Hell's Marshal Read Online Free Page A

his ears as howling arose, chanting in his native tongue, as if his voice could block out the sounds.
    The wind whistled by, and voices emerged, carried on it like leaves or dust. They grew into screams, wails of agony and terror so filled with grief, it almost brought him to tears.
    Next came words, voices he knew, but could not name, pleading with him to open the window, to peek outside for just an instant. His heart longed to do so, even as the stage continued to accelerate, racing across the desert like a train. All he could think about was opening the shade and looking outside. He knew these voices, after all. Trusted them more than the dark and foreboding stage driver.
    Finally, it just became too much. Frank’s willpower caved and he threw open the shade. Purple light splashed into the coach, mingled with red, yellow, and orange, casting strange, oblong shadows on Batcho’s face.
    Frank marveled at the sights outside, at the shifting colors of the sky, the jagged mountains to their right, rising like dragons in the distance. Faces appeared in thin air, people whose names he’d forgotten, their mouths all open in horrified screams as they rushed along beside the coach.
    One—a blond woman with red-painted lips and bug-like lashes—opened her eyes wide and pointed ahead of the coach. Frank followed her direction and regretted it.
    The stage rushed across the desert, streaking over sagebrush and rocks without so much as a bump. The horses galloped full speed, hooves kicking up sparks from the ground. Ahead, the reddish desert floor fell away into nothingness.
    Frank knew he should pull his head back in the stage, squeeze his eyes shut and not open them until they stopped again, but became entranced with the approaching cliff, unable to take his eyes off the looming precipice.
    Fifty yards away, he found himself wishing for the horses to stop. At thirty, he begged them to turn. At ten, he knew what was going to happen, knew he was helpless to stop it, but he still kept his head out the window, his gaze glued on the point of his impending doom.
    Sure enough, the steeds charged right over the edge, plummeting downward with the coach still attached. Frank’s stomach lurched, and he fought to not retch as hot desert air washed over his face. Below him, the canyon floor burned, flames leaping from dozens of buildings, all growing larger every second the stagecoach fell.
    Frank screamed, and jerked his head back inside just before they hit. Then the world went black.
    * * *
    The sticky, sharp scent of pine mingled with a hint of perfume in Frank’s darkened world, teasing him to open his eyes. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in the warm, dark place he’d found, keep smelling pine and perfume, and pretend he didn’t have to wake up. A dozen points of pain on his back told him he lay on the pebbly ground, and the warmth on his face told him he faced the sun. The muffled sound of voices reached him from his right—a man and a woman—and birds serenaded him from the trees that whispered in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a dog panted.
    He opened one eye, then slammed it shut again as sunlight blinded him, driving spikes of pain into his temples. He threw a forearm across his eyes.
    “He’s awake,” a woman cried, her voice deep and familiar.
    They rushed to his side, shadows making the too-bright sunlight flicker and flash.
    “Get that blanket!” the man shouted.
    The bright sun muted itself, and Frank ventured to open his eyes. A moment later, the dog licked his face, its breath smelling like something not long dead. Frank batted away the cold, wet nose and struggled to sit upright. Hands under his arms helped him, and again, the smell of perfume tickled his nose. Flies buzzed all around him and he raised a sluggish arm to swipe at them.
    “Don’t be stupid.” The woman’s voice came from behind him now. “You’ll break something off. You’ve been dead longer than we have, so your body still needs time