Hell's Marshal Read Online Free Page B

to rebuild.”
    He turned his head toward her voice. She was dressed like a man, only her long, blond curls bobbing in the sun identifying her as female. Her gray button shirt and black vest hid any hint of her figure, and under her worn, gray hat, her face seemed plain, unadorned by makeup, though the blue of her eyes rivaled that of the sky behind her. At her side lay a Winchester lever action rifle, and in her belt, she’d tucked a Bowie knife.
    Still, she seemed familiar somehow. “Do I know you?”
    His eyes adjusted and he noticed a pair of meaty hands holding a rough, gray blanket over their heads.
    “Once, long ago,” she answered, voice harsh as broken glass. “I’m Camille. We met in a saloon. The night you shot…a horse thief.”
    Shards of memories raced back to him. Clangy piano music. Pipe smoke and bad whiskey mixing with the smell of the same cheap perfume he smelled now. This woman—dressed in lace and lipstick and finery—sitting on his lap, her face painted so she looked like someone different. He remembered a mole tucked deep down in her ample cleavage but could not see it now with her shirt buttoned to her neck. She’d caught his fancy that night, but events had gotten out of hand.
    He’d taken Camille to his room, but before anything could happen, a scrawny half-Indian boy had tried to steal his horse. Frank had put a bullet right between his shoulder blades and left him to die in the street.
    Only after his own death, during his time in the underworld, had Frank learned that boy had been his son. He’d committed an unforgivable sin.
    “Ron…” He shook the cobwebbed memories from his head.
    “Ahem, can I put down this damned blanket now?”
    This voice Frank knew the moment he heard it and he confirmed it by looking back at the sausage-like fingers holding the blanket.
    Frank’s hand drifted toward the reassuring cold steel of the six shooter on his right hip. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, wondering when he’d gotten the pistol back. At his feet lay the lasso, cuffs, and whiskey bottle Buzzy had given him, arranged in a neat pile.
    “Now just simmer down,” Spike said, lowering the blanket until the sun shone right in Frank’s eyes. “I’m here to help you. And you can’t go shooting everyone. Not here.”
    The stout bartender knelt in front of Frank, biceps bulging inside his white shirt, block-shaped head sporting a cautious grin, complete with a missing front tooth. His brown eyes looked almost black compared to Camille’s. He held out Frank’s old black hat, its satin band frayed, a new crow’s feather stuck in the side. Frank took the hat and stuffed it on his head.
    “Last time I saw you, you were a giant slug with a horn and a pig snout, pointing a shotgun at me,” Frank said. He remembered the run-down saloon in the underworld’s version of Tombstone like he’d been there yesterday. “And now you’re here to help me?”
    Camille’s hand found Frank’s forearm and her finger paused on the lattice of scars under his sleeve, her short nails tracing along the line. Then, she eased his hand away from his gun.
    “We’re all here to help you, Frank. Spike, me, and Batcho.”
    She pointed to the right, where the dog sat, scruffy tail sweeping the desert sand into tiny clouds. No, not a dog, Frank realized…a coyote, with matted brown-and-gray fur, golden eyes, and a collar of beads around his neck. His pink tongue lolled out of his mouth, dripping slobber into the hard-packed earth.
    Frank looked at the one-time Indian guide, his mind working. Then, without warning, he started to laugh.
    They didn’t have a prayer.
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    “What’s that smell?” Frank asked.
    He’d first noticed the foul stench just after waking up. Sticky and rotten, the stink had assailed his nostrils like an army of corpses left in the sun too long. Now, after an hour’s walk, the smell clung to him like a shroud, drawing flies that swarmed around them no matter what