Riders From Long Pines Read Free Page B

night-riding in Missouri? I heard all the James Gang wears them.” His voice had a needling edge to it. “Or did you learn it riding with the Stockton Gang? Now, there was a step down, going from the James Gang to Charley Stockton.”
    Parks caught the sarcasm and replied over his shoulder, “When we’re done down here, Carnes, I’ll be pleased to discuss the James Gang or Charley Stockton with you, or any damn thing else you’d like to talk about, any damn place you care to, in any damn manner you like to—”
    â€œShut it, the both of yas,” Moore growled back to them. “Get control of yourselves. We’ve got a job to do here.”
    The three rode down the narrow path in silence until they reached a spot where they stood hidden behind a stand of boulders alongside the trail. “When you said ‘ spending money ,’ ” Parks inquired of Moore, “just how much do you figure we’re talking about here?”
    â€œYeah, I was kinda wondering that myself,” said Carnes.
    Moore considered it. “With any luck we’ll make ourselves a thousand or so apiece,” he said to the other two as they listened intently to the stage rolling along the rocky trail. “Does that suit the two of yas?” he asked with a snap to his voice. “We went over all this before we agreed to do it.”
    â€œSuits me,” Carnes said quickly. “Of course I never used to ride with the rootin’-tootin’ bold-as-hell James-Younger Gang.” He shot Parks a look from above his bandanna mask. “So maybe I ain’t the one to say.”
    â€œYeah, maybe you ain’t.” Buckshot Parks stared at him through the jagged eyeholes, the flour sack revealing nothing.
    Â 
    Inside the stage, a big spotted cur sat panting in the sweltering desert heat. The animal stared menacingly at the two businessmen seated across from it. Drops of saliva dripped from the animal’s lolling tongue and had formed a wide dark spot on the edge of the seat. The two businessmen had ridden in a stunned silence most of the past fifteen miles since boarding the stage at Albertson.
    â€œ. . . then the bastards threw me out!” Seated next to the big short-haired dog, retired army colonel Morgan Tanner sat with his tunic open halfway down his chest, revealing a deep, fierce tomahawk scar. He clenched a bottle of rye whisky in his fist. He had rattled on drunkenly above the creak of wood, the fall of hooves and the rumble of wheel. “Eighteen got -damned years! I fit Injuns. I fit John Reb. I fit Injuns again! Now the bastards threw me out!” At his free hand an Army Colt lay cocked on the seat. He picked it up and wagged it drunkenly toward the big dog. “So me and Sergeant Tom Haines here is going as far as we can ride. I’m going to beg the heathen Sioux’s forgiveness, then put us both to sleep.”
    The two businessmen looked at each other uncomfortably. One fidgeted on his seat. He cleared his throat and tried to make more pleasant conversation. “So, that’s the dog’s name, is it . . . Sergeant Tom Haines?” he asked meekly. “A rather unusual name . . .”
    â€œUnusual . . .” The colonel stared at him drunkenly with a malevolent scowl on his weathered face. After a long tense silence he picked up the slack in the dog’s thick leather leash, jiggled it and said, “The dog disturbs you gentlemen, does he not? Eeven with this got -damned leash and collar on him?”
    â€œOh no, sir! Not at all,” the two were quick to respond. One wiped sweat from his cheek with a handkerchief and ventured, “Although, if you will allow me to interject, I was taken aback upon finding him here. It is not what one will see these days in, say . . . St. Louis, or even Springfi—”
    â€œThen damn St. Louis and muddy Springfield both to hell,” said the colonel. “You see which direction my