The Killing Breed Read Online Free Page A
Author: Frank Leslie
she slid her eyes from Thornton to the hard-faced gents sitting around him.
“I told you to stay in your room,” Thornton said with a defeated air, aware that all pairs of eyes behind him were directed at the balcony.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as Frank Miller whooped loudly and, pushing his chair back so hard it fell over with a slam, leaped to his feet.
“You done lied, Mr. Bill!” the fiery-eyed blond bellowed as he sprinted toward the stairs. “That there’s a doxie if I ever seen one!”
Ruby gave a clipped, horrified scream, eyes popping wide. She wheeled and sprinted back the way she’d come.
Miller took the steps three at a time, laughing, pulling himself up the stairs with one hand on the scarred rail. The girl’s running feet drummed in the ceiling above the bar.
Thornton jerked with a start as another gun barked behind him and left. The slugs seared the air in front of his face before plunking, one after another,into the staircase around Miller’s boots and into the rail a mere inch behind his hand.
Wood slivers flew as the cutthroat dropped to his knees, his hat tumbling off his shoulder. Cowering against the sudden fusillade, he turned a shocked, indignant look over his shoulder, a lock of blond hair hanging like a bird’s wing over a cold blue eye.
“What the—?”
Behind Thornton, Lowry Temple sat with a long-barreled, silver-plated revolver extended over the table, smoke curling from the barrel. He bunched his lips angrily and canted his head toward Thornton. “Pay the man.”
The blond scowled. “Huh?”
“Thornton doesn’t give away his girls for free,” Temple said reasonably. “And no man in my party takes a woman against her will.” He glanced at Thornton, and added, “Or the will of her pimp.”
Rage kindling in his crazy eyes, Miller glanced around at the quarter-sized holes in the steps and in the railing around him. “You coulda killed me, ya crazy—”
Temple’s revolver barked once more, causing all the men, including Thornton, to nearly jump out of their chairs. The bullet smashed into the step about six inches left of the blond’s left knee.
“Pay the man.”
“For chrissakes!” Miller shoved a hand into his coat, digging around in the breast pocket of his shirt. “How much?”
Thornton just stared at him until Temple turned to him, both brows arched with incredulity, his voice now pitched with impatience, like a school-master dealing with the antics of idiot children. “How much for the whore?”
Thornton wanted to tell the killer that the girl wasn’t for sale, but he no longer felt as passionate about it. His mind was on the prospect of Faith and Yakima Henry being hunted down like mangy coyotes by Lowry Temple.
He hesitated, shrugged. He grabbed a split log from the wood box and leaned forward to toss it into the stove.
“Six bits oughta cover it.”
Chapter 3
Yakima Henry bolted out of a deep sleep with a startled grunt and grabbed the Winchester Yellowboy repeater that he always kept lying across a chair beside his bed. He rammed a shell into the chamber, the shrill metallic rasp shredding the night’s dense silence, and aimed the gun at his bedroom door—a vague rectangular shape in the darkness.
His woman, Faith, gasped as she shot up from her own pillow beside him. “What is it?” Her hushed voice trembled slightly as she whispered, “Apaches?”
Breathing hard but holding the Winchester steady, Yakima stared at the door. He’d fought Apaches enough here at his small horse ranch at the base of Bailey Peak, in Arizona Territory, that he expected the door to burst open and for a screaming, painted brave to bound toward him with a war hatchet raised above his head.
But the door remained a solid black
“I told you to stay in your room,” Thornton said with a defeated air, aware that all pairs of eyes behind him were directed at the balcony.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger as Frank Miller whooped loudly and, pushing his chair back so hard it fell over with a slam, leaped to his feet.
“You done lied, Mr. Bill!” the fiery-eyed blond bellowed as he sprinted toward the stairs. “That there’s a doxie if I ever seen one!”
Ruby gave a clipped, horrified scream, eyes popping wide. She wheeled and sprinted back the way she’d come.
Miller took the steps three at a time, laughing, pulling himself up the stairs with one hand on the scarred rail. The girl’s running feet drummed in the ceiling above the bar.
Thornton jerked with a start as another gun barked behind him and left. The slugs seared the air in front of his face before plunking, one after another,into the staircase around Miller’s boots and into the rail a mere inch behind his hand.
Wood slivers flew as the cutthroat dropped to his knees, his hat tumbling off his shoulder. Cowering against the sudden fusillade, he turned a shocked, indignant look over his shoulder, a lock of blond hair hanging like a bird’s wing over a cold blue eye.
“What the—?”
Behind Thornton, Lowry Temple sat with a long-barreled, silver-plated revolver extended over the table, smoke curling from the barrel. He bunched his lips angrily and canted his head toward Thornton. “Pay the man.”
The blond scowled. “Huh?”
“Thornton doesn’t give away his girls for free,” Temple said reasonably. “And no man in my party takes a woman against her will.” He glanced at Thornton, and added, “Or the will of her pimp.”
Rage kindling in his crazy eyes, Miller glanced around at the quarter-sized holes in the steps and in the railing around him. “You coulda killed me, ya crazy—”
Temple’s revolver barked once more, causing all the men, including Thornton, to nearly jump out of their chairs. The bullet smashed into the step about six inches left of the blond’s left knee.
“Pay the man.”
“For chrissakes!” Miller shoved a hand into his coat, digging around in the breast pocket of his shirt. “How much?”
Thornton just stared at him until Temple turned to him, both brows arched with incredulity, his voice now pitched with impatience, like a school-master dealing with the antics of idiot children. “How much for the whore?”
Thornton wanted to tell the killer that the girl wasn’t for sale, but he no longer felt as passionate about it. His mind was on the prospect of Faith and Yakima Henry being hunted down like mangy coyotes by Lowry Temple.
He hesitated, shrugged. He grabbed a split log from the wood box and leaned forward to toss it into the stove.
“Six bits oughta cover it.”
Chapter 3
Yakima Henry bolted out of a deep sleep with a startled grunt and grabbed the Winchester Yellowboy repeater that he always kept lying across a chair beside his bed. He rammed a shell into the chamber, the shrill metallic rasp shredding the night’s dense silence, and aimed the gun at his bedroom door—a vague rectangular shape in the darkness.
His woman, Faith, gasped as she shot up from her own pillow beside him. “What is it?” Her hushed voice trembled slightly as she whispered, “Apaches?”
Breathing hard but holding the Winchester steady, Yakima stared at the door. He’d fought Apaches enough here at his small horse ranch at the base of Bailey Peak, in Arizona Territory, that he expected the door to burst open and for a screaming, painted brave to bound toward him with a war hatchet raised above his head.
But the door remained a solid black
Readers choose
Robert Crais
Dan Simmons
Patricia Gaffney
Mary Connealy
Jenni Wiltz
Elaine Raco Chase
Tim Symonds
Donna Malane
Matthew S. Cox