The Killing Breed Read Online Free Page B
Author: Frank Leslie
rectangle in the wall before him. He frowned. There was only the sound of his and Faith’s breathing, the light scrape of the night breeze brushing a weed against the outside cabin wall.
Yakima wasn’t sure what he’d heard, if anything. It could have been a dream. But then a shrill, bugling whinny rose in the distance, starting high and slowly dropping until it faded off to silence. It was answered a moment later by the near clatter of corral rails, the scuffle of prancing hooves, and the sudden, screeching, angry wail of Yakima’s own black stallion, Wolf.
Yakima cursed and depressed the rifle’s hammer.
“The broom tail?” Faith said darkly.
“Sounds like him, don’t it?”
Yakima laid the Yellowboy across the chair, threw the covers back, and dropped his bare feet to the floor with a weary groan. Then he dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself off the bed, stiff and sore right down to his bones. He’d spent all the previous day digging a new well behind the cabin, and he was nowhere near ready to leave the mattress sack. Sweeping his long black, sleep-tussled hair back from his face, he grabbed his balbriggans off a wall hook. “The son of a bitch is back for the mares.”
Faith yawned loudly. “That horny bastard.” She scuttled out of bed, making the pine posts and woven leather springs creak, and began stumbling around, gathering her clothes. “Thank God it’s not Apaches—I’m not ready to meet them yet. But if that stallion runs off those mares and colts again . . .”
“It’ll take us another week to get ’em back.” Yakima pulled on his worn blue denims over his balbriggans and, breathing hard, his long hair jostling across his shoulders, sat on the bed to pull on his moccasin boots. “He’s bound and determined to lead the whole damn remuda down to Mexico!”
“What is it about you men?” Faith growled, dropping a chemise down over her naked breasts. “How many women do you think you need, anyway?”
Yakima grabbed her, drew her to him quickly, enjoying the feel of her breasts mashing against his chest through the thin chemise. “One’s good enough for me.”
He kissed her and let her go.
“Yeah?”
Yakima chuckled dryly. “More than enough.”
Grabbing her denims off a chair back, Faith punched him with the back of her fist. “Bastard!”
Yakima grabbed the Yellowboy and a handful of .44 shells and headed out the bedroom door, grumbling as he moved through the dark cabin toward the front. He left his hat and jacket on the kitchen wall hooks, in spite of its being fall, with the mountain nights having turned downright brittle. He flung the door open angrily and stepped out onto the porch.
He’d dropped one foot off the top porch step when the broom-tail bronc loosed his tooth-gnashing whinny once again. It swirled as though from all directions, breaking off at the end in a series of knickers and coughing grunts and the clack of a kicked stone.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
Two peeled log corrals and a low, log-and-stone stable sat kitty-corner from the cabin. Yakima’s blaze-faced black stallion, Wolf, was running in circles, bobbing his head wildly, his sleek black mane glistening in the shimmering starlight. The mares and foals were dancing around the adjacent stable, the foals skitter-stepping close to their nickering mothers.
Their hoof thuds rang clear in the cool, dry, silent night.
Around the cabin, the stable, the corrals, and the windmill that squawked softly above the stone water tank at its base, pine- and fir-stippled hills and low, rocky ridges humped, silhouetted against the starry sky and the black velvet mountain walls rising in all directions beyond the clearing.
The wild bronc bugled his crazed call once more. Yakima turned his gaze to the bluff rising north of the
Yakima wasn’t sure what he’d heard, if anything. It could have been a dream. But then a shrill, bugling whinny rose in the distance, starting high and slowly dropping until it faded off to silence. It was answered a moment later by the near clatter of corral rails, the scuffle of prancing hooves, and the sudden, screeching, angry wail of Yakima’s own black stallion, Wolf.
Yakima cursed and depressed the rifle’s hammer.
“The broom tail?” Faith said darkly.
“Sounds like him, don’t it?”
Yakima laid the Yellowboy across the chair, threw the covers back, and dropped his bare feet to the floor with a weary groan. Then he dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself off the bed, stiff and sore right down to his bones. He’d spent all the previous day digging a new well behind the cabin, and he was nowhere near ready to leave the mattress sack. Sweeping his long black, sleep-tussled hair back from his face, he grabbed his balbriggans off a wall hook. “The son of a bitch is back for the mares.”
Faith yawned loudly. “That horny bastard.” She scuttled out of bed, making the pine posts and woven leather springs creak, and began stumbling around, gathering her clothes. “Thank God it’s not Apaches—I’m not ready to meet them yet. But if that stallion runs off those mares and colts again . . .”
“It’ll take us another week to get ’em back.” Yakima pulled on his worn blue denims over his balbriggans and, breathing hard, his long hair jostling across his shoulders, sat on the bed to pull on his moccasin boots. “He’s bound and determined to lead the whole damn remuda down to Mexico!”
“What is it about you men?” Faith growled, dropping a chemise down over her naked breasts. “How many women do you think you need, anyway?”
Yakima grabbed her, drew her to him quickly, enjoying the feel of her breasts mashing against his chest through the thin chemise. “One’s good enough for me.”
He kissed her and let her go.
“Yeah?”
Yakima chuckled dryly. “More than enough.”
Grabbing her denims off a chair back, Faith punched him with the back of her fist. “Bastard!”
Yakima grabbed the Yellowboy and a handful of .44 shells and headed out the bedroom door, grumbling as he moved through the dark cabin toward the front. He left his hat and jacket on the kitchen wall hooks, in spite of its being fall, with the mountain nights having turned downright brittle. He flung the door open angrily and stepped out onto the porch.
He’d dropped one foot off the top porch step when the broom-tail bronc loosed his tooth-gnashing whinny once again. It swirled as though from all directions, breaking off at the end in a series of knickers and coughing grunts and the clack of a kicked stone.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
Two peeled log corrals and a low, log-and-stone stable sat kitty-corner from the cabin. Yakima’s blaze-faced black stallion, Wolf, was running in circles, bobbing his head wildly, his sleek black mane glistening in the shimmering starlight. The mares and foals were dancing around the adjacent stable, the foals skitter-stepping close to their nickering mothers.
Their hoof thuds rang clear in the cool, dry, silent night.
Around the cabin, the stable, the corrals, and the windmill that squawked softly above the stone water tank at its base, pine- and fir-stippled hills and low, rocky ridges humped, silhouetted against the starry sky and the black velvet mountain walls rising in all directions beyond the clearing.
The wild bronc bugled his crazed call once more. Yakima turned his gaze to the bluff rising north of the
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