Free The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman Page B

Ollie gave a smirk that might have passed for a smile, were it not for the look in his pale, cold eyes, like the eyes of an albino shark, as vacant of meaning or warmth as the glass eyes of a doll.
    Mort made a show of dusting his hands after he handed over the last sack to Ollie. His horse lifted its tail slightly and blurted a blast of warm methane gas that spoiled the air with its rank stench. The fart rippled for a good five or six seconds.
    â€œWas that a comment from you, Mort?” Ollie said, mirthlessly.
    â€œNo, sir. Mine don’t make no noise. And they don’t make no smell, neither.”
    Everyone laughed, except Ollie.
    â€œThat was a triple,” Mandrake said, jokingly. “Whooweee. It do fairly stink. What you been feedin’ that horse, Mort? Frijole beans?”
    Again, everyone chuckled, except Ollie. As if he were judging them, checking to see if their mirth was genuine. Or if any of them had any regrets about what they had done and what his orders were.
    A Canadian jay, pale as a ghost, landed on a laurel bush several yards away. Its faded blue feathers looked almost gray. Its tail feathers went into a spasm as it cocked it head and eyed something on the ground. Ollie saw it and wished he had a scattergun in his hands. The jay, as if sensing his intentions, hopped into the air and flapped away like some ghost bird dusted by blowing snow from one of the high white peaks in the distance, where clouds soared over them like a silent cotton explosion.
    Ollie fixed Luke with a stare that was as hard and cold as the snout of a bullet.
    â€œSomething I don’t like about that mess back there,” Hobart said. “Luke, you and Pete were the lookouts.”
    â€œYeah,” Luke said. “So what?” His eyes shifted in their sockets. He knew he was almost as fast on the draw as Ollie. And he was a mite faster than anybody else. But, though he was bristling, he knew how long a split second was, and he didn’t like the odds. Ollie looked ready to cut bait, for sure.
    â€œSomething I didn’t like there. Can’t put my finger on it real quick, but I want to go over it. With all of you.”
    â€œYeah, well, go ahead with it then,” Mandrake said, a veiled belligerence in his tone. “Pueblo’s a long damned way, Ollie.”
    â€œAll right. How many people did we count a day ago? Two days ago? Luke?”
    Luke glared at Ollie, those little pig eyes of his just catching enough sun to spark like struck flint.
    â€œI don’t know. A dozen, I reckon.”
    â€œWell, think. Pete?”
    â€œYeah, a dozen, Ollie.”
    â€œAnybody count how many we rubbed out?”
    Ollie’s gaze swept the assemblage.
    â€œI counted eleven, countin’ the woman and the little gal. I mean, you got to count them, don’t you?”
    â€œYou counted eleven,” Ollie said, with a sarcastic twang. “Christ, Mort. How many did we count when we first started lookin’ that camp over?”
    Pete held up his hand and started touching the tips of his fingers.
    â€œI know we counted ’em, Luke,” he said. “Me and you.”
    â€œYeah, we counted ’em for two days straight, at least.”
    â€œAnd how many people were there, men, women, and kids?” Ollie asked.
    Pete touched ten fingers, then another three.
    â€œThat’s an unlucky number,” Pete said, as if dumbstruck by his venture into mathematics.
    â€œWhat’s an unlucky number?” Luke asked, irritation in his voice.
    â€œThirteen, Luke. We counted thirteen. Right?”
    â€œIf you say so, Pete.” Luke’s eyes glittered like bright beads caught in sunlight. He avoided looking at Hobart, whose right hand had fallen to his pistol holster almost as if trained to do that when not otherwise occupied. It was not a threatening gesture, but with Ollie’s massive and formidable shape and size, almost any movement he made put people on