Read Online Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) by Jake Logan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jake Logan
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down, resigned to walking through the dark canyon with a rider weighing it down.
Slocum cast a single glance back. Mirabelle hadnât laid a fire but huddled under blankets at the edge of camp near Ikeâs grave. A momentary pang for her passed. Slocum concentrated on the man running ahead of him in the canyon.
Listening hard failed to reveal any hoofbeats. He thought the man was on foot, which struck him as odd, but he might have left his horse some distance away, intending to potshot both Mirabelle and Slocum before fetching it. Following tracks in the dark was impossible, even if Slocum could have made out boot prints in the snow and dirt. The canyon began to meander, and only when it branched did he hesitate.
He had no trouble finding the trail. Deep depressions in the snow coming from the canyon branching to his left showed the man had hiked out and then retreated this way. He rode slowly, taking in what details he could. The canyon walls fell away as the bottom widened. Come spring there would be runoff feeding a small stream at his right. Now all that showed was ice turned shiny by the bright starlight. Without clouds, it would get mighty cold fast.
Shivering, he pulled up his collar and hunched over. His horse didnât much like the dropping temperature either, but if they kept moving, theyâd both be all right.
Now and then he slowed and even stopped to be sure he wasnât following an animalâs paw prints. The trail hadnât been hidden, and this worried him. Looking up to the rocky walls, he saw nothing but shadows cast by overhangs and possible caves. The sniper could be in any of them waiting for the single shot that would take Slocumâs life. When the tracks began angling away from the bottom of the canyon toward the distant wall to the left, Slocum turned even warier.
He dismounted and led his horse, even knowing it afforded a better target than he did. Letting it go free or tethering it while he explored wasnât a good idea. He might need the horse to take him out if he ran into a well-aimed bullet.
The fitful wind could not hide the metallic sound of a rifle chambering a round. Slocum moved fast, tugging his horse toward a tumble of rocks. Just as he got the horse to safety, the shot came. The slug tore through the air, too high. The second shot was no better than the first. Slocum drew his Colt, took a deep breath of the frigid air, and then slipped around the rock, keeping in deep shadow the best he could.
More rifle fire betrayed the dry gulcherâs position. The bright lances of yellow-orange muzzle flash let him home in like a hawk spotting a kangaroo rat in the desert. When he got to a spot that had to be a dozen feet under where the rifleman lay, he braced his pistol butt against the rock and yelled, âDown here! Iâm below you!â
He hadnât expected the trick to work, but it did. The sniper peered over the edge of the rock. Slocum squeezed back on the trigger. The six-shooter bucked once. He heard nothing from above, but he didnât have to. A drop of blood had rained down on him as a testament to his accuracy.
Over the years, he had developed a sense of when he hit his target and when he missed. Taken with the bloody evidence trickling faster down the rock with this sense of rightness, he knew he had sorely wounded the man above him.
Cornered rats fought harder, so he edged along the boulder until he found a way up through the rocks. He had been right to be cautious. As he squeezed between two rocks onto the flat space where the sniper lay, the man rolled onto his side and fired again.
His rifleâs report and the one from Slocumâs six-gun mingled. A few yards away the sounds would come as one. But being only a couple yards apart, Slocum heard his less powerful one an instant before the rifle. The sniper jerked again and then slid away, his body following the river of blood to the ground below the boulder where Slocum had first
Slocum cast a single glance back. Mirabelle hadnât laid a fire but huddled under blankets at the edge of camp near Ikeâs grave. A momentary pang for her passed. Slocum concentrated on the man running ahead of him in the canyon.
Listening hard failed to reveal any hoofbeats. He thought the man was on foot, which struck him as odd, but he might have left his horse some distance away, intending to potshot both Mirabelle and Slocum before fetching it. Following tracks in the dark was impossible, even if Slocum could have made out boot prints in the snow and dirt. The canyon began to meander, and only when it branched did he hesitate.
He had no trouble finding the trail. Deep depressions in the snow coming from the canyon branching to his left showed the man had hiked out and then retreated this way. He rode slowly, taking in what details he could. The canyon walls fell away as the bottom widened. Come spring there would be runoff feeding a small stream at his right. Now all that showed was ice turned shiny by the bright starlight. Without clouds, it would get mighty cold fast.
Shivering, he pulled up his collar and hunched over. His horse didnât much like the dropping temperature either, but if they kept moving, theyâd both be all right.
Now and then he slowed and even stopped to be sure he wasnât following an animalâs paw prints. The trail hadnât been hidden, and this worried him. Looking up to the rocky walls, he saw nothing but shadows cast by overhangs and possible caves. The sniper could be in any of them waiting for the single shot that would take Slocumâs life. When the tracks began angling away from the bottom of the canyon toward the distant wall to the left, Slocum turned even warier.
He dismounted and led his horse, even knowing it afforded a better target than he did. Letting it go free or tethering it while he explored wasnât a good idea. He might need the horse to take him out if he ran into a well-aimed bullet.
The fitful wind could not hide the metallic sound of a rifle chambering a round. Slocum moved fast, tugging his horse toward a tumble of rocks. Just as he got the horse to safety, the shot came. The slug tore through the air, too high. The second shot was no better than the first. Slocum drew his Colt, took a deep breath of the frigid air, and then slipped around the rock, keeping in deep shadow the best he could.
More rifle fire betrayed the dry gulcherâs position. The bright lances of yellow-orange muzzle flash let him home in like a hawk spotting a kangaroo rat in the desert. When he got to a spot that had to be a dozen feet under where the rifleman lay, he braced his pistol butt against the rock and yelled, âDown here! Iâm below you!â
He hadnât expected the trick to work, but it did. The sniper peered over the edge of the rock. Slocum squeezed back on the trigger. The six-shooter bucked once. He heard nothing from above, but he didnât have to. A drop of blood had rained down on him as a testament to his accuracy.
Over the years, he had developed a sense of when he hit his target and when he missed. Taken with the bloody evidence trickling faster down the rock with this sense of rightness, he knew he had sorely wounded the man above him.
Cornered rats fought harder, so he edged along the boulder until he found a way up through the rocks. He had been right to be cautious. As he squeezed between two rocks onto the flat space where the sniper lay, the man rolled onto his side and fired again.
His rifleâs report and the one from Slocumâs six-gun mingled. A few yards away the sounds would come as one. But being only a couple yards apart, Slocum heard his less powerful one an instant before the rifle. The sniper jerked again and then slid away, his body following the river of blood to the ground below the boulder where Slocum had first
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