Free The Old Wolves by Peter Brandvold Page B

Tatum moving about fifty yards straight out on his right.
    They glanced back at him. By the wan glow of the slowly dying fire, Bone could see Tatum curl his upper lip. The light danced in McCall’s narrowed eyes, beneath his down-canted hat brim. Bone’s heart quickened. He thought of the Hell Hole again, and he almost slavered like a wolf with the scent of an imminent kill in his nose.
    He looked around for Spurr’s horse but saw no sign of the mount. It must have been picketed near the river—probably hobbled so it could drink and forage at will. The mount would be a nice appropriation. Bone and his two partners would draw straws for it. A second mount—especially one as fine as the roan—would come in handy.
    At the edge of the fire’s glow, Bone stopped. McCall and Tatum stopped, as well. The fire was about fifteen feet away. The hump that was Spurr Morgan—Bone recognized the hat tipped down beside the saddle that the old lawman was using for a pillow—lay on the fire’s far side. He lay abutting a stout pine, high-topped moccasins standing neatly beside Spurr’s form humped beneath the blankets.
    It was almost dark in the clearing. Occasionally the fire popped and sparked and there was some fleeting light. But mostly there were only shadows. The only sounds were Spurr’s regular snoring, the soft crackling of the fire, and the ceaseless chugging and rippling of the river in the bank about fifty yards to Bone’s right.
    Bone looked at the others. They were both watching him, taking his lead. He nodded and started forward, raising his Winchester in both hands across his chest, gently drawing the hammer back to full cock.
    He set each boot down carefully in the fine dust and pine needles around the fire. He skirted the fire’s left side and approached Spurr, who lay before him in the velvety darkness. The old lawman continued to send up his loud, slow, regular snores.
    To Bone’s left, McCall gave a soft whistle. Bone looked at the man, who jerked his head to indicate something above Bone. Bone lifted his gaze to see, in the dense shadows and flickers of umber light from the fire’s coals, what appeared to be a rope.
    The rope was hanging from a branch of the pine. Bone glowered up at the rope, and cool, dry fingers of apprehension raked across the back of his neck.
    The rope had been fashioned into a hangman’s knot. It hung about four feet over Bone’s head. He could feel the tension in the other two men as they, too, studied the knot.
    Spurr continued to snore.
    The snoring stopped.
    Bone, McCall, and Tatum all jerked their heads down to look at the humped shape before them. Bone began to bring his Winchester down, aim the barrel at a spot in the blankets just beneath the down-canted hat.
    A shadow slid out from behind the tree. Two eyes glowed red in the fire’s dim umber glow. A raspy voice shouted, “Bone, McCall, Tatum—you’re all under arrest! Gonna come peaceful?”
    Bone heard himself scream as he lurched back a step and aimed his rifle at the vague, red-eyed silhouette of a hatless head poking out from behind the stout pine. He only saw a gun flash, which fleetingly showed the devilish grin on the wizened old lawman’s haggard face, before he stopped hearing anything at all.
    * * *
    Spurr’s pistol roared three times and then once more as if in afterthought, the flames stabbing from the barrel lighting up his little encampment in the trees along the river. The man to Spurr’s left was the only one of the three who’d gotten off a shot, the slug plunking harmlessly into the pine bole.
    Then all three figures were humped on the ground to either side of the fire, groaning and mewling, boots raking the dirt as the dying outlaws kicked and flopped spasmodically.
    It took only a few seconds before they stopped moving, ceased making sounds of any kind.
    Spurr stepped around the tree in his longhandles, the