Free The Killing Breed by Frank Leslie Page B

down at Yakima again, as though making sure that Yakima was still there or hadn’t died, then grabbed his lariat from his saddle.
     
     
    Quickly, Harms dallied the end of the lariat around the horn, then, holding the coil in his right hand, backed up to the ridge and, paying out a little of the rope at a time, started down. His high-topped, lace-up boots scuffed and scratched at the uneven rock, occasionally breaking off a chunk and rattling it into the gully.
     
     
    When he was a few feet from the gully floor, he jumped the rest, then removed the loop from around his waist and, glancing distastefully at the dead but still-spasming rattler, moved over to Yakima. He jerked his checked trousers up at the thighs and squatted down.
     
     
    Yakima couldn’t see the man’s eyes, for his dusty spectacles mirrored salmon gold sunlight. “Can you move?”
     
     
    Yakima’s head throbbed and his vision swam, but there was one overriding thought in his brain. “Faith . . . ?”
     
     
    “I didn’t see her. Did she make it out of the cabin?”
     
     
    There was too much to explain. Yakima shook his head and grabbed the prospecting Easterner’s arm. “Get me out of here.”
     
     
    “You sure nothing’s broken, Yakima?”
     
     
    He wasn’t sure. The way he ached in every muscle and bone, he would have been surprised if something wasn’t broken. His clothes were torn and bloody; he felt as though every inch of hide had been torn from his bones. He grabbed Harms’s arm and climbed to his knees, breathing hard.
     
     
    “That’s a nasty notch in your forehead.”
     
     
    “Gotta get back . . . ,” Yakima grunted, stretching his lips back from his teeth as, grinding his fingers into both of Harms’s forearms, which had been thickened by two years of rock breaking, he hoisted himself to his feet.
     
     
    “Easy.”
     
     
    Yakima grabbed the rope from the man’s hand and turned to the opposite ridge where the mule stood, swishing its tail.
     
     
    “Hold on,” Harms said, “I’ll help.”
     
     
    Yakima didn’t wait for the help. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the attack on the cabin, but he was relatively certain there was nothing he could do about it now. But he had to know what had happened after Wolf had dragged him out of the yard.
     
     
    He picked up a rock and threw it at the mule. As the rock bounced off the animal’s left hip, the mule gave an indignant snort and lurched forward. At the same time, Yakima grabbed the rope, and as the mule sort of skitter-hopped ahead and sideways, Yakima gripped the taut rope and quickly climbed the wall.
     
     
    Ignoring the pain racking him, only vaguely aware that his buckskin shirt was hanging off his broad, muscular torso in torn strips, one sleeve completely gone, exposing his bleeding, dirt-encrusted arm, Yakima gained the ridge. Dizzy and feeling as though he’d vomit, he stumbled forward.
     
     
    Getting his feet back under him, he steadied the mule, then threw the rope back down to Harms.
     
     
    When the Easterner gained the ridge, Yakima grabbed the canteen off the mule’s saddle, popped the cork, and took a long pull, drinking thirstily, then pouring some of the water across his face and over his head. The tepid water washed some of the dirt and blood from his face and somewhat braced him, but did nothing to slow the blacksmith hammer in his forehead.
     
     
    “I was working my north hole when I saw the smoke,” Harms said, breathing hard from the climb. He looked up at Yakima, face slack with worry. “Was it Apaches?”
     
     
    Shaking his head, Yakima handed the canteen to Harms and, leaning against the mule, looked around to get his bearings. He felt as though he’d been hit with an Apache war hatchet and spun on a wagon wheel. When he finally got a handle on his location, he glanced north toward the yard.
     
     
    Cedar-stippled knolls stood between him and the cabin a couple of hundred yards away. Gray smoke