Dead Man's Trail (9781101606957) by Frank Leslie

doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, smoking. He seemed to enjoy the grisly display to no end.
    â€œWhat stage?” he called.
    â€œShut up, Sonny!” the old man said without looking at him. Staring down at Neumiller, keeping his knifepoint ground into the man’s bullet wound, he said, “What stage, Neumiller?”
    Out the window behind Claw Hendricks, Yakima could see several men with rifles milling around. A couple were looking in the windows.
    Neumiller screamed, panted, kicking his boots loudly against the floor, and said through a long, harrowing squeal, “Belle
Foooooooosh
, you son . . . son . . . son of a
bitchhhhhh!
”
    â€œBelle Foooosh!” mocked Claw Hendricks, lifting his chin and howling the town’s name. “Belle Foosh! Belle Foosh! You got it, Floyd!”
    Sonny clapped his gloved hands in the doorway. “Good goin’, Pa! Must be the stage we seen pull out just a few minutes ago!”
    â€œYep.” Betajack wiped the blood off his bowie knife on Neumiller’s wool coat, sheathed the knife under his left arm, and planted both his hands on a knee to hoist himself to his feet. “Must be the one, sure ’nough.”
    Yakima was not surprised when the man pulled out one of his pistols and shot Neumiller in the head. The half-breed didn’t even blink. He merely stepped back away from the door and sat down on the creaky wooden cot to calmly await his fate. He looked at the saddlebags. He felt no particular emotion at the prospect of Betajack and his wild boy, Sonny, and Claw Hendricks running off with the gold. Maybe a touch of disappointment at his not being able to accomplish what he’d set out to do. But there was no emotion involved other than having to leave Wolf behind.
    He’d die now, and that would be the end of it.
    â€œCome on, Pa!” Sonny said, beckoning to the old man who stared down in satisfaction at Neumiller as he holstered his hog leg. “Looks like the boys is headed on over to the Silk Slipper. I’ll race ya there!”
    Yakima could see a vague family resemblance in Betajack and the boy. They both looked hard and wild, as if they lived in a den and only came out to hunt.
    Betajack turned around without so much as another glance at Yakima and followed his fidgety blond son out of the sheriff’s office and into the street. Claw Hendricks stared at Yakima, who sat on his cot with his elbows on his knees, stoic-faced.
    â€œWell, well, mister.” Hendricks pushed himself out of the chair and hooked his thumbs behind his cartridge belt. “What you in for?”
    Yakima said, “I’m told I stole from my ranching partner and raped a white girl.”
    â€œYou don’t say!”
    Hendricks moved to stand only a few inches from the cell door. “Good on ya, old son!” He laughed. And then, to Yakima’s jaw-dropping surprise, the outlaw leader stepped over the still, bloody form of Dave Neumiller and went out. The half-breed thought the big killer had glanced down at the saddlebags, but he hadn’t done any more than that before he’d walked on out of the sheriff’s office and into the street, where it appeared that his and Betajack’s men were drifting off toward the whorehouse, in no hurry to get after the stage, it appeared.
    The stage and the prosecutor, apparently, could wait. They could enjoy themselves for an hour or two and still have no problem running the Concord down.
    Yakima straightened, slow to comprehend that he was still alive. Damn, it felt good!
    He glanced down at the sheriff staring at the ceiling through half-closed lids. “Sorry, Neumiller.” He half meant it.
    Quickly, he went to work stripping the single, moth-eaten army blanket off the cot and using it to snag the key ring and drag it over to the door. A few seconds later, he holstered his Colt, draped his saddlebags over his shoulder, and walked out of the jailhouse,