Read Outlaw Hell for Free Online Page A

mornin’, meet at the bank around noon, and when I give the word, we'll hold ‘em up, blow the safe, and head fer Mexico. We'll be out of sight before they know what hit ‘em. Now, the way I see it...”
    McPeak explained the details of the robbery, but Jones was distracted by a young man sitting in the middle of the floor, the same kid he'd seen earlier at the Desert Palace Saloon, who'd supposedly shot Otis Puckett. Jones felt annoyed by the young stranger, for reasons he didn't care to understand. Jones had a broken nose, a scar on his forehead,and puffy lips. The only girls he ever got, he had to pay for, cash on the barrel head. He'd never been in love in his life.
    McPeak's voice droned onward, as Jones continued to glower at the young man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with Jones. Jones had been raised in Baltimore and had fought other urchins for bits of garbage to eat. He'd never made a conscious decision to steal—it had always come naturally—and he recognized no law save his own best interests. He felt insulted by the young bearded man talking with the old stablemaster on the far side of the saloon.
    McPeak stopped his dissertation abruptly, then turned toward Jones. “What'd I just say?”
    Jones ignored his question. “See that kid in the black shirt. He's got everybody thinkin’ he shot Otis Puckett.”
    â€œHey, ain't he the same one who was a-sittin’ at this table?”
    â€œSure was,” said McPeak.
    â€œMaybe he did shoot Otis Puckett,” said the fourth man, the one with the pointed nose, Dick Mundy. “Puckett got shot a while back, I heard.”
    â€œHe did?” Jones was surprised. “Are you sure?”
    â€œI heard some cowboys a-talkin’ about it. He was gunned down by a galoot called . . . lemme think ... the Brazos Kid?”
    â€œHow about the Pecos Kid?” asked Jones.
    Mundy snapped his fingers. “That's it ... the Pecos Kid. His name's Craddock or Braddock orsomething like that.” He turned toward the young man. “Sure don't look like much.”
    â€œActed like a skeered rabbit,” said McPeak. “Hard to believe he shot Otis Puckett. I'd say it's horseshit.”
    â€œ'At's what I think,” replied Jones. “He's too purty fer his own good, and I don't like a man who trades on somebody else's reputation. I ought to go over there and kick his ass.”
    The more Jones stared at the so-called Pecos Kid, the angrier he became. Jones wanted to be admired, but it was always the other galoot who received the sweetest fruits, while he gnawed weeds. Stealing, killing, and fighting were his principal interests, and he had no regrets.
    McPeak placed his hand on Jones's shoulder. “We don't want no trouble.”
    â€œIt'll only take a minute.”
    â€œI just gave you an order.”
    â€œShove it up yer ass.”
    Jones rolled to his feet, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and sauntered toward the table. He felt most alive when a good fight was in the offing.
    Then Mundy arose from the table. “I don't want to miss this. To tell you the truth, I never liked that kid when I first see'd him.”
    â€œHe looked a little simple to me,” added the third outlaw, Cassidy. “Let's make him dance to the tune, boys.”
    McPeak, their leader, wore a disappointed expression on his weatherbeaten visage. He couldn't send them to the stockade, and his sergeant stripesdidn't mean anything in Escondido. Guess I'll have to go along with it, he thought philosophically, as he followed them across the saloon. They can kill anybody they want, long as they help me rob that damned bank.
    Duane leaned across the table and gazed into his new professor's eyes. “Suppose a lawman gets a wanted poster with your face on it. Does he look for you right away, or just nail the poster on the wall and forget it?”
    Twilby sat with his legs crossed, holding a cigarette