investigate, crossing the creek to the other side. The gray advanced steadily. It was a war horse, used to blood, violence and death through long exposure.
The clearing in the trees was full of all three. Sam saw that it was thick with armed men, lurking back in the shadows. He made out seven of them. Gunmen. Outlaws. Cocky bastards, sure of themselves. A type he knew and didn’t like.
He could feel the rage within him, ever-present just below the surface, begin to freeze into a ball of burning ice.
There were more of them than he expected, but he didn’t find their numbers particularly daunting. He trusted to skill and nerve to see him through. And if not—what the hell?
The keg of gunpowder on top of a boulder decided him on his play. The stopper in its tophole indicated that it was full.
Sam took a mental picture of the layout, memorizing the positions of his foes relative to himself, the clearing and each other. He didn’t wait for Remy to run out his taunting line. He stole a march on him and the others, taking the initiative.
He drew and put two balls of hot lead into the keg. Came a flash of blinding glare, intolerable heat, noise, pressure—a big boom!
Sam was ready for it, having already worked his booted feet clear of the stirrups. He threw himself off the saddle to the right.
Choking masses of gray-white smoke boiled through the clearing, veiling the scene. Sam hit the ground with a jarring thud, rolling to the side to avoid the horse’s stamping hooves. He lay flat as debris rained down around him, tree-branches and boughs pelting the ground. The gun was still gripped in his hand. The blast left him temporarily half-deaf.
The smoke began to break up. Cries, shouts and shots erupted. Wild bursts of gunfire. The sounds were muffled in Sam’s ringing ears, taking on a curious air of unreality.
Slugs speared through the smoke, zipping past. Somebody shrieked in pain, the cry suddenly choked off.
A voice—Jeff Parr’s—shouted, “Stop firing, you blamed fools! You’re only shooting each other—”
The smokescreen thinned, rifts appearing in the murk, showing glimpses of shadowy, indistinct figures stumbling around.
Sam rose, standing on one knee. He stuffed the gun in his belt and unlimbered the mule’s-leg, holding it leveled with both hands. A gap opened in the gray-white billows. A figure stumbled forward, gun in hand, staggering blindly.
It was Wilse. Coughing, choking, waving his arms in front of him, trying to clear away the smoke.
Sam saw him first. The sawed-off Winchester spat, a flat, cracking sound. Drilling Wilse with a center shot. Wilse screamed, falling, the gun skittering from his hand.
Not staying in the same place after firing, Sam rose into a crouch, moving a few paces forward and to the side.
Wilse rolled around on the ground, screaming. “Oh god I’m gut-shot! Somebody help—”
A breeze lifted, blowing masses of smoke east out of the clearing across the creek. The pall thinned, bringing more of the surroundings into view.
Ralph prowled around in a half-crouch, gun swinging from side to side in search of a target. Somebody—not Sam—cut loose, burning Ralph down.
“I got him!” the shooter crowed.
Jeff Parr shouted and stormed, trying to get his men to stop. “Hold your fire, you dumb sons of bitches!”
The smokescreen lifted, thinning, coming apart. Details came into view.
The blast had spooked the flatbed wagon team, sending them plunging west down the trail in an irresistible rush that tore the handbrake loose. They clattered out of sight into the distance, taking the cartload of corpses with them.
Strongman Neal had been standing near the gunpowder keg when it exploded. The blast picked him up and flung him aside. A tree got in the way. His limp, broken body lay draped around it.
One of the metal hoops that ringed the gunpowder keg, holding it together, had been turned by the blast into a white-hot streaking scythe. It hit Dutchie Hiltz in
The clearing in the trees was full of all three. Sam saw that it was thick with armed men, lurking back in the shadows. He made out seven of them. Gunmen. Outlaws. Cocky bastards, sure of themselves. A type he knew and didn’t like.
He could feel the rage within him, ever-present just below the surface, begin to freeze into a ball of burning ice.
There were more of them than he expected, but he didn’t find their numbers particularly daunting. He trusted to skill and nerve to see him through. And if not—what the hell?
The keg of gunpowder on top of a boulder decided him on his play. The stopper in its tophole indicated that it was full.
Sam took a mental picture of the layout, memorizing the positions of his foes relative to himself, the clearing and each other. He didn’t wait for Remy to run out his taunting line. He stole a march on him and the others, taking the initiative.
He drew and put two balls of hot lead into the keg. Came a flash of blinding glare, intolerable heat, noise, pressure—a big boom!
Sam was ready for it, having already worked his booted feet clear of the stirrups. He threw himself off the saddle to the right.
Choking masses of gray-white smoke boiled through the clearing, veiling the scene. Sam hit the ground with a jarring thud, rolling to the side to avoid the horse’s stamping hooves. He lay flat as debris rained down around him, tree-branches and boughs pelting the ground. The gun was still gripped in his hand. The blast left him temporarily half-deaf.
The smoke began to break up. Cries, shouts and shots erupted. Wild bursts of gunfire. The sounds were muffled in Sam’s ringing ears, taking on a curious air of unreality.
Slugs speared through the smoke, zipping past. Somebody shrieked in pain, the cry suddenly choked off.
A voice—Jeff Parr’s—shouted, “Stop firing, you blamed fools! You’re only shooting each other—”
The smokescreen thinned, rifts appearing in the murk, showing glimpses of shadowy, indistinct figures stumbling around.
Sam rose, standing on one knee. He stuffed the gun in his belt and unlimbered the mule’s-leg, holding it leveled with both hands. A gap opened in the gray-white billows. A figure stumbled forward, gun in hand, staggering blindly.
It was Wilse. Coughing, choking, waving his arms in front of him, trying to clear away the smoke.
Sam saw him first. The sawed-off Winchester spat, a flat, cracking sound. Drilling Wilse with a center shot. Wilse screamed, falling, the gun skittering from his hand.
Not staying in the same place after firing, Sam rose into a crouch, moving a few paces forward and to the side.
Wilse rolled around on the ground, screaming. “Oh god I’m gut-shot! Somebody help—”
A breeze lifted, blowing masses of smoke east out of the clearing across the creek. The pall thinned, bringing more of the surroundings into view.
Ralph prowled around in a half-crouch, gun swinging from side to side in search of a target. Somebody—not Sam—cut loose, burning Ralph down.
“I got him!” the shooter crowed.
Jeff Parr shouted and stormed, trying to get his men to stop. “Hold your fire, you dumb sons of bitches!”
The smokescreen lifted, thinning, coming apart. Details came into view.
The blast had spooked the flatbed wagon team, sending them plunging west down the trail in an irresistible rush that tore the handbrake loose. They clattered out of sight into the distance, taking the cartload of corpses with them.
Strongman Neal had been standing near the gunpowder keg when it exploded. The blast picked him up and flung him aside. A tree got in the way. His limp, broken body lay draped around it.
One of the metal hoops that ringed the gunpowder keg, holding it together, had been turned by the blast into a white-hot streaking scythe. It hit Dutchie Hiltz in
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