The Thunder Riders Read online

  “Hey, lookee here,” he sneered around the stogie, elbowing the round-faced Mexican beside him, “we got us a newcomer.”

  The Mexican glanced up, black eyes rheumy from drink. He, like all the others, had looked toward Yakima when he’d first pushed through the batwings, but he, like the red-bearded, double-rigged gent, feigned surprise at seeing him at their table. He grinned, showing chipped crooked teeth, including one of gold, inside his thin black beard. “You want in, amigo? Always room for one more if you got money and not just matchsticks, huh?”

  One of the two with his back to Yakima glanced behind him and ran his slit-eyed gaze up and down Yakima’s tall, rugged frame. He turned back to the table, tossed some coins into the pile before him. “I don’t care if he’s packin’ gold ingots fresh from El Dorado, I don’t play with half-breeds.”

  The red-bearded gent leaned toward him, canting his head toward the round-faced Mexican. “You play with greasers, but you don’t play with half-breeds? Where the hell’s the logic in that?”

  Suddenly, the piano fell silent, and the little gray-haired piano player swung his head toward the room.

  The Mexican grinned, chuckling through his teeth, as he stared glassy-eyed at Yakima. A corn-husk cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside him, near a big Colt Navy, its brass casing glistening in a shaft of sunlight from a window behind him.

  Yakima’s voice betrayed a hard note of irritation, matter-of-fact contempt for losing two days’ work by having to chase stolen horses—horses he’d worked damn hard for the past three weeks to break and ready for the remount sergeant at Fort Huachucha. “You boys can play with yourselves. I’m here for those green-broke mustangs you stole outta my corral. And I’m here to make sure it don’t happen again. Get my drift?”

  “Ah, shit,” the bartender complained behind Yakima. “Mitch, fetch Speares!”

  The little man rose from the piano bench, adjusted his spats, and came slowly down the room as though skirting an uncaged lion, shuttling his fearful blue-eyed gaze between the card players and Yakima. When he was past the table, he broke into a run and bolted through the batwings like a bull calf who’d just been steered, his running footfalls fading in the distance.

  “Breed,” said the big hombre with the shaggy red beard, a dirty black Stetson tipped back on his red curls, “You ain’t callin’ us horse thieves, now, are ya?”

  “Since you spoke English, I naturally assumed you could understand it.”

  “Them horses—they are not branded,” said the Mexican, canting his head toward the batwings. In his left eye, he had a BB-sized white spot just to the side of his inky black pupil, and it seemed to expand and contract at will. “How you can prove they’re yours, huh?” He shrugged his shoulders, as if deeply perplexed by his own question.

  “I didn’t brand ’em because the U.S. cavalry generally likes to do that themselves. But I don’t need to prove anything to you coulee-doggin’ sonsabitches. I tracked them and you here, and I’m takin’ those horses back with me. But I’m willing to wait for the sheriff, so we can all sit down and discuss it, civilized-like, over a drink.” Yakima quirked a challenging grin. “That is, if you are.”

  The red-bearded hombre cut his eyes around the table. The Mexican poked his tongue between his teeth and hissed a chuckle.

  One of the men with his back to Yakima half-turned his thick neck and long-nosed face and grumbled, “Me, I personally don’t like bein’ accused of long-loopin. Not by no half-breed, ’specially.”

  The gent next to him—square-built and wearing a fancily stitched doeskin vest with a rabbit-fur collar, said in quickly rising octaves, “Especially one that smells as bad and looks as ugly as fresh dog shit on a parson’s porch!”

  He’d barely gotten that last out before he snapped sideways in his chair, a silver-chased revolver maw appearing under his right armpit, angled up toward Yakima. Yakima stepped quickly left, snapped his rifle down, back, and forward, smashing the octagonal maw against the side of the man’s head, just above his ear.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue