A Cold Day in Hell Read Online Free

Deadwood’s main street to beat the band that bright morning. Figuring then and there it was going to be one ugly ride to reach the telegraph at Fort Laramie—two hunnert miles off as the crow flies.”
    Grouard went on to enthrall his listeners as he worked into his story as a man would work up a thick, soapy lather conditioning his saddle or bridle. Explaining that Crawford already had a good jump on him—what with leaving Crook City that evening of 12 September while Grouard slept—Frank said he soon realized there should be soldiers at two places on the Black Hills Road between Deadwood and Laramie. One place or the other he figured he might convince an officer to send a fresh courier on with Crook’s messages.
    “So how far that first horse get you?” Donegan asked.
    “Figure it was something on the order of twenty-five miles,” Frank said as Bourke gathered up the empty mugs with a clatter after setting down some full ones. “Damn if he didn’t give out about five hunnert yards from a road ranch. Packed my saddle and all in by foot from there.”
    “So did you buy a horse from the ranchkeeper?” Bourke inquired.
    With a shrug of no little importance, Grouard replied, “There was three horses out front, all tied up when I walked in there. Looked ’em all over before I decided on the likeliest one. Was starting to throw my saddle on him when the ranch man comes out hollering, asking me what the hell I thought I was doing.”
    “He have a gun pulled on you?”
    “No, didn’t have a gun on him what I could see—but I figured there had to be at least one gun inside pointed my way. Tried to tell the fella I was riding dispatches for General Crook, even pulled out my orders to show him—then tightened the cinch on the horse, asking him how much he wanted for the gelding. Man said he wouldn’t sell it, but he did want to do what he could for Crook and his soldiers—so he told me to give him fifteen dollars for the use, then see that the horse got back to him.”
    Burt asked, “Did you get that horse back to the man?”
    After another swig of the warm beer, Frank said, “That’un dropped dead under me too. By the time I reached the next road ranch.”
    “Sweet Mither of God! How many horses you kill on that race?” Donegan asked, his eyes bouncing back to the doorway.
    “Killed three of ’em. And the other three I used up so bad, they ain’t worth a damn no more,” Frank grumbled sourly. “Damn shameful thing to do to good horseflesh too. Goddamn that Crawford anyway.”
    “What was he doing at this time?” Bourke asked.
    “S’pose he was staying just ahead of me … leastwise through those first four horses I gone and run into the ground.”
    “When did you finally catch up to him?” Wessels asked.
    “First I had to knock a big German off his horse,” Frank boasted.
    Walter Schuyler clapped with excitement. “By damn! Tell us about that part!”
    “Seems that next-to-last horse I rode was all but done in. For as far as I could see ahead of me, wasn’t a ranch in that piece of country. Horse under me was in a bad way, about to give out when I spotted a rider coming around the hill toward me on the road. I got down right there while he was coming up on me, pulled my saddle off, and let my horse go just before the rider reached me. I grabbed hold of his bridle and told him I wanted his horse. He was a big-boned German, that one was, likely could come close to making two of me—but he didn’t have a gun on him that I could see.”
    “Did he make trouble for you?”
    Frank nodded with a dour chuckle. “I reached right up under his leg, loosing the cinch as he goes to squalling—telling me I can’t have his goddamned horse and cussing me two ways of Sunday. Told him I had to have it, and why. ‘Bout then I needed him off the horse so I could set my saddle on—so I pulled him right off into the road. He started for me, so I finally had to pull my belt gun and hold it on him. All the