What was this fool’s excuse? Had to be the money.
“Look. All I need’s your head. The rest of you can stay put.”
Rollie shook that wanted head. He had to give the man credit, at least he was forthright. Doesn’t mean I won’t kill him, though, thought Rollie. But first things first, I am pinned down in the outhouse and that cannot stand.
Getting out, he’d have to raise a ruckus, and no way was he exiting through the hole below. Kick out a side wall? He’d have to do it fast, because the man would reposition himself. It was a risk, especially if the crusty hick wasn’t alone.
Or . . . Rollie eyed the man again through the gap in the planks. Wait, wait . . . and there he was, peering around the tree once more. As quiet as he could, Rollie jimmied the tip of the Schofield’s barrel between the planks and eyed down the sights.
“Come on, man!” said the ambusher. “I ain’t got all day!”
“Hold on a second, I’m fixing my trousers—you caught me unawares . . .” That ought to buy time enough to watch the man give a couple more peeks around the tree. And he did.
Amazingly enough the rascal performed his funny little head maneuver as if he were timed. One more and . . . Rollie squeezed a shot. The rough red bark of the tree burst in a ragged cloud. The man’s screams told Rollie he’d not killed him, for a shot to the forehead would have snuffed any ability the man had to carry on so.
Within seconds the invader spun into view, holding his head and whipping in a dervish dance. He slammed into a knee-height granite boulder and flipped over it, collapsing on his back and flailing his legs.
By then Rollie had kicked open the privy door and stomped dead-on at the mewling man. The hot-nerved pulses always with him from too many old wounds prevented Rollie from a full-bore run.
He stood over him, though out of grabbing range, his revolver aimed down at the man’s head. As he suspected, given the man’s howls, his shot had blasted the tree and sent bark and jagged shards of wood into the man’s leering face. From between his grubby, bloody hands poured gore, bubbling about the mouth as the man screamed.
Rollie glanced quickly up at the tree the man had been hiding behind. It was a huge ponderosa and now sported a furrow of raw, honey-color wood chiseled up by the bullet into a ragged wound.
Rollie kicked him hard in the thigh. “Shut up.”
Another two kicks and it worked, the man’s noises tamped down to gasps and chesty sobs. “I . . . I can’t see! Oh God, I can’t see!”
“Take your hands away from your face, fool,” said Rollie.
When the man did, it revealed the reason.
“I can’t go through this life blind!”
“Aw, you won’t be blind for long.”
“Huh? You reckon? I don’t understand.”
Rollie shrugged. “Simple. You aimed to kill me. I figure that favor deserves one in kind.”
“You’re a devil! I heard about you . . . you’re a devil!”
Rollie nodded. “Yep, and next time you decide to dance with one, you best be prepared for things to go against you.”
“But . . . no!”
“Yep. Now, it’s your choice. I can string you up here or I can drag you back to Boar Gulch. I was planning on spending the day up here doing nothing much at all, but you’ve ruined that for me. Thank you very much.”
“What? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
“You were going to kill me, right?”
The blubbering man didn’t answer.
“Right?”
“Yeah, yes, I guess . . .”
“So it’s my turn.”
“No!” The man howled again and snatched up a slender-bladed skinning knife from a sheath at his waist. Before Rollie could figure out what the fool intended to do with it, the man had driven it once, twice into his own gut high, jamming the blade upward.
He got the two stabs in but lost steam. His hand, looking like a red-black glove of silk, trembled and released its shaky grip on the wood-handled knife. The hand dropped to the man’s side, but the knife remained lodged in his breadbasket. Blood pumped and welled, pumped and welled from the fresh wounds.
Rollie wasn’t certain the man had landed a heart wound, but he hadn’t done himself any good. They were mortal wounds, to be sure. Rollie scratched his chin and looked down at the gurgling mess at his feet.
He couldn’t recall ever seeing a man stab his own self to death. No, wait, there was that time in Alameda when he’d walked into that cabin to find that feral half-breed slicing on his own arms and legs for no earthly reason other than he’d been tetched. This fool didn’t have that excuse. Well, maybe a little.
Rollie didn’t like to all-but execute a man. This was rough. But the man was suffering mighty, his breathing was gaspy and ragged, blood bubbles rose and popped in succession up out of a mouth nested somewhere in the man’s soaked, gore-matted beard.
Rollie crouched low, his knees popping, and held the revolver at the man’s head, in case he decided to surprise them both and attack. Not likely, though.
“I’ll not shoot you to ease your passing, as you’ve done yourself in, mister. Your foolhardy ways are about over with. Any last words?”
“Da . . . da . . . devil!”
Rollie breathed deeply, pushed out the breath at about the same time the man’s skinny frame shuddered, then seemed to collapse in on itself. That final, momentous act was a mystery Rollie had witnessed many times but never understood. Maybe one day he’d find out, but not today.
“I expect you’ll meet the King of Devils himself, soon. Give ol’ Scratch my best.”
But the man would hear nothing ever again.
Rollie stood, knees popping once more, and looked around the clearing. Behind him, in the lean-to attached to the cabin, he heard Cap, short for Captain, his gray gelding, whicker.
“How in the hell did my day get off to such a start, Cap?” He turned to face the horse. “What next? What next for Rollie Finnegan?”
He heard no reply but a mountain jay and a far-off breeze through the tall trees. But something told Rollie he wouldn’t have long to wait to find out the answer to his question.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen, the Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Flintlock, and Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers The Doomsday Bunker, Tyranny, and Black Friday.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
Visit the website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
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