Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) Read Online Free
Author: P. J. Thorndyke
caliber. “This just came out of Belgium,” he said, smiling at Lazarus’s slack jaw. “The most powerful pistol about. It has explosive rounds.”
“More powerful than a Golgotha?” Lazarus asked, feeling the hefty weight of the thing.
“Yes. And you can’t hide a Golgotha in your boot. Now then, I believe that should be adequate firepower. The train leaves tomorrow afternoon. Be ready. You won’t be able to snatch him at the station, there will be too many of them, but once they are out on the open plains you should be able to get aboard with a fast horse. How you go about extracting him, I leave to you.”
Lazarus considered mentioning the woman with the eastern European accent who had thrown a spanner in the works aboard the Mary Sue, but refrained from doing so. Morton did not seem to know about her, and for some reason Lazarus felt keen to keep it that way. She would no doubt attempt to kill Vasquez again, and then he would make sure to find out who she was and settle the score.
“Yes...” he said, as he slid the Colt Starblazer into his empty holster and tucked the Belgian snub into his boot. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to recruit some help.”
Chapter Three
The 3:10 from Yuma
The vast stretch of iron rails that cut through the burning landscape twinkled up at Lazarus in the morning sun. The land was silent, save for a light wind that rolled across the plains. From his position high up on the cliffs, he viewed the arid panorama with distaste. The railroad led to the State of Deseret, formally known as Utah, and the speeding hunk of steel and steam that thundered along its glistening path carried Gerard Vasquez to his appointment with the hangman.
Lazarus’s horse nickered softly, and he rested his hand on the butt of the Colt Starblazer, aware of the dark patch of shadow that darted quickly behind a rock, ghostlike in the shimmering heat. It could have been a bird, but Lazarus knew better.
He had been aware that he was being shadowed ever since he had crawled out of the Colorado River, freezing, hatless and extremely grumpy. It had followed him down the dusty streets of Yuma, hovering outside saloons whenever he took a drink. It was outside the shop when he had bought his new bowler hat. Lazarus wondered if the shadow had been loitering outside his hotel at night, looking up at his window while he had been sleeping. It was an unpleasant thought.
Wherever Lazarus had gone, he had been watching and following, his dark features concealed by a wide-brimmed hat and a long poncho concealing much more than just a powerful frame. In Yuma there had been no opportunity for him to make his move on Lazarus, but out here in the desert, where not another soul’s shadow fell for miles around, now it was different.
A light footstep—no more than a whisper—fell behind Lazarus. He whirled around, drawing and cocking his revolver with lightning speed. For a while they stood staring at each other.
“If you’re going to kill me, then you’re wasting a good ally,” Lazarus said.
Hok’ee glared at him from beneath the rim of his hat. His hair was long and jet, not greasy and matted like a white man’s would be at that length, but sleek and shining. Enormous muscles rippled under his coppery skin, and he wore enough ammunition to fend off an army. Whatever his plan, it extended to more than merely killing him, and that pleased Lazarus.
“We’re after the same chap, friend,” said Lazarus, holstering his Starblazer. Whatever was concealed under that poncho was more than a match for a revolver, anyway. “How about we throw in our lot together and go at it as a deuce?”
The giant Navajo continued boring his hateful eyes into him. He evidently spoke no English or chose not to. Lazarus wondered if Vasquez communicated with his first mate in Navajo.
“Look, there’s plenty of people aboard that train for us both to shoot,” Lazarus continued. “I just want to get Vasquez off
“More powerful than a Golgotha?” Lazarus asked, feeling the hefty weight of the thing.
“Yes. And you can’t hide a Golgotha in your boot. Now then, I believe that should be adequate firepower. The train leaves tomorrow afternoon. Be ready. You won’t be able to snatch him at the station, there will be too many of them, but once they are out on the open plains you should be able to get aboard with a fast horse. How you go about extracting him, I leave to you.”
Lazarus considered mentioning the woman with the eastern European accent who had thrown a spanner in the works aboard the Mary Sue, but refrained from doing so. Morton did not seem to know about her, and for some reason Lazarus felt keen to keep it that way. She would no doubt attempt to kill Vasquez again, and then he would make sure to find out who she was and settle the score.
“Yes...” he said, as he slid the Colt Starblazer into his empty holster and tucked the Belgian snub into his boot. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to recruit some help.”
Chapter Three
The 3:10 from Yuma
The vast stretch of iron rails that cut through the burning landscape twinkled up at Lazarus in the morning sun. The land was silent, save for a light wind that rolled across the plains. From his position high up on the cliffs, he viewed the arid panorama with distaste. The railroad led to the State of Deseret, formally known as Utah, and the speeding hunk of steel and steam that thundered along its glistening path carried Gerard Vasquez to his appointment with the hangman.
Lazarus’s horse nickered softly, and he rested his hand on the butt of the Colt Starblazer, aware of the dark patch of shadow that darted quickly behind a rock, ghostlike in the shimmering heat. It could have been a bird, but Lazarus knew better.
He had been aware that he was being shadowed ever since he had crawled out of the Colorado River, freezing, hatless and extremely grumpy. It had followed him down the dusty streets of Yuma, hovering outside saloons whenever he took a drink. It was outside the shop when he had bought his new bowler hat. Lazarus wondered if the shadow had been loitering outside his hotel at night, looking up at his window while he had been sleeping. It was an unpleasant thought.
Wherever Lazarus had gone, he had been watching and following, his dark features concealed by a wide-brimmed hat and a long poncho concealing much more than just a powerful frame. In Yuma there had been no opportunity for him to make his move on Lazarus, but out here in the desert, where not another soul’s shadow fell for miles around, now it was different.
A light footstep—no more than a whisper—fell behind Lazarus. He whirled around, drawing and cocking his revolver with lightning speed. For a while they stood staring at each other.
“If you’re going to kill me, then you’re wasting a good ally,” Lazarus said.
Hok’ee glared at him from beneath the rim of his hat. His hair was long and jet, not greasy and matted like a white man’s would be at that length, but sleek and shining. Enormous muscles rippled under his coppery skin, and he wore enough ammunition to fend off an army. Whatever his plan, it extended to more than merely killing him, and that pleased Lazarus.
“We’re after the same chap, friend,” said Lazarus, holstering his Starblazer. Whatever was concealed under that poncho was more than a match for a revolver, anyway. “How about we throw in our lot together and go at it as a deuce?”
The giant Navajo continued boring his hateful eyes into him. He evidently spoke no English or chose not to. Lazarus wondered if Vasquez communicated with his first mate in Navajo.
“Look, there’s plenty of people aboard that train for us both to shoot,” Lazarus continued. “I just want to get Vasquez off
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