Dig Your Own Grave by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2019-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

It was late afternoon when he reached the fork where the trail from Camp Supply connected with the river trail five miles north of Brinker’s trading post. Brinker’s had figured in with all three of his prior arrests, but he didn’t expect to find either of the remaining two outlaws there now. He was sure they were now too cautious to venture outside Grassy Creek, and that thought was verified by the empty hitching rail he saw when he approached. He was going to have to stop pretty soon to rest his horse after the extra hard day’s ride. Ordinarily, the trading post would be the place to stop. However, Brinker was not likely to welcome him after he had started systematically thinning out his customers, and it might well be a good place to expect a bullet in the back. So he walked his horse past the saloon/store. “There’s a nice little stream about four or five miles down this trail,” he said to Buster. “We’ll stop there and give you a nice long rest—might as well camp there for the night.”

Buster isn’t the only one who is tired, he thought, as he continued along the trail. He had pushed on longer than usual the night before and that, added to the long day today, was enough to make him think about some coffee and something to eat. The setting sun threatening to settle on the western horizon seemed to signal it was quitting time as well. And sometimes, when he was feeling tired, his thoughts drifted back to Bennett House and the young woman waiting for him there. This was one of those times. A picture popped into his mind of the last time he had seen her. She was not too happy with him. Maybe I should have sent her a telegram when I was at Camp Supply, he thought, at least to tell her I miss her and hope I’ll be through with this mess before much longer. Maybe in time she would be a little more understanding of a deputy marshal’s job and the responsibility he had to go when and where he was needed. He knew that she was upset because he had promised to take her to see the J-Bar-J ranch in Texas where, hopefully, he would soon retire from law enforcement and return to his roots raising cattle. I should have sent her a telegram, he scolded himself as he approached the thick border of trees that traced the course of the stream up ahead. The thought was immediately swept away by the snap of the bullet that narrowly missed his head and the sound of the rifle that fired it a second afterward.

There was no need for thinking, instinct and automatic reaction took over. He wheeled Buster to his right toward the setting sun, at the same time lying low on the big buckskin’s neck and yelled, “Go!” In that moment, when a second shot zipped over the horse’s rump, he didn’t know if he had kicked his heels sharply or not, but Buster didn’t hesitate.

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