Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] Read Free Page A

clutching his bullet-broken shoulder. Wilks continued backing toward the barn, one hand gripping the back of his prisoner's coat, too well hidden behind the other man for Clayburn to try a shot at him.
        Leaving the window, he moved swiftly to the door. He slid his Colt back in its holster, crouched low, and dodged out toward the rifle the moaning station manager had dropped. Wilks(bullet kicked dirt against his leg as he reached and grabbed it. Clayburn dodged back to the protection of the corner of the adobe shack.
        "Anybody tries to stop me," Wilks yelled, "and I shoot this pilgrim in the head!"
        Clayburn levered a fresh shell into the rifle's fire chamber and took aim, hoping the man being used as a shield would have the sense to drop and give him a safe shot at the redhead's face. But it was a lost hope. The man's face was blank with shock and terror. His big figure continued to block Wilks from view the rest of the way to the barn.
        Clayburn stayed where he was, waiting to get a shot at Wilks when he emerged. Two shots sounded inside the barn. Seconds later two horses raced out of the other end of the barn, headed for the hills to the north. Wilks was riding one and leading the other. And he had his hostage up on the first horse clinging to his back, still shielding him.
        With a soft, vicious curse, Clayburn sprinted to the barn. Inside he found what he'd expected. The two horses left behind were dead.
        Coming out of the barn, he watched Wilks riding fast up the nearest hill. At the top, without stopping the red-haired killer turned in his saddle and clubbed his gun against his hostage's head. The man fell backward from the horse and rolled part way down the slope. Before Clayburn could fire, Wilks and his two horses disappeared down the other side of the hill.
        Clayburn lowered his rifle and glanced toward the stage and the shack. The station manager leaned against the wall, and the remaining passenger had begun trying to do what he could for the plump man's shoulder wound. Clayburn was surprised to see the stage driver sitting on the ground with Farnell's head on his lap.
        Hurrying to them, he saw that Farnell was not yet dead-though he was getting closer to it by the second. His blood-smeared chest was heaving weakly and his eyes were glazed. Pink froth bubbled between his white lips as he tried to speak.
        "What's he saying?" Clayburn asked the stage driver.
        "Can't make it out. Something about hired killers is all I got so far."
        Clayburn knelt over the dying man. "Who hired them?"
        Farnell made an effort to answer. Broken sounds came out of him, but nothing intelligible.
        Clayburn bent closer. "Who hired those men to kill you? Do you know?"
        Farnell's lips twisted as he tried to get the words out. The only ones that could be understood were: "… bastard… said… he'd stop me…"
        "Who?" Clayburn repeated insistently.
        But this time there was no answer of any kind. Farnell stopped making the effort. His head rolled against the stage driver's knee and was still. He'd finished his dying.
        Clayburn stood up and began trudging out to the unconscious man on the side of the hill.
        

THREE
        
        The stagecoach took six hours to reach Parrish. On the way Clayburn rode up beside the driver and learned what he knew about Harry Farnell. Clayburn's interest was strictly personal. The red-haired killer had robbed him of his stake and his winnings. And pistol-whipped him into the bargain. These were things for which due retribution would be extracted. About such matters Clayburn had the persistence and patience of an Apache. And he figured the best method of finding the redhead was through whoever had hired him to do the killing.
        According to the stage driver, Farnell had run a freight line out of Parrish. He'd hit a string of bad luck and been close to going out of