Hanging Valley by Jack Ballas

By Jack Ballas

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Extra resources for Hanging Valley

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He took a forkful of potato, swabbed it in the runny egg yolk, put it in his mouth, and chewed. While obviously pondering the problem, he finally nodded. “Yep, he’d need supplies. ” Lingo shook his head. ” Slagle nodded. “Figger you’re right. ” When they finished eating, Sam paid the bill, and to Lingo’s disgust, Sam said they’d walk, it was only a little over a mile. Hell, if it had been only across the street, Barnes would have ridden his horse, but he followed Slagle up the hill—afoot. When they got close, and Sam had pointed out the mine entrance, Lingo held his arm out to stop the miner.

Bull ran to the middle of the dusty trail and turned—in time to catch a right to the ribs that Barnes brought straight out from his belt, then followed with a left to the gut. His fist sank into Bull’s gut a good couple of inches. Mayben stopped, sucked air, and swung his huge fist at Lingo. Barnes moved to the side in time to catch the blow on his shoulder. Despite the flab Lingo detected with his punch to the gut, Mayben’s punch showed he was something other than fat. His blow hurt. Barnes slipped to the side, then closed under a roundhouse swing Bull made with his right.

Each punch drew a ragged, sobbing breath from the big man. Lingo, at the fringe of his awareness, heard the crowd going wild. He shifted his blows to the heart. Bull’s face purpled. Lingo wanted to give the woman-stealing bastard something to remember. He shifted his punches to Mayben’s face. Mayben now gasped for breath, his arms hanging at his sides, barely leaving his body for a weak punch. This opened up what Barnes wanted. He meant for his punches to cut, to maim. A sharp punch to Mayben’s left eye opened a cut that gushed blood, spilling it into his eye.

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