The Violent Land by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2012-03-20T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-two

Rainwater ran in steady streams from the brim of Smoke’s hat as he walked around the camp. He had spent plenty of wet nights on the trail, so it didn’t particularly bother him. He had been on cattle drives where it seemed like it rained all the time, and back when he had been wanted unjustly by the law, he had been at the mercy of the elements on many occasions.

At least it wasn’t cold tonight. A cold, steady rain truly was miserable.

The downpour also meant that campfires weren’t possible, so everyone had had a cold supper and the only lights came from candles or oil lamps or kerosene lanterns inside the wagons. Most of the vehicles were dark, though. After a long day on the trail, people were worn out and ready to sleep.

Smoke, Preacher, and four other men walked their patrol around the wagons, spread out so they could cover the whole camp fairly well. Smoke knew that no one expected any trouble on a night such as this....

And that just made him even more wary than usual. If he knew that the immigrants might let down their guard because of the storm, then Klaus Berger was probably aware of it, too. Smoke knew he didn’t have to worry about Preacher, but he had tried to impress on the other sentries that they had to remain alert at all times.

Smoke had ventured about twenty yards outside the circle of wagons, walking along with the mud sucking at his boots, when his right foot struck something. The yielding nature of it warned him right away what it might be.

He took a quick step back and slid his rifle from under his slicker. Dropping into a crouch, he waited for lightning to strike again, and when it did a moment later, he saw just what he expected to see in the brief, flickering glare.

One of the guards lay on the ground, face turned to the sky so that the hard rain washed away the blood welling from the gaping wound in his neck. His throat had been cut so deeply it had almost decapitated him.

That meant his killer was probably inside the circle of wagons already.

Smoke turned and dashed toward the camp. He leaped over a wagon tongue, and as his boots splashed in the thick mud, he caught a flare of light in the corner of his eye. It came from underneath one of the wagons. Smoke whirled in that direction in time to see a man holding the match he had just struck to a length of fuse attached to a stick of dynamite.

Smoke brought the Winchester to his shoulder, aimed, and fired, all in one smooth, efficient motion. The man who had crawled under the wagon cried out in pain and surprise and dropped the dynamite. The fuse sputtered out as the explosive cylinder landed in a puddle of mud and rainwater.

The man was down but not out of the fight. He must have clawed a revolver from its holster, because muzzle flame stabbed from underneath the wagon where he lay.

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