“Why didn’t you?”
Flagg lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t see the point in stopping a cold-blooded killer from killin’ cold-blooded killers. Besides, I get the distinct impression that letting you live would be worse punishment than putting a bullet through your head.”
Hawk stared at the lawman, slowly lowered his rifle. “You do the badge proud, Flagg.”
Flagg slitted his eyes. “We’ll meet again, Hawk.”
Flagg backed away, keeping his eyes on Hawk’s rifle. Twenty yards away, he turned and disappeared in a fold in the hills. A minute later, the lawman reappeared, galloping a steeldust northwest toward El Molina.
Hawk laid the Henry across his saddlebows, keeping his finger through the trigger guard. He lowered his black hat, glanced at the black smoke and the flames.
A horseback figure on the other side of the arroyo caught his eye. Saradee climbed a low, southern rise, stopped at the crest, and turned her horse back toward the arroyo—horse and rider silhouetted against the brassy desert sky.
She stared down the hill and across the arroyo at Hawk. Hawk stared back at her. Finally, she turned her horse, heeled it down the other side of the hill and out of sight.
Hawk turned the grulla and spurred him north.
Peter Brandvold was born and raised in North Dakota. He currently resides in Colorado. Visit his website at www.peterbrandvold.com or send him an e-mail at [email protected].
Cold Corpse, Hot Trail Page 21