The Overlanders Read Online Free Page A

pounds of his weight to one braced boot. Using this for a fulcrum he came around with the force of a catapult.
    A flying fist crashed into Idaho’s jaw. The pistol sailed out of his jerked-wide hand. Shocked surprise and momentum carried him into the fire where panic crossed his legs and pitched him yelling down into the dust.
    The next thing he knew he was being jerked upright. Something exploded in his face like a Fourth of July rocket. He plunged down a well of shrieking blackness filled with a blur of pin-wheeling lights.
    When he came to again Farraday stood over him with a dripping bucket. “I’ve seen drowned rats that looked prettier,” Grete said, “but I doubt if I ever come onto a wetter one. You still need convincing who’s the boss around here?”
    When Idaho didn’t speak up fast enough to suit him Grete swung the oaken bucket, breaking it against the side of the man’s head. A great shout broke out of him. He got both arms hugged about his bloody face and, rolling out of Grete’s reach, staggered onto his feet.
    Grete straightaway went after him, driving a fist hard against that stretched belly, fetching a knee up into Idaho’s face. It was a broken-nosed smear but Farraday hammered it three more times without mercy, knowing if he went light on this man he would have the whole pack of them soon to contend with. The gunfighter’s head rocked with each punishing impact. He hooked his spurs and fell heavily, moaning.
    Grete, rubbing cut knuckles, prowled around till he found Idaho’s pistol. He stepped over and thrust it at the gray-cheeked Ben. “When he acts like he’s got some sense give it back to him.”
    He wheeled away. “Let’s eat.”

THREE
    Nobody looked to have much hunger.
    The gunfighter after a while got up and went dragging off into the dark; Farraday, knowing the risk, permitted this, not even bothering to move away from the fire. Having no idea what kind of food he was putting into him, he went on with his eating, forcing the stuff down, disregarding the girl and the men’s covert glances. As he had reminded himself earlier, there was just one thing he wanted out of this — the means of forcing Crotton to come to terms or, failing that, smashing him.
    When Frijoles got up to toss his tin in the wreck pan Farraday said, “How many we got out there watching that stock?”
    Frijoles was a wiry shape beneath a chin-strapped sombrero. His dark, whiskered face shied away. “
Dos hombres, senor.
”
    “Find Idaho and send them in.” Grete wheeled. “My horse is ready to be watered, Ben.”
    The Mexican rode off. Ben Hollis glared. Hatred poured out of his eyes strong as tears. A violent agony of choice broke out across his beefy cheeks but in the end he got to his feet. When he came back, Farraday said, “Catch up your horse and get out there with them.”
    Cook said from the tailgate, “How far we goin’?”
    “Another six or eight miles.”
    “You figurin’ to make Stein’s Pass tomorrow night?”
    “I don’t figure to make that place at all.”
    Patch wiped his hands on the piece of smeared canvas he was using for an apron, reached around to get hold of the strings. “That bein’ the case you can pay me off now.”
    “No one’s quitting this drive without he’s flat on his back.”
    The cook’s single eye flared up like blown lampflame. “You sound like that brass-cheeks bunch in Californy! Man’s got some rights, by Christ!”
    Farraday’s teeth gleamed behind tight lips.
    A fellow rode in from the direction of the stock, picking Grete out with a wide-eyed stare. “Barney Olds,” he said, dropping out of the saddle. He was tousle-haired and growthy in a gangling, awkward and unsure sort of way; big for his age, which wasn’t over fifteen. Wood packer, probably, back where they’d come from.
    Farraday looked at Ben. “Anything wrong with your hearing?”
    Hollis’ eyes slid away. The angry memory of something blackly laced with shame wrote itself across