Read The Old Wolves for Free Online

too, Miss Jane.”
    â€œLast night, Spurr,” the girl said, “I woke up and you . . . you didn’t sound too good.”
    â€œDidn’t sound too good? Hell, I was probably snorin’!”
    â€œWell, between the snores your breath seemed to flutter a lot, like you were working at catching air.”
    â€œAh, hell,” Spurr said, patting her hand reassuringly this time. “I was just tired. Drunk and tired. You ’bout wore me out, girl! But that’s all right. Gettin’ his ashes hauled good, by a real pro like yourself, adds year to an old man’s li. . . .”
    Spurr let his voice trail off and beetled his grizzled brows as he stared across the street, toward four horses standing at the tie rack in front of the old Territorial Bank of Denver—a small, wood-and-brick structure sandwiched between a furniture shop and Petersen’s Fine Watches & Watch Repair store.
    â€œWhat is it?” the girl asked, following his gaze toward where a man in rough-hewn trail gear leaned against the hitchrack, his back to Spurr and Jane. Spurr could see him between a piebald gelding and a black-legged steeldust stallion. The man wore a long, coarsely woven coat, and he had his head down as though scrutinizing something on the ground around his boots, which were casually crossed at the ankles.
    The horses were not tied. Spurr could see that the man leaning against the hitchrack was holding all four sets of reins in his hands.
    Spurr looked at the bank. The shades were drawn over the front windows and doors. That wasn’t unusual for this early in the day, but the horses standing out front of the place were damned unusual. As was the man standing a little too casually against the hitchrack, holding their reins.
    Just then the bank door opened. Faintly, Spurr heard the bell over the door jangle. The shade in the door’s window jostled. The door jerked as it stopped abruptly, as though running up against a boot, and then a man stumbled out—a hombre dressed in rough trail gear similar to that worn by the gent at the hitchrack. He was holding a pistol straight up in one hand, and the two men who followed him out of the bank were also holding pistols.
    Spurr released Jane’s arm and unsnapped the keeper thong over the hammer of the Starr .44 jutting butt forward on his left hip. Keeping his eyes on the three men hurrying out of the bank, he said quietly, with measured calm, “Jane, I want you to crouch down behind that rain barrel over there. Can you do that for me, please?”
    â€œBut, Spurr, what . . . ?”
    â€œNow, Jane—
hurry
!”
    As Spurr turned back toward the bank, he saw a shadow move in the corner of his right eye. He jerked his head in that direction. A man was moving quickly out from a store front a half a block away, extending a pistol straight out in front of him. The pistol exploded as the man shouted, “Trouble, boys!”
    Jane, who had just started running up the street toward the rain barrel outside of a small grocery shop, had stepped between Spurr and the man with the gun at the same time that the gun roared. She gave a shrill scream as she jerked backward, got her shoe caught in a crack between the boards, and hit the walk with a heavy thud.
    â€œJane!”
Spurr yelled, extending his Starr straight out from his right shoulder. He hastily aimed at the man running toward him, yelling and shooting, smoke and flames lapping from the barrel of his six-shooter.
    Two slugs screamed around Spurr as the old lawman drew his left foot back, turning sideways to make himself a smaller target, and triggered the Starr twice quickly.
    Bam! Bam!
    He watched the man running toward him jerk his head back as his body flew to Spurr’s left where it ran into an awning support post. The shooter slid down against the post, clapping one hand to his chest and triggering his pistol into the