by Ralph Cotton
“Shoot me, Ranger. I dare you,” he continued to taunt. “You won’t shoot me. You’re afraid to—!”
His words cut short as Sam stepped behind him, placed his right boot between his shoulders and shoved him forward. Phipps landed with a grunt and a solid thud. Sam wrapped three turns of rope around his thick knees and dogged the rope down.
“That ought to do it,” he said quietly. Phipps struggled, but Sam could see he was wearing out.
“What about me . . . over here?” Freddie Dobbs called out in a weak voice. Sam saw him sitting up unsteadily on the ground. Blood ran freely from a bullet hole in his upper shoulder.
“I’m coming, Dobbs,” Sam called out, dusting dirt from his hands. “Keep breathing in and out.”
“That’s . . . real funny,” Dobbs rasped.
Sam helped the big outlaw to his feet and steadied him for a moment. Phipps’ forehead carried a swollen welt the size and shape of the Ranger’s rifle butt. Blood trickled down from the welt and dripped from his nose. Sam tugged on the short length of rope in his hand.
“Let’s go, Boomer,” he said.
The outlaw looked down groggily at his knees with the rope wrapped securely around them. He took a short six-inch step forward, swaying, his huge arms bound against his sides.
“How am I supposed to walk like this?” he asked.
“Real slow,” the Ranger replied flatly.
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