Most important of all, he knew what set them off and what didn’t. As Muchado had just discovered, a load of birdshot would not detonate an M67. It would, however, destroy the grenade if fired from a close enough range. Mason ran through his options as the grenade flew toward him. Shooting it from a distance would leave the grenade viable, very likely injuring or killing him. But waiting with the hopes of destroying it was an all-or-nothing gamble. If he missed, or if it failed to be demolished by the birdshot, he was dead, simple as that.
He let out half a breath and watched as the grenade closed in—fifteen yards, ten, five, three.
Blam!
The shotgun bucked, and nearly all of the six hundred tiny lead pellets ripped into the grenade, obliterating it.
Mason immediately dropped prone, unconsciously holding his breath. No sooner had he hit the ground, than an explosion sounded. But it wasn’t from his grenade. It was from Muchado’s.
A split second later, the big Mexican howled in agony. Mason cautiously raised his head to see him lying on his back, screaming, while clutching his face with both hands. One of his knees had also folded backwards, the femur bone protruding through a bloody flap of skin. Despite his injuries, he had been lucky. The shock wave and shrapnel from the grenade could have just as easily killed him.
As Mason sat up, something soft brushed the back of his hand. He turned to find the grey kitten curling up against him, still dazed from its aerial adventure. Despite the rough landing, it seemed no worse for wear.
He gently scooped up the kitten and set it in his shotgun pouch.
“Look at you,” he said, giving it a gentle rub under the chin. “You’re not even eight weeks old, and you’ve already lost one of your lives.”
It gave a soft, squeaky meow.
Mason stood up, letting the shotgun settle into the crook of his arm. As he walked toward the scoreboard to mark the winner’s box, he heard the unmistakable sound of muted applause from the crowd. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Had they suddenly realized that the brutal murder of petty criminals and fuzzy felines was horribly unjust? More likely, they were shifting their allegiances, and bets, to the contestant they thought might bring home the prize.
He did his best to ignore them. Three of the five scheduled gunfighters had fallen, and one had voluntarily withdrawn. That meant there was only one more to go. Unfortunately, there was no doubt in Mason’s mind that The Reverend wouldn’t go down easily.
“I think I’ll call him Gunsmoke,” Jessie said, stroking the kitten. She turned to Mason. “You’re sure you don’t want to keep him?”
Mason reached down and gave Bowie a hearty pat on the side.
“I’m afraid Bowie might have him for a late-night snack.”
“Nah. Bowie wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, boy?”
Bowie licked his lips, and they both laughed.
“Okay, fine,” she said. “Maybe it is better if he stays with me.” Jessie kissed the kitten on the nose. The little fellow was nearly asleep, and she gently placed him on the hood of the RV while they talked.
Bowie propped up on the bumper with his front feet and sniffed the kitten. It purred and slowly closed its eyes. The big wolfhound nudged it, but the kitten refused to stir. Losing interest, he hopped back down and settled onto the dirt next to the RV’s front tire.
Jessie moved closer to Mason, reaching out and taking his hands in hers.
“Only one more to go.” Despite her words, she sounded nervous.
“I’ll be all right.”
“You say that, but The Reverend seems more dangerous than the others. Ruthless and cold, like something that crawled out of a graveyard.”
“He’s just a man.”
“Maybe.” She stared off toward the parade grounds. Ramsey and his men were busy clearing the field. “Do you know what the challenge is?”
“Leroy said it’s going to be a simple showdown, one man facing the other. I even get to use my Supergrade.”
“That’s gives you an advantage, right?”
Mason thought of The Reverend’s Nighthawk VIP. It was on par with his Supergrade, and he suspected that its handler was as well.
Jessie searched his face. “You’re worried that he’s faster than you. I can see it in your eyes.”
“You’re not much for pep talks, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“It’s all right. But you need to remember that speed isn’t all that matters.”
“It’s not?”
“Wyatt Earp once said that ‘Fast is fine, but accuracy is everything. In a gun fight, you need to take your time in a hurry.’”
“Take your time in a hurry? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you can’t only worry about speed. You also have to hit your target when your heart’s pounding and your hand’s shaking.”
“That fire in your belly that you were telling me about. You think it will help you.”
“It has so far. Besides, The Reverend is afflicted by the same vices as every other man.”
“What vices?”
“Arrogance, impatience, stubbornness, and greed, to name but a few.”
“Okay. But how does that help you?”
“The difference in speed between two great gunfighters might be a hundredth of a second. If you can cause the one who’s faster to think a little harder than normal, that hundredth of a second can easily change hands.”
“So you do think he’s faster.”
Mason shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ve never seen him face off against an equal.”
“If he were a hair faster,” she said, pinching two fingers together as if measuring a small distance, “what could you do to slow him down?”
“Cause a little doubt, or anger. Anything to get his mind off the draw.”
