“Oh, hell!” Slash said, drawing the envelope out of his coat pocket. “Here, take the blasted money!” He threw the envelope down. In doing so, he revealed the small, silver-chased, pearl-gripped over-and-under derringer he’d also pulled out of his pocket and that was residing in the palm of his right hand.
He flipped the gun upright. He closed his right index finger over one of the two eyelash triggers housed inside the brass guard. He shoved the pretty little popper down toward the kid, who blinked up at him, slow to comprehend what he’d just spied in Slash’s hand, his mind still on the money beside his right boot.
There was a pop like a stout branch snapping under a heavy foot.
The kid flinched as though he’d been pestered by a fly. His eyes snapped wide. Instantly, the rifle tumbled from his hands as he lifted them toward the ragged hole in the right side of his slender, lightly freckled neck.
A half an eye wink after the derringer spoke, Pecos, recovering miraculously from his near-death experience, shoved his right hand beneath the driver’s seat just off his right shoulder. He closed his hand around the neck of the twelve-gauge sawed-off shotgun housed there in the strap-iron cage he’d rigged for it, constructed to resemble part of the seat’s spring frame.
He pulled the short, savage-looking gut-shredder out from beneath the seat and swung it in a broad arc toward the limey, who’d just turned to stare in shock toward where the kid’s precious bodily fluids were geysering out of the hole in his neck. As the Brit’s eyes flicked toward Pecos, dropping his lower jaw in sudden exasperation as he began raising his rifle once more, Pecos tripped one of the double-bore’s two triggers.
The limey’s head turned tomato-red and bounded backward off the man’s shoulders. Even as the limey was still raising the Spencer in his hands, his head bounced into the brush and rocks beside the trail.
As the head continued rolling and bouncing, like a child’s bright-red rubber ball, Slash slid the smoking derringer toward Cord, who shouted, “Hey!” and lunged forward, raising his Henry repeater. The gray-eyed Cord didn’t quite get the butt plate snugged against his shoulder before Slash squeezed the pretty little popper’s second eyelash trigger.
Having only one more round with which to save himself from St. Pete’s bitter judgment, Slash decided to play the odds. He aimed for the redheaded mongrel’s broad chest and curled his upper lip in satisfaction as the bullet nipped the end off the man’s string tie as it plowed through his shirt into his breastbone and then probably into his heart.
“Oh!” the redhead said through a grunt, looking down at his chest in shock as he staggered backward, the Henry wilting in his arms.
At least, it appeared to Slash that “Oh!” is what the man said as the bullet shredded his ticker. He didn’t know for sure, for the man’s exclamation, whatever it was, was resolutely drowned out by the second, dynamite-like blast of Pecos’s twelve-gauge on the other side of the wagon.
That fist-sized round of double-ought buck punched through the chest of the Mexican, who, just like his cohort on the other side of the mules from him, was bounding forward as he realized he and his brethren had just found themselves in dire straits. He didn’t get his rifle raised even halfway before the buckshot picked him two feet off the ground and hurled him straight back into the brush already bloodied by the limey’s disembodied head.
Meanwhile, Slash looked at the redheaded mongrel who’d stumbled backward to sit down against a boulder a few feet off the trail. He sat there against the rock, his chest rising and falling sharply as blood continued to well out of his chest and turn his shirt dark red.
He stared at Slash in slack-jawed, wide-eyed shock and said, “I’ll be damned if you didn’t kill me.”
“If I hit your ticker, then you’d be correct,” Slash said. “Do you think I hit your ticker? There’s a chance it might have ricocheted off your brisket and missed your heart. If so, I’d better reload.”
Cord shook his head once, his gray eyes glazed with deepening shock and exasperation. “No, no. You got my ticker, all right.” He paused, staring at Slash, then added simply, “Hell,” because in his shock and mind-numbing realization that he was teetering on the lip of the cosmos, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Slash couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know from personal experience, of course, but he was sure that the place where Cord was just now entering was hard for a mere mortal to wrap his mind around. Slash would know soon enough. Every day, he was a little closer and more and more aware of that bitter fact . . .
Slash looked at the kid, who was rolling around on the ground, squealing like a stuck pig and cursing like a gandy dancer, clamping his hands over his neck, for all the good it did him. He was losing blood fast.
Slash looked across the wagon to see the carnage Pecos’s shotgun had left in the brush over there. He glanced at his partner, who was just then breaking open his twelve-gauge and plucking out the smoking, spent wads.
“How’s your ticker?” Slashed asked him.
Pecos grinned. “Better.”
Slash chuckled as he climbed down off the side of the high, stout wagon, a Pittsburgh freighter he and Pecos had bought along with the business. He walked over to the brush where he’d tossed his weapons and picked up one of his .45s.
“I need help,” the kid croaked out, sitting up against a rock, holding his hands over his neck.
“You’re askin’ the wrong jake, kid.”
“Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”
“Kid, even if you weren’t already a goner, I’d still kill you. Think I’d leave a little demon like you alive to sow your demon seed? What this world does not need is more of you.”
The kid’s eyes appeared ready to pop out of their sockets. “Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”
Slash killed him with a neat, round hole through the middle of the kid’s forehead.
The demon spawn fell back against the ground and lay quivering.
“Kid,” Slash said, flicking open his Colt’s loading gate and shaking out the spent round, “I’ve come to know that what we want in this life and what we get are very rarely the same damn thing.” He glanced at Pecos staring down at him from the driver’s boot. “Ain’t that right, partner?”
Pecos laughed and shook his head as he shoved his shotgun back into its cage beneath the seat. “Partner, sometimes your wisdom astounds me. Purely, it does!”
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.
">share
They Came to Kill Page 31