to his right hand, grasped the reins with his left and started walking.
To make himself less of a target he kept changing his pace from fast to slow, slow to fast, now and then weaving and stumbling as if fatigued by the heat.
He’d covered about fifty yards when a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his shoulder, and before there was time for another shot Gabriel whacked the Morgan with the rifle butt and dived behind the nearest rock. The startled horse galloped off along the gully before the bounty hunters could shoot it.
Relieved, Gabriel kept ducked down as a steady hail of bullets chipped the rock near his head. Eventually, when the firing stopped, he poked his head up for a second, then ducked down again, drawing another volley of riflefire. He repeated the maneuver several times, each time getting a glimpse of where the three men were hiding.
When the next lull came he had his target already marked. Quickly resting the Winchester atop the rock, he took aim and fired three rounds.
There was a sharp cry and a body tumbled down, bouncing from rock to rock until it landed in a heap on the dirt. It was the youngest of the three bounty hunters, and his enraged father jumped up and pumped round after round at Gabriel.
Gabriel eased over behind the next rock, took careful aim and dropped the older man. He then stood up, and blazed away at the remaining son. Panicking, the bounty hunter scrambled over the rocks until a bullet in the head cut him down.
Gabriel watched him stagger and fall. His body slid limply down the steep rocky slope and landed in a heap in the gully. Feeling no remorse, Gabriel left the three bodies for the buzzards, shouldered his rifle and plodded on down the gully.
He found the stallion waiting about a hundred yards off. It snorted and gave him a look that showed how pissed off it was that he had whacked it. Gabriel knew that look and kept his rifle ready in case the Morgan tried to bite him. It didn’t. Gabriel swung up into the saddle, gripped the horn and spurred the horse forward – expecting it to buck. Again, nothing happened.
‘Don’t think you’re foolin’ me,’ Gabriel told the stallion as they rode off. ‘ ’Cause I’ll be burning in the fires of hell ’fore I believe you’ve gone soft.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Every summer San Dimas, a remote sun-baked pueblo in north-west Chihuahua, earned its nickname El horno del diablo , the devil’s furnace. Trapped between the Sierra Madre and the towering, sheer walls of the Cañon Solo , the town was plagued by searing winds off the desert that kept the air so stifling hot it burned the lungs. If that wasn’t enough, temperatures regularly soared above a hundred degrees and often stayed that way for weeks at a time.
Today was no exception. As Gabriel rode in from the desert, the sun hammered down on him, making breathing an effort.
On the outskirts he passed an old man, face hidden beneath a tattered straw hat, leading a burro loaded down with firewood. The man acknowledged him with a courteous nod and plodded on. On both sides of him white-shirted campesinos toiled in the bean fields, their heads shielded from the merciless sun by huge straw sombreros. Gabriel returned their waves and rode on, thinking how much he respected these gentle, compassionate people.
Ahead, women with bright-colored shawls over their heads sat in the doorways of hovels, grinding corn to make tortillas. They watched stoically as Gabriel rode past.
Their grubby, half-naked children weren’t so reserved.As soon as he approached they stopped playing in the dirt and came running up, hands outstretched to him, pleading for pesos.
Gabriel knew if he gave them money they would follow him everywhere. But he couldn’t resist their insistent pleas and tossed them a few coins. As they scrambled in the dirt for them, he spat out the dead cigar he’d been chewing, licked his parched lips for the umpteenth time and spurred the stallion into a canter, leaving the
To make himself less of a target he kept changing his pace from fast to slow, slow to fast, now and then weaving and stumbling as if fatigued by the heat.
He’d covered about fifty yards when a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his shoulder, and before there was time for another shot Gabriel whacked the Morgan with the rifle butt and dived behind the nearest rock. The startled horse galloped off along the gully before the bounty hunters could shoot it.
Relieved, Gabriel kept ducked down as a steady hail of bullets chipped the rock near his head. Eventually, when the firing stopped, he poked his head up for a second, then ducked down again, drawing another volley of riflefire. He repeated the maneuver several times, each time getting a glimpse of where the three men were hiding.
When the next lull came he had his target already marked. Quickly resting the Winchester atop the rock, he took aim and fired three rounds.
There was a sharp cry and a body tumbled down, bouncing from rock to rock until it landed in a heap on the dirt. It was the youngest of the three bounty hunters, and his enraged father jumped up and pumped round after round at Gabriel.
Gabriel eased over behind the next rock, took careful aim and dropped the older man. He then stood up, and blazed away at the remaining son. Panicking, the bounty hunter scrambled over the rocks until a bullet in the head cut him down.
Gabriel watched him stagger and fall. His body slid limply down the steep rocky slope and landed in a heap in the gully. Feeling no remorse, Gabriel left the three bodies for the buzzards, shouldered his rifle and plodded on down the gully.
He found the stallion waiting about a hundred yards off. It snorted and gave him a look that showed how pissed off it was that he had whacked it. Gabriel knew that look and kept his rifle ready in case the Morgan tried to bite him. It didn’t. Gabriel swung up into the saddle, gripped the horn and spurred the horse forward – expecting it to buck. Again, nothing happened.
‘Don’t think you’re foolin’ me,’ Gabriel told the stallion as they rode off. ‘ ’Cause I’ll be burning in the fires of hell ’fore I believe you’ve gone soft.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Every summer San Dimas, a remote sun-baked pueblo in north-west Chihuahua, earned its nickname El horno del diablo , the devil’s furnace. Trapped between the Sierra Madre and the towering, sheer walls of the Cañon Solo , the town was plagued by searing winds off the desert that kept the air so stifling hot it burned the lungs. If that wasn’t enough, temperatures regularly soared above a hundred degrees and often stayed that way for weeks at a time.
Today was no exception. As Gabriel rode in from the desert, the sun hammered down on him, making breathing an effort.
On the outskirts he passed an old man, face hidden beneath a tattered straw hat, leading a burro loaded down with firewood. The man acknowledged him with a courteous nod and plodded on. On both sides of him white-shirted campesinos toiled in the bean fields, their heads shielded from the merciless sun by huge straw sombreros. Gabriel returned their waves and rode on, thinking how much he respected these gentle, compassionate people.
Ahead, women with bright-colored shawls over their heads sat in the doorways of hovels, grinding corn to make tortillas. They watched stoically as Gabriel rode past.
Their grubby, half-naked children weren’t so reserved.As soon as he approached they stopped playing in the dirt and came running up, hands outstretched to him, pleading for pesos.
Gabriel knew if he gave them money they would follow him everywhere. But he couldn’t resist their insistent pleas and tossed them a few coins. As they scrambled in the dirt for them, he spat out the dead cigar he’d been chewing, licked his parched lips for the umpteenth time and spurred the stallion into a canter, leaving the