“Okay,…” she said, thinking. “So how are you going to do that?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“But you need—”
“Jessie,” he said, cutting her off, “no amount of worry is going to change what happens. Trust that I’ll get it done.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
His voice softened. “I learned a long time ago that when two men face one another, whether it’s across a judo mat or holding knives in a dark alley, the winner is often determined not by who has the greatest skill, but by who brought the most heart to the fight.”
She rested her palms on his chest and looked up at him.
“Then I know everything’s going to be okay, because you have the heart of a hundred lions.”
Mason kissed her on the forehead.
“Now that’s more like it.”
The crowd had grown to well over a thousand, nearly every adult in the camp coming out to see the big finale. Money would be won, and money would be lost. But what was perhaps most alluring was the prospect that a previously obscure U.S. Marshal might actually defeat all of the gunfighters through true mano-a-mano competitions. It was the stuff of legends, and everyone wanted to be able to say they were there when it happened. If it happened.
Mason stood a few paces from The Reverend, quietly studying him. The man’s black suit was meticulous, and his straight brimmed preacher-style hat sat level on a head of wispy silver hair. He had a dark brooding presence and wickedly fast hands, but other than that, Mason knew very little about him.
The craftsmanship of his rig looked superb, probably made by Gary Brommeland, Milt Sparks, Don Hering, or one of the other great holster makers. There was a notch in the front to allow the muzzle to clear the holster that much faster. As for his weapon, the Nighthawk VIP was as fine as any 1911 ever made. Where Mason’s Supergrade had been built with function in mind, the VIP added a sense of flair, with its hand-engraved nickel finish, 14-karat gold bead, and giraffe bone grips.
Jane Austen had once suggested that the difference between pride and vanity is that those who are proud are concerned with how they see themse
lves, whereas those who are vain are consumed by what others think of them.
Mason smiled. Before him was a man whose worth was determined by what others said it was worth. And that, he thought, might well be his weakness.
“Find something amusing?” the Reverend said in a hollow voice.
“I was just admiring your getup. Really nice. Sort of a Doc Holliday meets Father Lankester Merrin.” Mason raised his hands, palms out. “But hey, no offense intended. It works for a man of your age.”
The Reverend’s brow furrowed.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Truth is, you remind me of an old firearms instructor I once had. You should have seen that guy, fast as a rattlesnake. Well, until the arthritis started up, that is. Poor guy couldn’t hold a spoon the last time I saw him. Lovely fellow, though.”
“I’ve killed twenty-seven men with these hands.” The Reverend held out his hands to show how steady they were. Unfortunately, his annoyance had introduced the slightest of tremors, and both men saw it. He quickly lowered them back to his side.
Mason turned to Leroy. “You should probably announce that to the crowd. Twenty-seven is a very impressive number.”
Leroy cracked a smile, obviously enjoying the show.
The Reverend clenched his jaw. “You must think you’re pretty funny.”
“Me? Funny? Nah. Now my father, he’s a hoot. If he were here, he’d probably say something like ‘What does a Christmas tree and a reverend have in common?’”
The Reverend pressed his lips together, saying nothing.
“Don’t know? The answer is that their balls are just for decoration.” Mason offered him a prize-winning smile.
Leroy snickered, but based on The Reverend’s scowl, he saw nothing funny about it.
“I’m going to put a bullet through your eye.”
“This one?” Mason winked his right eye. “Or this one?” He blinked the other eye.
The Reverend seemed at a loss for words. What should have had Mason shaking in his boots was bringing only a playful grin.
Ramsey hurried over and said, “We’re ready, boss.”
“All right, gentlemen,” said Leroy. “It’s show time.”
Leroy turned and escorted them onto the field. The distance had been carefully marked off in five-yard increments with stripes of white paint, like a Little League football field. Facing the crowd, he brought the bullhorn to his mouth.
“This challenge will be a test of both speed and accuracy. The contestants will start at a distance of fifty yards. Each man must wait for the sound of my pistol before drawing his weapon. If either competitor draws early, he will be shot.” Leroy pointed to Ramsey, who proudly slapped the stock of his rifle. “Each competitor will have but a single cartridge in their weapon. If both competitors miss or fail to drop their opponent, they will move ten yards closer, reload, and repeat the draw. Like previous matches, it ends when one man is unable or unwilling to continue.”
He brought the bullhorn down and turned to Mason and The Reverend.
“Any questions?”
Mason raised a hand.
“Go ahead.”
Mason spoke in a loud voice so that much of the crowd could hear.
“I was wondering if we could make it a little closer on account of The Reverend’s eyesight.”
People began to chuckle, and it slowly spread through the crowd.
The Reverend lunged toward Mason, and Leroy quickly stepped between them.
“You’ll get your chance soon enough.”
Nostrils flaring, The Reverend slowly took a step back.
Leroy turned to Mason and pointed further down the field.
“You’re on that end, Rickles. The Reverend stays put.”
Mason followed Ramsey out to his respective position. It was the longest fifty yards he could ever remember walking.
Once Mason was standing on the designated mark, Ramsey leaned in and said, “Vodka or whisky?”
“Excuse me?”
