Western Union by Paul Bedford

Author:Paul Bedford [Bedford, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Taylor Shard had glimpsed the arrival of the two reinforcements, and immediately knew what that meant: ‘Those bastards are gonna be down my throat any time now,’ he muttered to his unresponsive horse. And sure enough, after a brief discussion, he saw them split up and head off in opposite directions. With a sharpshooter just itching to blow his head off, Shard couldn’t afford to show himself, and yet somehow he had to defend both flanks at once.

Most other men would have felt the icy grip of panic, but he’d been in tight spots before, and well knew that he couldn’t afford to scare. An old-timer had once said to him, ‘Don’t ever scare, boy. ’Cause if you do, you’re dead for sure!’

Knowing that the sharpshooter was unlikely to fire his single shot until his men had flushed out their prey, Shard risked a swift glance around one side of his ‘barricade’. For a man of his experience it was enough, and told him all that he needed to know. In spite of their best efforts, one of the riders seemed likely to reach him ever so slightly before the other. It wasn’t much, but it gave him an edge of sorts.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, the scout drew and cocked his Colt Navy, and placed it on the grass. Then he rolled over, and curled up against the belly of his animal, clutching his carbine. Even with a repeater, he would only get the time for one shot with it. The sound of pounding hoofs drummed in his ears, as both assailants swept in at great speed.

And then they were upon him . . . or rather one of them was. A shot crashed out, but the uniformed rider was attempting to both control his mount and shoot. The ball tore into the ground mere inches from Shard’s belly, as he took a far more controlled aim at the looming figure. His Spencer literally belched forth death, as the heavy calibre bullet smashed into the man’s chest, lifting him out of the saddle.

Dropping the carbine like a hot coal, Shard twisted like an eel to reach his Colt. His fingers closed around it just as the second horseman reached him. This time the two shots were so close that they could have been one, and the muzzle flashes seemed to mingle. A terrible burning sensation lanced into the mountain man’s left arm, but all his concentration remained on his opponent. That luckless individual had taken the ball in his right thigh, and was howling with pain even as he tried to control his rearing animal.

It was then that Shard made his only mistake. Recognizing that he had merely wounded his opponent, and fired up for the kill, he rose up slightly to get a better shot. The rebel known as Decker momentarily had his back to the cursed Yankee, who didn’t hesitate: discharging his Colt Navy for a second time, he managed to place the .36 calibre ball squarely between Decker’s shoulder blades.

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