How the West Was Lost (Buck and Dobie Book 2) by Gene Shelton

Author:Gene Shelton [Shelton, Gene]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Pecos Press
Published: 2016-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

“Seems peaceful enough,” Garrett said as the two men rode toward the livery stable at the northeast edge of town.

Hawkins didn’t reply. His gaze raked the side streets and alleys, noting possible ambush shots, checking the roofs of buildings. Being the target of a bushwhacker made a man lean toward the cautious side. It also made a nervous way to live.

Dobie didn’t seem overly worried, Hawkins thought. The stocky marshal rode relaxed in the saddle, whistled an off-key ballad that wasn’t to be found in any hymnal, and nodded cordial greetings to a couple of the Palace’s girls on their way to work. But then, Dobie hadn’t been shot at lately—

Hawkins barked a curse and slammed heels to the buckskin.

“What—” Garrett hesitated for only a second, then put the spurs to the bay.

Hawkins yanked Cornbread to a sliding stop and was over the top rail of the livery corral before Garrett caught up. Against a door of a box stall, a stocky cowboy hammered a fist into Trace Willis’s bloodied face; a second man had Trace’s arms pinned to his side in a bear hug.

Hawkins covered the distance in three strides and launched himself into the hitter; the impact of his shoulder sent the cowboy sprawling. The second man squawked and heaved Willis aside.

“Uh-uh! Bad idea!” Garrett yelled.

The second man froze, his hand on the butt of a six-gun at his hip. His eyes went wide at the sight of the sawed-off smoothbore leveled straight at his belly.

“Try it and there’ll be guts splattered from here to Fort Worth,” Garrett said. “Need some help, partner?”

The man Hawkins had tackled struggled to his knees, shaking his head, still stunned. Rage boiled through Hawkins’s blood. He brought a fist up from almost boot level. The blow caught the cowboy square on the bridge of the nose. Hawkins felt cartilage crumple beneath his knuckles, then a sharp stab of pain through his hand. The cowboy went down on his back in a pile of horse droppings, twitched once, and lay still.

“Reckon you don’t,” Garrett said.

Hawkins plucked the handgun from the downed man’s holster, tossed it over the corral fence, and strode to Willis’s side. Trace’s knees buckled. Hawkins slipped a supporting hand around the youth’s waist. Tears traced pale tracks down the blood and dirt on Willis’s cheeks.

“Are you all right, Trace? Are you hurt bad?”

Willis shook his head, still dazed. Pain showed through the shocked confusion on his bruised and lacerated face. “They—come at me,” he said, his words cracking between sobs. “Took my—pocket knife—wouldn’t—give it back.” He pointed a quavery finger toward the unconscious man. “Then that one—hit me—while the other one—held my arms.”

“It’s all right now, Trace,” Hawkins said. “They won’t hurt you any more.” He pulled the bandanna from around his neck and handed it to the youth. “Can you stand on your own?”

Willis nodded. Hawkins turned, pulled the second man’s handgun from his holster, and tossed it aside. He grabbed the second man’s shirt, high against the throat, and slammed him against the wall.

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