Vengeance Road Read Online Free

Indian tracking me? I didn’t hear a sound in them mountains—not beyond my own horses’ shoes and the wind rustling Ponderosa needles.
    We gotta move. We gotta fly.
    I put my heels into Silver and hope Libby can keep up.

    Walnut Grove is the saddest little town I’s ever seen.
    The center’s made up of only a few buildings, two of which are saloons. A half-dozen settlers have set up homesteads where the land is level enough to allow it, and they’re the only things that look promising in the community. Most of the vegetation here ain’t higher than my hips, and tilling this earth don’t look like much fun. It’s all sand and bone-dry dirt.
    I reckon the place were buzzing once. All these abandoned mining towns were. When prospectors first descended on Arizona Territory, they dug and drilled any which place till they struck gold. Then, no matter how small the lode or weak the vein, they’d file a claim, sell the rights to the supposed “mine” to some wealthy pioneer businessman, and move on in search of a new one. I reckon them rich folk eventually started realizing not all claims are equal, or even worth their time, ’cus sorry excuses for mining towns like Walnut Grove crumpled. The prospectors rolled out. Communities dried up like creek beds, till all that remained were the folks too lost to go elsewhere. The mining towns to survive were the ones with substantial gold, like in Wickenburg, or places like Prescott, held strong by decent farming land and the fact it were our capital once and is again now.
    I tie Silver and Libby outside the dingier of Walnut Grove’s two saloons and push through the doors. Inside, there’s a bartender and three patrons: Two wide men and a lady wider than the both of ’em put together. She’s sitting on a piano with her skirt hiked up so high I can see the garter above her knee. One of the men plucks out a song on the ivories while she sings boldly outta tune. I tip my hat at her like the gent I’m pretending to be and walk up to the bar.
    â€œWhat can I do you for?” the bartender says, pouring himself some whiskey.
    â€œJust a touch of information, I hope.”
    He sips his drink and it leaves his handlebar mustache dripping like a cattle dog come outta a river.
    â€œI’s wondering if you could help me find someone in Wickenburg,” I says. “Goes by Abe.” Just in case someone
were
after Pa, I figure it’s best to be asking things in Walnut Grove, where there ain’t no one of consequence, ’stead of a bustling mining town like Wickenburg.
    â€œAbe?” the bartender parrots. “Josie, you knew an Abe, didn’t ya?”
    She stops singing and the man quits plucking keys.
    â€œAbe ain’t worth yer time, boy,” she says. “Have a drink and join us. You know ‘Rose of Alabama’? Play it, Claude. You know that’s my favorite.”
    Claude goes back to stroking the keys, and the three of ’em howl like coyotes.
    â€œI ain’t in town for a singsong,” I says. Or more like shouts. “I’m looking for Abe.”
    Josie hops from the piano and hits the floorboards with a thunder. By the time she saunters up to me, I’s decided that she could kill me by sitting on me.
    â€œYou just might be the prettiest boy to come through town all decade,” she says, eyeing me up and down.
    I knew I shoulda roughed myself up more, patted my face with dirt or even given myself a cut or two. I make a note to drop my voice more in the future, speak deeper and lower.
    â€œI reckon I might remember where Abe’s place is for a kiss.” Josie offers me her cheek.
    â€œI reckon you might be overestimating how badly I wanna find him.”
    I turn away and the men hoot in the corner. Josie laughs too, deep and rich.
    â€œAw, heavens, boy. I ain’t been turned down in a coon’s age.”
    â€œI’ll take that drink,”