The Old Wolves Read Free

rear was the cousin, Darrold Gatling, a short, fat young man carrying an old, Civil War-model Spencer rifle on one shoulder.
    The others were armed, as well—Preston and James with pistols holstered on their hips, and Missy May with a pistol butt poking from her right coverall pocket. Following her mother up the path that slanted off to Spurr’s right, toward some mossy oaks and stunt cedars around which several stone markers rose, fronting mounded graves, the girl moved her lips, singing softly and watching the ground while keeping her right hand wrapped around the grips of the pistol in her pocket.
    LaMona walked around a large boulder humping up out of the ground, singing:
    Going forth with weeping, sowing for the Master,
    Though the loss sustained our spirit often grieves;
    When our weeping’s over, He will bid us welcome,
    We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.
    Keeping his head down, his rifle tight by side, Spurr figured it must have been LaMona’s idiot brother, Hyram “Frog” Andrews, in the box. Frog was fat Darrold’s father. Spurr had heard that Frog had been wounded by a cavalry soldier when they’d robbed the army payroll south of Deadwood. He’d either died on the trail and they’d hauled him home or died last night. Whatever had happened, Frog was dead now, and LaMona’s bunch was about to plant him in the boneyard that occupied a small, relatively flat area fifty yards to Spurr’s right and about halfway up from the bottom of the slope.
    LaMona continued to sing as the group moved up the bluff, her voice growing reedy now as the stout woman became more and more breathless from the climb.
    Spurr quickly considered the situation. Then, dragging his rifle and his hat, he scuttled several feet down the backside of the slope. He straightened his sinewy old body with effort, gritting his teeth as his brittle bones creaked and popped like an ancient chair, and cast his glance down the slope behind him.
    Cochise was lounging in high bromegrass, his legs folded beneath him, casting his rider a skeptical, faintly indignant look. The horse wanted food, preferably oats though parched corn would suffice, and water. He wanted breakfast.
    Spurr thrust a palm-out hand toward the big roan, silently ordering the horse to stay where he was and to keep quiet. Over the long years he’d hauled Spurr around the wooly frontier, Cochise had grown accustomed to such signals. He could read them well. Now he just turned his head forward and twitched his ears, peevishly waiting.
    Like Spurr, the horse didn’t like to stay in one place very long. And he preferred his meals on time.
    Spurr walked as quickly as his old legs and sore feet would carry him along the backside of the bluff, staying a good ten feet down from the crest so he wouldn’t be seen from the other side. When he figured he’d walked fifty or so yards, he doffed his hat, got down on hands and knees, and crabbed to the crest of the bluff.
    He was nearly straight above where LaMona Gatling’s crew had stopped in the little cemetery. Between him and the gang were several gnarled, mossy oaks, cedars, and cottonwood saplings. There were several small, mossy boulders, as well. Preston and James had set the coffin down beside a freshly dug grave. Spurr scowled at the hole.
    They must have dug the grave last night, before the rain had begun. If they’d dug it this morning, Spurr surely would have heard them.
    At least, he hoped he would have heard them. He wasn’t sure anymore. Hell, he’d slept all night without stirring at an owl’s hoot!
    LaMona had stopped singing. She and Missy May stood by the grave, and she was gesturing and speaking in annoyed tones to Preston and James, both of whom were bent forward, hands on their knees by the pine box, catching their breath. Short, fat Darrold was chuckling at the two younger men’s misery while he rolled a cigarette, standing off to the