Pride of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2018-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

17

A storekeeper ran out on the porch in front of Burns Hat & Boot Shop, shouldering a long-barrel goose gun, taking aim at the first riders to come up Main from the south. Just when he had his feet planted and was ready to fire, a woman’s voice shrieked, “No, Henry! Come back inside!”

The concussion of a shotgun blast bellowed from a gun in the hands of a raider on the back of a galloping, black stud. Smoke was too far away to return fire accurately and he didn’t want to give his position away yet, not until he had plenty of targets he knew he could fell.

Henry Burns was torn from his feet, his shopkeeper’s apron shredded by shotgun pellets, bloodied when a full charge struck him in the chest and face. His goose gun flew from his hands as he toppled off the porch, clutching his belly, landing in the dirt on his side, screaming in pain, his feet kicking helplessly while he thrashed about at the edge of the road.

“Damn,” Smoke whispered, wondering why anyone would run out to face a gang as large as this, armed only with a hunting gun. Some would call it courage—Smoke classed it as stupidity when the odds were so long.

Suddenly the leader of the raiders spurred his horse into a full-tilt charge, headed for the front of the Cattleman’s Bank at top speed, his men spurring their mounts behind him. One of the raiders fired a sawed-off shotgun into a storefront window, and the sounds of shattering glass accompanied the thunder of hooves echoing off buildings lining the road. Inside the Ladies Fine Dress Shop, a woman wailed at the top of her lungs when glass fragments and a pair of dress dummies were blown into the interior of the building. In another part of town a child began to cry incessantly, frightened by the explosions.

Smoke raised his head and shoulders above the false front of the cafe, aiming for the leader of the bunch aboard a racing sorrel gelding. His sights came to rest on the center of the man’s gray Confederate tunic when fate took a hand. The sorrel stumbled, then quickly regained its footing just as a raider on a chestnut moved between the leader and Smoke. Too late, Smoke triggered off a reflexive shot, feeling the Winchester’s stock slam into his shoulder.

A bearded bandit atop the chestnut jolted when Smoke’s slug passed through him. He teetered dangerously in the saddle and then fell off to one side, where he was trampled by running horses behind him, his limp body twisting and turning every time a flying hoof struck him.

Smoke levered another round into the chamber as rapidly as he could, but the raiders had him pinpointed. Pistols and rifles fired up at the roof of Martha’s place, forcing Smoke to duck for cover.

Splintering boards and the crack of dry wood announced the impact of a dozen bullets meant for him. The element of surprise was gone for Smoke and the others trying to defend the town and its banks.

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