Read Online Waco's Badge by J. T. Edson - Free Book Online Page B

movement of his right hand, such was his sense of haste, he over compensated. Although his Colt came clear and roared, the bullet missed its mark.
    Showing no sign of being deterred or disconcerted by the lead passing so close he felt its wind on his cheek, Mosehan lined up the weapon he had produced. Thumbing back the hammer with the deft ease of long practice, as was required by the single action mechanism, he squeezed the trigger when satisfied with his instinctive chest high alignment. Flame and smoke erupted from the muzzle. Shot between the eyes, in testimony to his ability, the man twirled and, letting fall the Peacemaker, sprawled face downward on to the ground.
    â€œBy the gunsmith’s, Major!” yelled a husky yet carrying masculine voice which sounded familiar. “Get down!”
    Without waiting to find out whether he was correct in his assumption over the identity of the speaker, seeing a man carrying a Winchester rifle coming from the alley between the gunsmith’s shop and another building, Mosehan carried out the advice. He realized, however, he was still in considerable danger regardless of the warning. Something over thirty yards separated them; a distance giving a shoulder arm a distinct advantage over a handgun, particularly a model with a barrel reduced to a length of three and five-sixteenths inches as an aid to concealment rather than range. While he was also carrying a Peacemaker which could have been more suitable to his needs, there would not be sufficient time allowed for him to draw and bring it into use.
    Even as the major was drawing his unpalatable conclusions and starting to roll in the hope of taking at least partial shelter behind the lifeless man, he heard three shots. They had the deep bark of a heavy caliber revolver, not the sharper crack emitted by a rifle, and came from somewhere near the source of the voice which delivered the warning. Although none of the bullets took effect, as far as he could see, they caused the would-be attacker to have a change of mind. Spinning on his heel without offering to raise the rifle, he darted back in the direction from which he had come.
    Rising and scanning the remainder of the plaza, Mosehan sought for any more companions of the man he had been compelled to kill. Satisfied there were none, he turned toward the hotel.
    â€œYou show up at the damnedest time, Pete,” the major greeted, looking at the rescuer who was crossing the sidewalk carrying a smoking Remington New Model of 1874 Army revolver in his right fist. “Care to come with me after that jasper with the rifle?”
    â€œHe had a hoss down the alley and’s already fogging out on it,” replied the man who had intervened, his accent that of a New Yorker born in the already notorious East Side region. “Mine’s down to the livery barn and that bay of yours doesn’t look up to no fast chasing.”
    Regardless of a voice indicating he had been born and raised in the largest Eastern city, the speaker did not look in any way out of place in a small range country town. His multi-colored, tight rolled bandana, open necked tartan shirt, Levi’s and boots were such as any working cowhand might wear. An off white Mexican sombrero dangled by its barbiquejo chinstrap on his shoulders, exposing a head of close cropped black hair. Swarthy in pigmentation, his rugged face had a disciplined strength relieved by the suggestion of a sense of humor. Of medium height, he had a barrel of a chest set on bulky hips and slightly bowed legs. As he was speaking, he returned the Remington to its cross draw holster. This was on the left side of a gunbelt which, although secured by a buckle similar to that of Mosehan’s rig, had been made with the needs of a western gun fighter in mind and not those of a cavalry soldier.
    â€œYou’re right about that,” the major conceded, replacing the Merwin & Hulbert in the spring retention “half breed” shoulder