Benedict and Brazos 17 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: elmore leonard, mistaken identity, action heroes, piccadilly publishing, best western ebook, westerns ebooks, lawmen of the old west, colt 45 and winchester rifle
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Six

A Fine Night to Break Jail

The moon had just risen from the ranges, pouring its silver light across the mountain basin. The black horse moved at an easy lope along the narrow ribbon of trail, while Bullpup, showing the effects of one helping of stew too many back at the ranch house, lagged a little behind.

The trees were beginning to thin out as Benedict approached Sweet Creek, which traversed the basin from east to west. The passing trees soared against the stars, and light streaked where the wind turned the leaves. Ahead, beyond the timber, the trail followed the course of the stream for several hundred yards until it was cut off from sight beyond an enormous black boulder that was shaped like a hard-hitter hat.

Cigar smoke drifted over Benedict’s shoulder as he left the last of the trees and dusted towards the creek. His hour’s rest at the Rocking T had somehow become two, but he could feel the full benefit of the fine meal, two glasses of whisky and pleasant company. According to Mustang Moore, he should be able to make Perona Flats in around three hours. That would bring him to the town some time before midnight—just about the right time for a man looking for stolen cattle. If Casey Cantrell was as successful and cocky as Mustang described him, then he mightn’t have rushed things in getting rid of the cattle. If so ...

The shot came without warning. One instant Benedict was sitting erect in his saddle, and the next the hard, flat slam of the rifle sent him crouching low. The black plunged, startled by the shot, then leaped forward at the unfamiliar sting of a spur. The rifle cracked again as Benedict went careening for the cover of the hat-shaped boulder fifty yards ahead. He heard the bullet whine from gravel and saw another rip a jagged white scar in the boulder the second before he plunged behind it.

Dragging the black to a hock-burning halt, Benedict snatched the Winchester from the saddle scabbard and leaped down. Bullpup, jolted out of his after-supper lethargy by the sound of gunfire, had reached the boulder level with the horse. The big dog barked in defiance as another shot powdered the crown of the rock and howled away with a banshee wail. Benedict cut to the left corner of the rock, dropped flat and peered at the rock wall a hundred yards distant. A small puff of white smoke gusted from a ledge. The bullet hit the rock and the sound of the shot came a split-second later. There were two rifles up there!

No matter how many times a man was fired at, there was a chilling kick to it that Benedict could feel in his stomach. He waited until his heartbeat had slowed, then he lifted the Winchester, froze the sights on the ledge and squeezed trigger.

His answer was a volley of lead, followed by a wild shout:

“You’re gonna need more’n fool luck this time, Benedict!”

There couldn’t be two voices like that in the Misty Mountains.

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