Black Hills (9781101559116) by Thompson Rod

Author:Thompson, Rod
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2011-10-20T04:00:00+00:00

And so began the training of a gunfighter. From then on, he would practice every day but Sunday. Practicing on Sunday to kill somebody just seemed wrong. That very day Cormac began the one-hour daily practice routine, drawing from every conceivable position with one or both guns, right- or left-handed. He drew while standing, sitting, lying down, riding on a horse, drawing while rolling and shooting, or diving left or right into a mid-air, roll-over-to-face-backward position.

After that day, without fail, he worked on one-handed draws from either side, the cross draw, drawing a gun from his belt, drawing a right-hand gun with his left hand, and his left hand gun with his right hand. He practiced the border shift, the road agents spin, and any other way he could think of, and he practiced daily. If he was going to stay alive, he would have to be prepared for anything.

Traveling all day was just that: traveling. His mind was dwelling unhappily on events of the last few days. That night he slept restlessly and woke up to the sound of a gun battle in the distant east.

He sighed. “I guess we better go see what’s goin’ on, guys. Better put on your runnin’ legs today, we may need ’em.” Hurriedly, Cormac packed, checked the loads in his guns, filled all the cylinders, and strapped on the Colt. The scattergun was tied on the pack in its normal quick-release fashion, and GERT was comfortably under his right leg. He held the duo to a comfortable gallop a little below full out. He didn’t want them worn out in case he found more than he was bargaining for.

The reports were from several different calibers in spasmodic bursts. A sudden burst of multiple gun voices sounding like single-shot rifles, judging by the rapidity of the shots, would be joined by what sounded like two repeating rifles. Many Indians had gotten their hands on repeating rifles, but not all. The battle sounded like two persons with Winchesters, or maybe Henrys, which had been Winchesters before there were Winchesters, holed up and fighting off a war party of Indians with single-shot rifles.

Unhappily, it was just that. Cormac was correct.

With his long-glass, he could see into a shallow valley from behind a group of hilltop boulders. Two buckskin-clad white men were pinned down in a boulder group encircled by a red-skinned welcoming party. Outnumbered in an indefensible position, it was only a matter of time. Out in the open, the boulders had been easily surrounded. The attackers could draw the fire from one direction and attack from another. Cormac could make out four Indian bodies and one Indian pony carcass sprawled motionless on the ground. The trapped men were not going down easily, but they would eventually go down. Unless they got some help.

“Hang on, boys. Here comes the cavalry.” Dropping back, Cormac made his way around the hill to a stand of Ponderosas on a slight rise and unlimbered GERT. After laying out a few

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