Rebel Yell Read Online Free Page A

carbines. A few had pistols tucked into their belts.
    The gunrunners were wary, restive.
    â€œEasy, boys, easy,” Honest Bob said. “This ain’t the first time we’ve been to the fair. Don’t get trigger-happy and we’ll get through this fine just like we’ve done before.” He readied himself to start forward. “Stand ready, Ricketts!” he called.
    â€œI’m ready!” Ricketts sat perched on the wagon’s box seat puffing a cigar. His hand was closed around a line of fuse cord, its end curling out the top of his fist.
    Honest Bob gave him a two-fingered half-salute. He turned, facing the Comanches. “Sefton, you come with me. I’m gonna meet Eagle Feather halfway.”
    â€œAll right, Bob.” Sefton was a fast draw and a cool-nerved customer.
    â€œYou men cover us,” Honest Bob told some of the others.
    â€œRight!”
    Honest Bob and Sefton started forward. Honest Bob was empty-handed, carrying no rifle. He wore twinned belt guns and could get at them fast if he had to.
    Sefton held a rifle cradled against his chest, muzzle pointed skyward. He could get it into action quick enough. That went double for the gun holstered at his side. Others were faster—Melbourne and Chait, for sure—but Sefton had better judgment.
    The Comanches sat their horses, watching the duo approach. The braves were motionless, stock-still. Masklike faces were cut deep with hard lines. They were stoics with good poker faces.
    Their horses were well-trained, but the nearness of Bison Creek water made them restless. Their long faces and snouts were powdered with dust. No doubt they’d been ridden a long way between waterings.
    Honest Bob halted a few man-lengths from the Comanches, Sefton stopping alongside him. Honest Bob held up his right hand palm out in the I-come-in-peace gesture. “Howdy, Eagle Feather!”
    Eagle Feather nodded, some of his men grunting as if to themselves, the lines in their faces deepening into scowls.
    That was all right with Honest Bob. He didn’t give a damn if they liked him or not. Not that there was much chance of them liking any white man unless he was on the business end of a scalping knife. But they liked the guns he sold well enough, and that was what counted.
    â€œYou got guns, Honest Bob?” Eagle Feather asked. He always called the gun dealer by his full moniker of “Honest Bob,” whether in mockery or not was known only to himself. Comanches held little faith in the honesty of whites, period.
    â€œGot gold?” Honest Bob countered.
    â€œUgh.” Eagle Feather nodded. Yes.
    â€œYou can see the wagon for yourself. We’re ready for business, so let’s get to it.” Honest Bob indicated the dust cloud in the east. “Your friends out there can come in, too. We’re not afraid. We’ll give them a warm welcome.”
    â€œYou trade horses for guns?” Eagle Feather asked, thrusting his hatchet-faced head forward. “They good horses. Fast, strong.”
    Honest Bob shook his head no. “You know my policy, Eagle Feather. I only trade for gold or cash money. Gold, silver, or jewelry.”
    â€œEagle Feather know. We catch plenty horses, by damn! Good horses!”
    Stolen horses, Honest Bob knew. Presumably the eastern dust cloud was made by them and the braves tending them. Maybe. Or maybe it was the rest of a war party standing by waiting for the signal to attack.
    â€œEagle Feather tell braves stand off. Honest Bob no want horses,” the Comanche said, indicating the eastern dust cloud.
    â€œThat’s the way of it,” Honest Bob said.
    â€œWhen you go, we water horses here at Bison Creek, yes.”
    â€œWhen we go, you can do what you damn well please for all I care.”
    â€œNo want horses, good horses?” Eagle Feather pressed.
    â€œNo stolen horses, thanks,” Honest Bob said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to