Read Online .45-Caliber Deathtrap by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Brandvold
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of the boulders. The animal put its head down to lunge ahead, but the wagon held fast.
Cuno grabbed his rifle, jacked a round into the chamber, aimed at the scarpâs crest, and fired. The man there ducked down behind a cedar as Cunoâs .44 slug kicked up dirt just below the tree.
As several more rifles barked around him, kicking up dirt and gravel and chewing pieces from the wagon, Cuno leapt left off the wagon. He landed on a flat-topped boulder a few feet down the creekâs ravine, turned a quick glance back toward the road. Three men were hunkered down behind rocks ahead of the wagon, crouching behind boulders and cedars a third of the way up the canyon wall.
Cuno fired three quick shots, saw a bushwhacker grab his shoulder and fall behind his cover, dropping his rifle. As the road agents returned fire, Cuno leapt from the boulder into the aspens and ran and slid down the slope toward the creek, loosing clay and gravel in his wake.
Damn fool, he chided himself. So busy thinking about Wadeâs killers, wondering how to make up the road time, that he hadnât realized heâd entered Long Draw, which all eastern slope freighters knew had recently become a favorite haunt of road agents.
At the edge of the water, Cuno hunkered down behind a cottonwood. He doffed his hat, threw it down to his feet. Keeping his head and cocked rifle back behind the tree trunk, he waited, listening.
Footsteps sounded. A rustling of brush, the clatter of rock. Pressing his back to the rough cottonwood bark, he glanced to his right. A shadow moved along the bank, scuttling across the adobe-colored stones.
Moving quickly, he snaked the rifle around the right side of the trunk and fired. The man, whoâd come halfway down the bank, gave a surprised grunt, staggering back. Regaining his balance, he raised his revolver and fired, the shot plunking into the cottonwood. Cuno flinched, rammed a fresh shell into the Winchesterâs chamber, and returned fire, the .44 round blowing up sand between the bushwhackerâs boots.
Cuno bolted out from behind the tree as the man scurried back up the bank, moving sideways and up toward the road and a small cottonwood copse. Gritting his teeth, Cuno took aim, fired two more quick shots, blowing up dust at the buchwhackerâs feet. The third shot sliced between the manâs scissoring legs as he gained the crest, smacking the inside of his left thigh.
The man groaned and hopped sideways, dropping his pistol and clutching his left leg. He dropped onto the road and out of Cunoâs line of vision.
âSimms!â a man shouted.
Thrashing rose from the road, the scuff of boot heels. A pinched voice: âHeâs down by the river!â
Cuno saw two more heads and rifle barrels moving along the road, on the other side of the trees. Dusters flapped back like devilsâ wings. Cuno scrambled out from behind the cottonwood, moving left, upstream, toward a deep cleft in the bank. Over the cleft was a slight ledge, where falling rock had hung up against old tree roots.
He scrambled into the cut, which was high enough that he could stand and only bow his head slightly. He was hidden from anyone descending the bank either upstream or down. Slowly, stretching his lips in a wince, he levered another shell into the firing chamber. He leaned the rifle barrel up against the bank beside him, unholstered his Colt .45, and checked to make sure all chambers showed brass.
He holstered the .45, picked up his rifle, and waited.
Voices rolled down from the road. A few minutes later, stones rolled down the bank to Cunoâs right. A few plopped into the water, the splashes drowned by the streamâs tinny rush.
A shadow flashed on the gold-dappled stream. Cuno pressed his back as far into the cleft as he could, looking to both sides, making sure he cast no shadow on the bank.
Minutes passed. He was about to risk a peek along the bank, when sand dribbled off the ledge just above
Cuno grabbed his rifle, jacked a round into the chamber, aimed at the scarpâs crest, and fired. The man there ducked down behind a cedar as Cunoâs .44 slug kicked up dirt just below the tree.
As several more rifles barked around him, kicking up dirt and gravel and chewing pieces from the wagon, Cuno leapt left off the wagon. He landed on a flat-topped boulder a few feet down the creekâs ravine, turned a quick glance back toward the road. Three men were hunkered down behind rocks ahead of the wagon, crouching behind boulders and cedars a third of the way up the canyon wall.
Cuno fired three quick shots, saw a bushwhacker grab his shoulder and fall behind his cover, dropping his rifle. As the road agents returned fire, Cuno leapt from the boulder into the aspens and ran and slid down the slope toward the creek, loosing clay and gravel in his wake.
Damn fool, he chided himself. So busy thinking about Wadeâs killers, wondering how to make up the road time, that he hadnât realized heâd entered Long Draw, which all eastern slope freighters knew had recently become a favorite haunt of road agents.
At the edge of the water, Cuno hunkered down behind a cottonwood. He doffed his hat, threw it down to his feet. Keeping his head and cocked rifle back behind the tree trunk, he waited, listening.
Footsteps sounded. A rustling of brush, the clatter of rock. Pressing his back to the rough cottonwood bark, he glanced to his right. A shadow moved along the bank, scuttling across the adobe-colored stones.
Moving quickly, he snaked the rifle around the right side of the trunk and fired. The man, whoâd come halfway down the bank, gave a surprised grunt, staggering back. Regaining his balance, he raised his revolver and fired, the shot plunking into the cottonwood. Cuno flinched, rammed a fresh shell into the Winchesterâs chamber, and returned fire, the .44 round blowing up sand between the bushwhackerâs boots.
Cuno bolted out from behind the tree as the man scurried back up the bank, moving sideways and up toward the road and a small cottonwood copse. Gritting his teeth, Cuno took aim, fired two more quick shots, blowing up dust at the buchwhackerâs feet. The third shot sliced between the manâs scissoring legs as he gained the crest, smacking the inside of his left thigh.
The man groaned and hopped sideways, dropping his pistol and clutching his left leg. He dropped onto the road and out of Cunoâs line of vision.
âSimms!â a man shouted.
Thrashing rose from the road, the scuff of boot heels. A pinched voice: âHeâs down by the river!â
Cuno saw two more heads and rifle barrels moving along the road, on the other side of the trees. Dusters flapped back like devilsâ wings. Cuno scrambled out from behind the cottonwood, moving left, upstream, toward a deep cleft in the bank. Over the cleft was a slight ledge, where falling rock had hung up against old tree roots.
He scrambled into the cut, which was high enough that he could stand and only bow his head slightly. He was hidden from anyone descending the bank either upstream or down. Slowly, stretching his lips in a wince, he levered another shell into the firing chamber. He leaned the rifle barrel up against the bank beside him, unholstered his Colt .45, and checked to make sure all chambers showed brass.
He holstered the .45, picked up his rifle, and waited.
Voices rolled down from the road. A few minutes later, stones rolled down the bank to Cunoâs right. A few plopped into the water, the splashes drowned by the streamâs tinny rush.
A shadow flashed on the gold-dappled stream. Cuno pressed his back as far into the cleft as he could, looking to both sides, making sure he cast no shadow on the bank.
Minutes passed. He was about to risk a peek along the bank, when sand dribbled off the ledge just above
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