IL-332 The Singing Wind
The Singing Wind
Impact Library
IL-332
Rod McGraw
$1.25
The Singing Wind
Impact Library
IL-332
Rod McGraw
$1.25
Excerpt:
Smith got to his feet quickly, spinning around for an avenue of escape. The miners moved toward him in a body, their faces grim. Smith spun back toward the alley doorway just as Brubaker filled the opening.
“Get him!” Brubaker roared.
Smith spun back toward the bar but hands reached out to grab him and hold him. He tried to fight free but strong arms pinned his arms behind his back, holding him fast. Brubaker moved up to confront him, cold green eyes glittering with anger.
“You tripped me on purpose, you little bastard!” Brubaker growled accusingly, rock hard fists waving under Smith’s nose.
Smith stared at the fists, shaking his head, perspiration breaking out on his body. He tried to talk but no sounds came out of his parched throat.
“I oughta whip you within an inch of your life but you’re no man!” Brubaker sneered in contempt. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds in the ring with me. You’re nothing but a coward and a swamper. Ain’t that right, Smith?”
Smith swallowed hard. He nodded his head, eyes fixed on the man’s belt buckle, unable to raise his head and meet the fierce penetrating gaze of the miner.
Brubaker laughed, a deep rumble rolling up out of his chest. “I hear tell them Apache out on the desert took all the fight out of you. That right, yellow dog? That how it is?”
Brubaker’s voice was growing mean. Smith nodded quickly, eyes riveted to the man’s crotch. Suddenly he realized the man’s crotch was swelling outward. He blinked his eyes. The stories he’d heard were true. Brubaker was built like a bull!
“I tell you to get down on your knees, you’ll do it, won’t you, Smith?”
Smith squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded. Pain was one thing he could not endure. The Apache, Disalin, and his renegade band of Chiracahaus had taught him that. Disalin had taken Singing Wind away from him and proven him a coward before the eyes of his only true love. Disalin had driven him from the desert and to the questionable refuge of the Bulls Head Saloon in Tombstone. It was true he was scared of his own shadow and less than a man. He was a coward, fit only for swamping out saloons and quaking before the presence of angry men like Charlie Brubaker.
“I wanted that lass,” Brubaker yelled, anger raging in him now. “You stopped me from having her. Maybe that broom tripping was an accident and maybe not. Anyway, I got me a big load and I need relief! You’re going to give it to me!”
The miners surrounding them all let out a loud yell of appreciation. Smith swallowed hard. He knew what was coming. There wasn’t any way of stopping it. None at all.
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