His melted face twisted into an unsightly grin.
“I plan on pissing on your grave tonight. I was just wondering if you preferred I drink vodka or whisky.”
Mason slowly shook his head. “I’ve never been a betting man, but if I were, I’d wager that I’m going to be there when you take your last breath.”
Ramsey’s eyes tightened, but he said nothing more as he strode off the field.
With his hand resting on his Supergrade, Mason turned and faced The Reverend. The dark stranger stood in the distance, looking more like an undertaker than a man of God. A hundred things tried to push their way into his mind. Was Jessie watching? What would Bowie do if he saw his master shot? Had he unnerved The Reverend enough to cause a mistake? Did he even need to?
He let out a calming breath and felt his heart slow.
None of it mattered.
The only thing that mattered was the draw.
The crack of Leroy’s pistol sounded.
Mason had heard it said that time slows down when people face a high-stress situation. For him, that had never been true. Instead, reflexes took over, his body moving on its own volition while his mind stood idly by to witness the motion.
The gunshot hadn’t even finished echoing before Mason’s gun cleared the holster. Trying to hip shoot at fifty yards was all but asking for a miss. Instead, he used both hands to push the pistol out in front of him as he took a giant step to the left.
He saw the muzzle flash from The Reverend’s weapon at the exact moment he felt the Supergrade buck in his hands. Both men stood completely still, the crowd whisper-quiet as they waited to see who would fall.
And then it happened.
The Reverend slowly dropped to his knees, his gun wavering in his hand.
Mason released the slide and pushed the Supergrade back into its holster as he walked slowly toward the man. Leroy and Ramsey were also coming onto the field.
As he drew closer, Mason saw that the bullet had struck him in the center of his sternum. Blobs of blood burped onto the man’s white shirt with each pulse of his heart. The Reverend teetered for a moment and then fell back across his legs. His eyes remained open, but spittle and blood sprayed with every breath.
The Nighthawk VIP lay beside his open hand, its slide also locked to the rear.
Mason knelt beside him and picked up the weapon. The only thing he could compare it to was the soft flesh of a woman’s breast. It was that beautiful. He leaned over and placed the pistol atop the dark stranger’s chest. With his last bit of strength, The Reverend lifted his hands and rested them on it as if determined to take it with him into whatever afterlife awaited.
They stared at one another, one gunfighter to another, saying nothing. The crowd stood absolutely mesmerized, watching as the victor paid his final respects to his enemy.
The Reverend let out a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Mason stood and turned to Leroy. His old friend lifted the bullhorn up to his mouth, and when he spoke, his tone was one of reverence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have our winner.”
Chapter 21
Tanner and Samantha could hardly believe their eyes. Issa stood before them, the heavy Merkel clutched tightly in both hands. A dark purple bruise covered one side of her face, and the corner of her lower lip was split. Before either of them could say a word, she wheeled around and swept the crowd with the big rifle’s muzzle.
“Leave them be!” she hissed.
The infected suddenly seemed uncertain. Many began to take small steps backward. Whether it was the Merkel making them rethink their attack or simply the fury in her eyes, something gave them pause.
Issa slowly backed toward Tanner and Samantha. When she was within a few feet, she said over her shoulder, “What are you two doing here?”
“We could ask you the same thing,” Tanner said, still trying to mentally piece together a story that made any sense whatsoever that would involve her being part of an infected raiding party.<
br />
“We were out looking for you,” Samantha said, piping in.
“You shouldn’t have come after me. I’m fine.”
“You say that,” said Tanner, “but you look like you ran into the same lamppost we did. What happened?”
Before Issa could answer, General Korn pushed his way through the crowd. He was unlike the others, not only in his size, but because the midline of his skull was striped with a thick sagittal crest, like that of a great ape. An M16 hung across one shoulder, but against the man’s size, the weapon looked more like a child’s toy than an actual assault rifle.
Tanner recognized Mother’s most trusted general immediately. Not only had they fought for Issa’s hand, they had also co-led the assault on Mount Weather. But that was when Tanner had been infected with Dr. Jarvis’s blood. Now, he had no idea what to expect.
Issa swung the Merkel toward him.
“Tell them to back off.”
Korn said nothing, instead taking a moment to study Tanner.
Tanner wondered if he even remembered him. The worst of the infected tended to be simpleminded. The fact that he was carrying a rifle was surprising enough. During their assault on Mount Weather, Korn’s army had resorted to such primitive weaponry as the nail boards, and Tanner had assumed that they were incapable of fully understanding more sophisticated armament.
Korn stepped closer, walking past Issa as if thoroughly unimpressed by the big rifle. He came to within a few feet of Tanner and stopped. Tanner straightened, meeting the man’s stare even as he towered over him. He had defeated Korn in hand-to-hand combat once before, but a rematch was not on his must-do list.
“Tanner is a friend,” Korn said in his deep voice. He stepped closer and wrapped his thick arms around him. “Friend,” he repeated, pounding Tanner on the back hard enough to leave a bruise.
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 27