Rebel Yell Read Online Free Page B

hang.”
    â€œYou look good that way, by damn!” Eagle Feather’s eyes gleamed and the corners of his wide mouth quirked upward in grim amusement. A rare show of emotion for him.
    â€œYou’d like to see me hang, wouldn’t you, Eagle Feather,” Honest Bob said. It was not a question.
    â€œEagle Feather want see all gunrunners hang,”
    â€œThen who’d sell you guns?”
    â€œAlways greedy white men sell Comanches guns.”
    â€œNot good guns like I got.”
    â€œMebbe so, Honest Bob. Mebbe so. Eagle Feather want all Comancheros hang. You cheats.”
    â€œThat ain’t so, Eagle Feather. You know that. I never cheated you.”
    â€œYou cheat but not so bad as other white men,” Eagle Feather grudgingly allowed.
    â€œThe truth of it is, you’d like to see all white folks hang,” Honest Bob said, grinning.
    â€œMebbe so, mebbe so.”
    â€œWell, let’s get to business.” Honest Bob turned and walked away, Sefton following.
    The Comanches came afterward, walking their horses at a slow pace.

T WO
    â€œThe gang’s all here,” Sam Heller said to himself. “Gunrunners, Comanches—and me. The uninvited guest.” He was in a covert, a kind of shooting blind. A sharpshooter’s nest.
    It was in a cleft at the top of the rock walls of the eastern face of the bench overlooking Bison Creek. A V-shaped crack dropped vertically from the edge of the cliff. It was six feet wide and ten feet long, tapering downward.
    It was five feet wide up on the cliff top, forming a kind of cup-shaped hollow or basin. The cup was roomy enough for Sam to curl inside. Its floor consisted of loose rocks and dirt, which filled the cleft from its base to cup. Scrub brush, weeds, and vines grew from the surface of the dirt at the top of the cup.
    The cliff top rim was thick with brush. Shrubs and bushes covered Sam, screening him from view of any of those below who might casually glance upward at the scarp.
    It was a tight fit in the sharpshooter’s nest, sharing it as he did with his rifle and supplies. Sam lay on his side in the nest, legs together and bent at the knees. He propped himself up on an elbow.
    He was a big man, six-foot-four, 210 pounds, full-grown, and in the prime of life. He wanted to stay that way, a condition that would require some deft maneuvering and more than a little bit of luck in the next twenty-four hours or so. He had yellow hair and a same-colored beard, looking like a blond Viking. He hailed from Minnesota but had spent most of his youth in the West. A committed Unionist, he had fought for the North throughout the war.
    Sam wore a dark, battered slouch hat, buckskin vest, brown denims, and moccasin boots. The boots were knee-high and worn under the denims. Beside him in the nest was a knapsack and canteen.
    He was armed with a Winchester rifle, a .36 Navy Colt worn on his left hip in a cross-belly draw, and a bowie-style Green River knife sheathed on his right side. Twin bandoliers crossed chest and shoulders, their loops holding rifle cartridges.
    The rifle was one of the new Winchester 1866 models, Sam’s piece having been one of the first to come off the production line. It was one of the most effective and up-to-date weapons on the frontier—in the world, for that matter.
    A keen-eyed viewer would have noticed that the rifle displayed several unique modifications. Special socket rings and fittings showed at the front stock and butt. Sam had chopped the rifle, sawing off most of the barrel and butt stock to create a mule’s leg, as sawed-off repeating rifles were popularly called. It was generally worn in a custom-made holster on Sam’s right hip, though not at the moment.
    Sam was a born outdoorsman, and his trade required him to spend a good amount of time on narrow streets and in crowded saloons, gambling dens, meeting halls, cafés, and such in frontier towns and settlements. Easier to sport a