Gun (A Spur Western Book 8) by Matt Chisholm

Author:Matt Chisholm
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: peter watts, matt chisholm, outlaws in the west, sam spur, cy james, best western ebook, western fiction ebook, outlaws 1880s usa, old west ebook, us frontier western fiction
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Thirteen

Burt Simons sat his horse, watching the Indian in the moonlight working over the sign with a ready-made broom of brush. The man worked intently, moving backward.

When the shooting from the rocks started, they were maybe a quarter-mile from the spot. The Indian at once jerked upright.

Simons said: ‘Go ahead, hurry it up.’

The Indian continued with his work, but his full attention was no longer on it. Simons could feel the tension in him. He was preparing to be spooked. Simons knew they couldn’t afford to lose the man until he had gotten them safely back to town. After that he would be of no value to them.

Silence rested on the night. Simons listened for the sounds of Bell’s horse getting on the move, but he heard nothing.

Then suddenly there was a shot and his experienced ears knew that it had come from a belt-gun. Had Bell swopped weapons or had the attacked man fired? There was a pause of silence and then there came another shot.

Now the Indian was spooked. He straightened up and started toward his pony.

‘Stay put,’ Simons said, ‘or I’ll drop you.’

The Indian stopped.

Simons concentrated on listening. A long time seemed to pass and then he heard hoofs going east along the malpais. He gave a sigh of relief. That would mean that Martie Bell was circling east. They would meet up further along the trail.

Simons said: ‘All right, Billy. Mount up and we’ll ride.’

With relief, the Indian sprang to his pony and stepped into the saddle. They wheeled their animals and rode slowly south. After about fifteen minutes, Simons heard a horse moving toward them from the east. There was a lot of low brush around and it was hard to spot a horseman in the moonlight until he was pretty close to you. Simons and the Indian halted.

A short while after, Simons saw a dim figure moving toward them in the moonlight.

‘Martie?’ he called.

The rider stopped.

An alarm sounded in Simons’ head. Hastily, he reached down and wrenched his rifle from the boot under his right leg. When his attention was once more wholly on the rider, he realized that the man was no longer in the saddle.

‘Get down, Billy,’ he said.

The Indian didn’t move. His nervousness was communicated to his horse and the animal danced this way and that.

‘Goddam you,’ Simons said, ‘get down.’ He swung himself out of the saddle.

The Indian’s response was to whirl his horse and to kick it in the ribs. He cried out shrilly to it and the animal jumped forward. Simons was confused and enraged. His instinct was to blow the damn fool out of the saddle. But, when the shot came, it didn’t come from his rifle. It came from that of the man out there in the brush. It passed a foot to Simons’ right and he flung himself down. His horse skittered off to the right, trod on its trailing line and stopped.

What a mess, Simons thought. There was Bell back there on the malpais most likely shot.

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