The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,36

his own. While the boy’s initial maneuver to escape had been successful, he wasn’t ready to give up. Milt pivoted, scattering dust and hay as he lunged for another try, catching the boy on the run, shoulder high. They went to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. It was, however, a move Milt would soon regret.

Sharp, deadly jabs from the stable boy’s knees hit the tender territory hanging low between Milt’s legs. Milt grabbed at himself and groaned, certain his manhood would no longer be swinging as God intended and he would be forced to carry his balls out of the stable in his pockets.

“I’ll be killin’ ye both,” Caitie shrieked, wind-milling her arms and fists like a madman and nailing Milt with a random assortment of blows that kept him too busy to do anything but dodge.

Meanwhile, Art continued to shriek and moan as he tried to get free. It was no use. One of the tines from the pitchfork had gone through his hand and into the floor. Certain that he was dying, Art lay with his face in the dirt and hay, crying like a baby.

Disgusted with his brother’s lack of help, Milt could do nothing but defend himself. And in the midst of it all, Caitie suddenly rolled free. Jumping to her feet, she yanked the pitchfork from Art’s hands and aimed it at Milt.

The pitchfork had hurt like hell going in. Coming out, the shock and the pain were too much for old Art to bear. A new set of tears sprang to his eyes as he filled his britches like a diapered baby.

Milt staggered to his feet only to come face to face with the boy and his pitchfork—aimed at him—balls high.

Milt took several steps back then pulled his gun and waved it in Caitie’s face.

“It’s all over kid.”

She paled as Milt yelled at his brother.

“Draw your gun, Art. We got him cornered now. He can’t fork both of us at once.”

Art’s hat fell back as he lifted his head, revealing a shiny bald spot in a circle of ratty, brown hair. “That’s easy for you to say. He’s done forked me. I couldn’t draw a bucket of water, let alone my piece. ’Sides, he made me shit my pants.”

Milt made a face. “Well, my Lord a’mercy. If you ain’t the sorriest excuse for a—”

“Fun’s over boys.”

Caitie jerked at the sound. Another man had come in behind her when she wasn’t looking. Fear gripped her as she shifted her position, trying to decide which man now posed the worst threat. Two she could handle, but three, she wasn’t so sure. In spite of her indecision, she stood her ground with a bloody nose and a busted lip, daring one of them to make a move.

Milt’s confusion matched Caitie’s. He didn’t know who to shoot first, the stable boy, the stranger, or his brother, who was beginning to stink.

“Who the hell are you?” Milt growled.

The stranger’s stare never wavered. “Joe Redhawk. Now you get your brother and get the hell out of the stable before I shoot you both and come up with the reason afterward.”

Caitie shivered. The ominous tone in the big man’s voice held more than a warning. There was menace even in the way he slouched against the wall, holding that blue-black pistol aimed straight into Milt Bolin’s face, which had already turned pale.

Art moaned louder. “Gawdamn, Milt. Help me up. That there’s Breed, one of the fastest guns in the territory. He’ll kill you a’fore you can blink.”

Milt holstered his gun with fake bravado. “I know who he is. Now listen here, Breed. There’s no hard feelin’s between us, okay? We was just havin’ ourselves a little fun with the kid. Didn’t mean him no harm or nothin’. Why don’t you let me get my shitty brother and leave before someone makes a mistake they can’t fix.”

Joe gave the stable boy a telling glance, and when the boy finally nodded his acceptance, he took one step to the side. But only one.

Milt grabbed Art, cursing him all the way out the door for stinking himself up. There was no way they’d get a reputation when Art kept humiliating them like this.

Caitie poked the pitchfork into the ground and used it for a leaning post to steady her shaking legs. She couldn’t let herself cry. She’d forgone that luxury when she’d lopped off her hair and put on men’s pants.

Joe took his time about holstering his gun because the