Final Scream Read Free Page A

the building.
    In the next paddock a spirited two-year-old colt was holding court. His head was high, nostrils quivering in the dry wind that swept through the valley, ears pricked forward to the east where a herd of fillies was grazing. The colt pawed the dry ground, threw his head back and let out a high whistle, then ran from one end of the paddock to the other, his tail streaming behind him like a red banner. “That there’s Remmington…well, Sir George Remmington the Third or some such shit. ’Sposed to be Miss Cassidy’s horse, but he’s just too damned headstrong. Threw her off two weeks ago, nearly caused her shoulder to separate, and yet she still insists she’s gonna break him.”
    Mac patted his breast pocket, found a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “I don’t know who’s more stubborn, the horse or the gal. Anyway, Remmington will be your first project.” The Marlboro wedged between his teeth, he slid a glance toward Brig and lit up. Smoke drifted out of Mac’s nostrils. “You make sure that he’s under control before Miss Cassidy tries to ride him again.”
    “I’m supposed to stop her if she tries?”
    Grinning, Mac drew hard on his cigarette. “Ain’t no one gonna stop her if she tries, but she had a bad fall. She ain’t stupid. She’ll wait.”
    The colt, as if sensing he had an audience, galloped to the far end of the paddock, where he kicked up a cloud of dust and reared, his front legs pawing the air.
    Mac’s eyes thinned. “He’s a damned devil.”
    “I can handle him.”
    “Good.” Mac looked skeptical but Brig would prove him wrong. He’d grown up around horses, hanging out at his Uncle Luke’s ranch. Luke had let him learn the trade but had to sell out. Since then Brig had worked on a couple of other places and ended up being fired from each, not because he didn’t do a decent job, but because he couldn’t control his temper and let his fists do the talking. The last job, only two weeks before at the Jefferson place, was the worst. He’d ended up with a broken nose and bruised fist. The other guy, the one who had made the mistake of calling him the son of a “cheap Indian whore” before throwing a punch that Brig had sidestepped, was feeling the pain of Brig’s wrath every time he took a breath, compliments of two broken ribs. No charges had been filed. Enough ranch hands had seen the fight to know that Brig wasn’t to blame.
    “Okay, so that’s it.” Mac crushed his cigarette beneath the toe of a scuffed cowboy boot, reached inside the door of the stable and dragged out a shovel. “You can start today by cleaning the stalls.” A spark of malevolence gleamed in Mac’s eyes as he tossed the shovel to Brig, who snatched it quickly out of the air. “As long as you do as I say, things’ll be fine, but if I ever find out that you crossed me, you’re out.”
    He turned to walk into the stable, but a man barely out of his teens, about the same age as Brig, blocked his path. Tall and muscular with suspicious blue eyes, he just stared at Mac. “Oh, this here’s Willie. He can help you with the shovelin’.”
    Brig knew all about Willie Ventura. The town half-wit. A retarded boy whom Rex Buchanan had decided to take in and offer a job. Willie wasn’t bad-looking, but his hair was always mussed, his shirt dirty, his mouth slack a lot of the time. He hung out in town drinking sodas at the Burger Shed or playing some kind of pool at Burley’s—a local striptease joint.
    “Willie,” Mac said, “you’ll be workin’ with Brig from now on.”
    Willie’s mouth worked a bit and his eyebrows drew over his eyes in a worried scowl. “Trouble,” he said, motioning quickly in Brig’s direction and avoiding his eyes.
    “No, he’s workin’ here now. Boss’s orders.”
    Willie wasn’t happy. His thick lips pulled into a puckered little frown. “Big trouble.”
    Mac rubbed his chin and eyed Brig again. “Yeah, well,” he said, “nothin’ I can do about