opposite side by a steep sandstone ridge. A cottonwood-sheathed creek meandered along the partly shaded valley bottom. A small herd of mule deer loitered along the creek's far bank; the does and two bucks foraging while a wily old bull with a huge rack stared up the hill at the interlopers on the ridge.

  As Yakima heeled the black forward and down the ridge, letting the horse pick his own way through the pifions, talus slides, and Spanish bayonet clumps, Faith lifted her head from his back.

  "Where are we?"

  "About five or six miles southeast of where we were the last time you asked."

  "What're we doing?"

  "We're gonna give the horse a blow. He's been needing one for a long time. We'll build a fire, make tea. I'd shoot one of those deer down there, but we're too close to mine diggings to risk a shot."

  Yakima figured that by tracing a roundabout course, avoiding mining camps and main roads and keeping to the foothills of the Front Range, they probably had about four more days to Denver. That was if the weather held. Today was warm and clear—Indian summer with bees buzzing and songbirds singing in the shagbark scrub—but it being early October, a mountain snow could hit at any time.

  He'd like to find the girl a horse. Riding double in the mountains was hard on even a stalwart mount like Wolf. But Yakima didn't see how they could appropriate one, short of stealing it and risking a necktie party for them both. Miners tended to be even more proprietary about their livestock than farmers and ranchers.