Remington 1894 by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

HENRY

. 44 Caliber

Rimfire

Kissing the box, he ran back and slid to a stop in front of a dead bush that might be sturdy enough to serve as a tripod. He dropped to his knees, spilling several brass cartridges with those big, beautiful lead bullets on the top. Vasquez could not hold back the laughter as he picked up a cartridge and shoved it into the rifle.

He spun, jacking the lever, aiming the Yellow Boy at Bloody Zeke The Younger and the one-eyed man in patchwork britches.

“You stay back! Stay back or die.”

Those gringo outlaws stopped, raising their hands.

“Let us help,” the one-eyed idiot said.

“I told you to hold that damned mule.” Vasquez waved the rifle barrel. “Back. Get back.” He lowered his left hand and pulled out the deputy’s revolver. “I can shoot with both hands, you bastards.”

They backed up. He shot a glance at the others. The big Negro stood closest to him, but kept his eyes trained on what was happening below. The gambler just held the reins to his bay horse, and he too focused on what was playing out on the flats. The woman knelt beside the deputy, who, damn it all to hell, had not died already.

“Don’t none of you try to stop me. I’m going to fix the flint on that hijo de la puta.” He hated shotguns.

Dropping the Colt onto the dirt by his knee, he swung the Winchester Yellow Boy around. One shot. That’s all he had in the rifle. For now. But the man chasing Moses Butcher had made a major mistake. He should have given Emilio Vasquez the derringer . . . because with a long gun, Emilio Vasquez had no equal.

The stock pressed tightly against his right shoulder. He felt the wind blowing in from the storm clouds, and moved the barrel to allow for that.

“You gonna shoot that bastard?” the one-eyed coot called out. “Or not.”

Emilio Vasquez grinned. “No. The Indians will kill him.” He let out his breath slowly, relaxing, and squeezed the Winchester’s trigger.

* * *

And just as quickly, the old Pima Indian was somersaulting backwards over the horse, the heavy carbine dropping into the dirt and cactus, blood spurting in the air.

The pony let out a terrifying cry, spun, and galloped back up the hill. About that time, the gunshot from the hill reached McMasters’s ears.

“No!” McMasters screamed as he turned in the saddle. He saw the puff from a rifle, heard the report, and felt the bullet buzz past his ear. At the same time, an arrow tore off his hat from behind him. Then McMasters felt himself leaping from the saddle.

The buckskin bolted a few feet. McMasters rolled over on his back, brought up the shotgun, and found the young Indian charging him, nocking another arrow, charging in for the kill.

There was no chance, no other way. He swung the Remington over, and let one barrel of buckshot blow apart the boy’s face and chest.

He came up to his knees. A bullet from the Indian tore the sand between his legs.

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