The Sunshine Killers Read Free

frames with rawhide strips for springs and no mattresses. The man sank down tiredly on the nearest one. For a moment he didn’t move. Finally he heaved himself and removed his big coat. Still as if in slow motion he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up the heavy underwear he was wearing underneath. His left side was heavily bandaged. The bandage was stained with dried blood. He touched it gingerly and grimaced. The wound was about midway down his left side. It was a gunshot wound and, from the way the man moved, you could tell it might have broken a rib or two. He touched it again, exploring the painful area with sensitive fingers, then pulled his underwear down and buttoned his shirt. At that moment the half-breed came in with his bedroll. He came up and laid it at the foot of the man’s bed. “I see your horse is feexed up good,” the boy said.
    The man nodded. “There’s a drink still coming in the money I left at the bar. Tell Schmidt I said you were to have it.” He went slowly to his pocket and brought out another silver dollar. “Go get me whatever piece of a bottle that will buy and some tobacco.”
    The boy took the money, but stood there looking at him for a second. “You seek?”
    â€œNo,” the man said. “Go on.”
    When the boy had left, the man spread the bedroll out on the cot, putting his big rifle in at the side. He bothered to take off his boots, the effort obviously painful, then sat down on the bed and laid back. Lying there he took his big pistol out of the holster, saw to its loading, then slipped it in his belt. Then he lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the boy to come back with the whiskey in hopes that it would dull the pain of the gunshot wound in his side.
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    Morning came swiftly. The snow had ceased and the sun was out. Its beams, shining through the small windows of the dim bunkhouse, were like rays from a lantern, cutting sharply through the smoke and the dark air. The man came awake all at once, aware that there were men standing around him. Three, all from the evening before, were there, just at the end of his bunk, staring at him silently. Instinctively his hand went to the gun in his belt, then relaxed as he saw they didn’t have weapons out. Then he noticed that his shirt was open and his undershirt pulled up, exposing the bandage. The wound had been bleeding afresh and someone had seen it and investigated. His eyes went quickly from face to face; he recognized two of them, Tomlain and Billy. Tomlain was the nearest, standing just to the right. Billy was at the foot of the bed. When he saw that the man was awake he grinned and said, “Going to sleep all day?”
    But the man made no sign; he was watching Tomlain, noting that he was wearing a pistol set up for someone who might want to get at it in a hurry. Tomlain suddenly leaned over and, with an ungentle finger, jabbed the man in his wound. “Where’d you get that, boy?” he asked.
    The man flinched, but made no sound. Instead his eyes got very hard. His hand was still resting just off the butt of the pistol in his belt. Billy said, “Don’t do that, Tomlain. You can see it hurts him.”
    â€œI ain’t worryin’ about that,” Tomlain said. He licked his lips and grinned. “I want to know what done it. I want a few answers off our old buddy boy here.”
    The man, still without showing any sign of emotion, hitched himself up further on the bed so that he was no longer lying flat. He could feel a surge of preparation run through him. Billy, recognizing it, said, “Don’t be doing that.” He said it almost kindly, but there was a definite threat in his voice. “We just want to know a little about you.” He paused, and, getting no response, added, “We got a reason. See, we don’t want no trouble.”
    But Tomlain reached down again and prodded at the wound. “That’s a gunshot wound,