Free The Indian Ring by Don Bendell Page B

held in the hands of two very rough-looking hombres. One was tall and thin with a jagged scar running the length of his face, and the other was very large and very tall.
    The large one said, “Shoot ’em, Skinny Tom.”
    Tom said, “Naw, not yet we won’t. You two are gonna tell us where we kin find any others that know about yer investigation. We kilt yer half-breed already.”
    Lucky started to respond and Allan Pinkerton cut in, “Do you gents know who I am?”
    â€œWho are you?” asked the large one, “Yer another one a them Pinkertons thet is supposed to be so hotshot. I know thet.”
    Allan said, “I am Pinkerton, Allan Pinkerton, and I am the one you want to talk to. Not him. He knows nothing about this investigation, but I know everything about it. You want to take me somewhere away from here, and we will talk.”
    Skinny Tom said, “Nice try, boss man, but we shot your boy here whilst he was powwowing with the half-breed. He is real involved.”
    â€œYeah, and Robert Hartwell wants all of ya dead,” the large one said.
    Skinny Tom said, “Hush up, Rufus. Why’d’ya say Hartwell’s name, ya big lummox?”
    Rufus said, “Don’t matter none. We’re gonna kill these two, and they know it.”
    Skinny Tom said, “Rufus, you finish off this Frenchyman in the bed here, and ole Pinkerton’s gonna start squawking. Cover yer gun with the pillow, so it ain’t so loud.”
    Rufus pulled out a long hunting knife and approached Lucky menacingly. Lucky spit in the man’s face and stuck out his chin defiantly. He raged and raised the knife.
    Boom!!!!
He looked down, clawing at the giant gapingbloody hole in his chest, and he heard the knife hit the floor, and he realized he was looking at pieces of his lung and sternum around the edge of the large hole, the exit wound from Strongheart’s Colt .45 round that had torn through his back. His legs folded as everything went black, and he was dead before his body hit the floor.
    Skinny Tom spun with his pistol only to see his right thumb disappear in a splash of blood, as Pinkerton’s shot from his Navy .36 in his shoulder holster tore off his thumb and the hammer of his .44. He screamed and grabbed his hand, as nurses and a doctor came around the hallway, but Strongheart waved them back.
    Lucky and Allan Pinkerton looked at Strongheart standing in the doorway, gun in his hand.
    He nodded and smiled and chuckled when Lucky said, “What took you so long, dead man?”
    Skinny Tom said, “We kilt you. I seen the bullet hit yore head and knock ya off’n yer horse!”
    Strongheart chuckled sadistically. “I’m a Pinkerton. We don’t die so easy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
    He caught sight of Allan Pinkerton straightening his shoulders a little more, his chest sticking out.
    â€œNow, before the police get here and worry about your rights, you are going to give us some answers, some important ones,” Strongheart said.
    Skinny Tom said, “You can go ta hell, blanket nigger! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’!”
    Strongheart fired from the hip and the man’s index finger on the same hand disappeared, and Skinny Tom clutched at his hand, screaming.
    Joshua grinned, saying, “Pretty please? You still have eight more fingers, ten toes, and more body parts I can shoot off. I have a lot of bullets.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I’ll talk,” Skinny Tom cried out. “Jest fix my hand!”
    Allan Pinkerton winked at Strongheart, while Lucky lay in bed, grinning.
    Joshua hollered over his shoulder, “Doctor, we need assistance!”
    Skinny Tom fainted as the doctor and two nurses rushed in the door. They immediately started tending to the assassin’s wounds.
    In less than an hour, his whole hand was bandaged, and he was lying in his own hospital bed, but cuffed to the rails. Allan Pinkerton had a