Doubtful Canon: A Western Story (Thorndike Western I)
Johnny D. Boggs
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before my eyes, as that tired saying goes, but I did find myself choking down fright, or, at least, trying to. The dread kept rising till I could almost taste it, and then Whitey Grey broke out in a roar of laughter that echoed into the nethermost, midnight-black depths of the Lady Macbeth Mine until it sounded as if a chorus of demons were laughing with him. He reached over and patted my trembling knee with a hard, calloused hand, then gave my two friends reassuring pats. “You got a curious,
groaned, leaned forward. “Just one more….” And…he was gone. A crash sounded, faint above the metallic noises of the train, followed by a curse, then Ian Spencer Henry’s scream. “Oh, no!” Jasmine yelled. The freight rocked violently now, the wind blowing into the open car. In the darkness, cold wind numbed my face as I looked outside, but saw nothing. “JACK! JASMINE!” It was Ian Spencer Henry’s voice. “Shut up, kid!” Whitey Grey yelled back. We could just hear them over the train. The
walked along an old road, kicking up dust, trailing the albino who moved with an urgency, yet with caution. Sometimes Whitey Grey struck me as pure fool, but now he reminded me more of some great Western hero. “He’s like Kit Carson,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “I was reading about him in The Prince of the Gold Hunters. It’s an old one, but, gosh, it’s full of blood and thunder and killings and treasure and excitement.” A thought struck me. I hadn’t had time to ask him about it since our adventures
heads down.” “What?” Jasmine demanded, no longer stuttering and shivering from the cold. “You heard me. I tol’ you I ramrod this outfit. Now run. ’Tain’t likely that hussy’ll shoot y’all down. Run. Run or, by grab, I’ll start shootin’ at you, and I ain’t gonna miss.” When we didn’t follow his orders fast enough, he brought the Winchester up and sent a bullet between Jasmine and me. So we ran, prodded by another round from Whitey Grey that kicked up dirt behind us, stinging my legs. Ian
might be true, we’ll join up with you. And we like the split. Five thousand for you. The rest for Curly and me.” “And the Apaches?” Brocious asked. “The Apaches don’t get a split.” Ringo laughed at his own joke, shook his head, and told his partner: “My bet’s that those Indians have already lit a shuck. Army patrols are all over chasing those that jumped San Carlos.” “They’ve hit the cañon twice,” Brocious warned. “You can back out, Curly,” Ringo said bitterly, his mood turning savage.