.45-Caliber Firebrand Read Free Page B

arrow in his rump but not deep. He’ll last to the Trent headquarters . . . if we do.”
    â€œHow ’bout yours, Dallas?”
    â€œNah.” Snowberger tossed the Indian’s tomahawk into the brush and moved up left of Cuno, ten yards away, brushing at an arrow graze under his left eye. He peered around warily from beneath the brim of his soiled, tan hat. Cuno had hired the man out of a Crow Feather saloon, when Serenity had convinced him they needed a spare driver and an extra gun in this apron land west of the Great Divide, where renegades from the mining camps were known to harass freight trains.
    Snowberger had proven a capable driver and handy with a sidearm. Two days ago he’d shot a sand rattler about to strike one of the mules—a single, clean shot through the neck with a nondescript Schofield .44. Now it looked like he could hold his own with an old, beat-up Henry sixteen-shooter, as well.
    They’d suspected they might attract trouble with white men. But not from the area’s Indian tribes—the Utes, Crows, and Southern Utes—most of whom were said to have been peacefully minding their own business for the past year or so in the wake of Custer’s demise at the Little Bighorn in Montana.
    Snowberger wiped blood on his pants. “They came up on us from both sides of the trail, not long after you pulled off to scout the ridge.”
    â€œTold ya I smelled the red devils,” Serenity said.
    Cuno, convinced they were alone here, was lengthening his stride and lowering his rifle, heading west toward where the third wagon had disappeared.
    â€œPoor old Dutch,” Serenity said, breathing hard as he walk-jogged to keep up with Cuno, who, at five-ten and a hundred and ninety pounds, most of it hard muscle, had a good three inches and fifty pounds on the graybeard. “Got a bad feelin’ about the ole boy.”
    Cuno glanced over his shoulder at the dark-eyed Snowberger. “Dallas, stay with the wagons. We’re gonna see about Dutch.”
    Snowberger was a grim, silent man, but he didn’t balk at taking orders from one nearly ten years his junior. He brushed at his cheek again and stopped, cradling the Henry in his arms and staring west with that dark, pensive gaze beneath ridged, black brows. He obviously didn’t feel any more optimistic than Serenity about Dutch Rasmussen’s fate.
    Cuno and Serenity had walked fifty yards beyond Snowberger when, beginning to climb a low, rocky hogback liberally pocked with dried cow plop, both men stopped suddenly. Serenity sucked a breath through his teeth.
    Black smoke ribboned up from the other side of the hogback, swirling gently. There was the spine-rippling scream of a mule and the sudden thud of horse hooves.
    Cuno lurched forward, breaking into a run and leaving Serenity behind as he sprinted up over the top of the hogback and down the other side. He could see the wagon now, angled off the trail and piled up on its side in rocks and brush.
    Most of the mules were down and unmoving. One wheeler and a leader thrashed in their traces, trying to stand in spite of the horribly tangled chains and leather ribbons. Behind them, flames leapt up from the wagon’s rear, growing and spreading quickly, black smoke broiling.
    Cuno dug his heels in. Holding the Winchester in one hand, he pumped with his free arm and his knees, chin up, teeth gritted. His hat blew off and drifted back behind him.
    He had to get to the wagon, put the fire out before it consumed his entire load and the precious Conestoga itself.
    Beyond the smoking, flaming wagon, a cream horse and dusky-skinned rider galloped west, away from the Conestoga—long hair bouncing down the brave’s broad back.
    As Cuno approached the wagon, which lay a good fifty yards south of the trail, he slowed to a stop, breath raking in and out of his tired lungs, arms dropping to his sides. Futility bit him deep. The entire top of the sheeted load was