The Long Trail Home Read Free

it’s spoiled.”
    Fortune pointed at the whiskey glass. “You aren’t really goin’ to drink that, are you?”
    Kiowa threw his head back and gulped down the amber liquid. “Maybe we ought to leave. There’s only six horses left out there.”
    â€œWhich direction did the first two head?”
    â€œEast.”
    â€œGood. We won’t trip over them later. Did you ever know a girl over at Fort Still named Ladosa? She’s not much more than four foot eight.”
    Kiowa raised his thick, black eyebrows. “Ladosa McKay is in Dry Fork?”
    â€œHow many other Ladosas do you know?”
    â€œMaybe I’ll wait, too,” Kiowa grinned. “She may be short, but she’s fully growed elsewhere.”
    Sam kept his eyes focused on the front door and the black Oklahoma night. “She’s upstairs with a deputy U.S. marshal.”
    Kiowa’s hand slipped down to his holstered .44. Chairs scooted from the corner table, and two men jumped to their feet. All faced the bar; hands rested on pistol grips.
    â€œYou boys aren’t gettin’ much poker played,” Sam called out. “You seem to be a little nervous.”
    â€œWe’re jist waitin’ for you to make your move, Fortune,” a shallow-eyed man mumbled.
    Fortune looked each of the men in the eyes. “Boys, all I’m here to do is eat a chop.” There’s not a one of ’em that would draw on me face-to-face.
    â€œThat there meat’s a little spoiled.” The spokesman kept his left hand buried in the pocket of his jacket.
    Fortune’s face returned no expression. “A man has to take a few risks in life.”
    â€œAin’t that the truth,” a short, red-haired man agreed. His right hand now clutched the grip of his revolver. His finger rested on the trigger of the barely holstered gun.
    â€œMister, that ain’t a risk you want to take,” Kiowa informed him.
    The men slowly pulled their hands away from their guns. The two that stood sat back down.
    â€œYour chops is ready,” the bartender interrupted. Two tin pie dishes, piled with slabs of blackened meat and smothered in pinto beans with hunks of sourdough bread plopped on top, appeared before them. “You want a fork or a knife?” the cook asked.
    â€œBoth,” Kiowa instructed.
    â€œWell, ain’t you choosy?” He tossed the tinware on the counter. “That’s four bits for the two suppers.”
    Sam Fortune paid the money. “Think we’ll eat out in the dark on the porch,” he announced. “That way we don’t have to see how spoiled the meat is.”
    â€œHow do I know you ain’t goin’ to steal them plates?” the bartender protested.
    â€œWhy on earth would we do that?” Kiowa picked up his plate and walked to the door.
    â€œTell Ladosa I want to talk to her,” Fortune commanded as he scooted out into the night.
    The men hiked across the dirt road, then sat on the boulders in the shadows, and faced the front of the saloon.
    Kiowa took a big bite of beans and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How long before they sneak up the side of the building?”
    â€œNot until Ladosa comes out,” Sam surmised. “They’ll use her for a diversion.” He cut off a chunk of meat, stabbed it with the knife, and plopped it into his mouth. It tasted like fried fat and burnt toast.
    â€œThe longer we sit here, the harder it will be to steal a horse,” Kiowa stated. “They’ll have someone at the window.”
    Sam swallowed a wad of half-chewed meat and felt it rub all the way down his throat. “I don’t aim to steal a deputy’s horse.”
    Kiowa mopped beans with sourdough bread. “We goin’ to wait until he rides off?”
    â€œThe others will just fret and drink themselves into a stupor. Maybe we ought to wait until they all pass out.” Sam scooped beans into