Forty Times a Killer Read Online Free Page B

“And apple, if it’s got raisins in it.”
    â€œYeah, me too.”
    â€œAnd plenty of cinnamon.”
    â€œShe made pies like that.” Then quickly, before he could interrupt again, I went on. “I was there the whole month of June, then on the second of July, the day after my ninth birthday, the cabin got hit by a band of Lipan Apaches that had crossed the Rio Grande and come up from Mexico.”
    â€œDamned murdering savages,” Wes said.
    â€œThe youngest of the Simpson boys fell dead in the first volley. His name was Reuben or maybe Rufus, I can’t recollect which. The others, myself included, made it back into the cabin, though Mrs. Simpson’s butt got burned by a musket ball as she was coming through the door.”
    â€œBig target.”
    â€œYeah, I guess it was.”
    â€œHold on just a minute.” Wes grabbed the dead man by the ankles and dragged him into the brush. When he came back he said, “Then what happened?”
    â€œWell, Mr. Simpson and his surviving sons held off the Apaches until dark when all went quiet. But they were afraid to go out for the dead boy’s body on account of how the savages might be lying in ambush.”
    â€œDamned Apaches. I hate them.”
    â€œWell, just as the moon came up, we heard this snorting and snuffling sound, then a strange ripping noise, like calico cloth being torn into little pieces.”
    â€œWhat was it?” Wes asked.
    â€œIt was Reuben or maybe Rufus being torn into little pieces.”
    â€œThe big boars have sharp tusks on them. They can rip into a man.”
    â€œThey ripped into the dead boy all right. Come first light all that was left was a bloody skeleton. But the head was still intact. The hogs hadn’t touched it.” I stared at Wes. “Why would they do that?”
    â€œI don’t know, Little Bit. There ain’t no accounting for what a hog will do.”
    Wes stepped to the brush, then turned and said, “I’m taking this feller well away from camp. Your damned story about them hogs has me boogered.”

CHAPTER FOUR
Wes Has Big Plans
    We rode into Longview at the noon hour under a sky that had been burned out by the scorching sun. There was no breeze and the air hung heavy as a damp blanket.
    Few people were on the street, probably because the sporting crowd was still abed and wouldn’t appear until the dark of night.
    Casting no shadow, Wes and I rode to the livery stable, the two mustangs in tow.
    Longview was a rough railroad town and the smart moneymen reckoned that the arrival of the iron rails would soon bring prosperity on a massive scale to all concerned. Half the buildings that lined the street were saloons. Gunfights were common and most days the town could be depended on to serve a dead man for breakfast.
    No doubt about it, the booming town had snap.
    The business district, a cluster of hastily built timber-frame buildings, surrounded the train depot. Wes said there was enough money in the district to bankroll his Wild West show with plenty to spare.
    A painted sign hung above the door of the livery.
    JAS. GLEE, prop.
    HORSES FOR SALE AND RENT
    Carriage Repairs a Specialty
    In person, Jas. Glee, prop. was a tall, loose-geared man somewhere in early middle age. A red beard, shot through with white, hung to his waistband. His eyes were large and expressionless, popping out of a cadaverous face like a pair of black plums.
    He wore a threadbare shell jacket of Confederate gray with a corporal’s chevrons on the sleeves and thus immediately jumped up several places in our esteem.
    â€œA stall and hay is two-bits per day per hoss,” Glee said. “I’ll throw in a scoop of oats for two-bits extry.”
    Wes said that we’d spring for the oats.
    Glee gave him a sidelong glance. “You boys staying in town long?”
    â€œI’m visiting kin,” Wes said. “Depending on the welcome, it could be one day or