Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt

Author:Lyle Brandt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

11

Chip Hardesty cursed bitterly and hurried to reload his Sharps. He rarely missed a shot, couldn’t recall when he had ever failed to drop a man this close to him, and chalked it up to pure bad luck.

Still no excuse.

He pulled down on the rifle’s trigger guard, opened the breech, and shoved a paper cartridge in. The sharp edge of the breech’s rolling block snipped off the rear end of the cartridge, as Hardesty advanced the Maynard tape primer, seating a copper cap filled with mercury fulminate into position for firing. He was fairly quick about it, years of practice on his side—but when he bent back to the rifle’s sights, his man was gone.

Gone where?

That was the question. There were shadows all around that might conceal him, houses standing far enough apart to let a runner slip between them, hedges ringing several of the sparse front yards. He had been counting on a one-shot kill, but now it had become a hunt.

Bad news for someone with a game leg, up against an able-bodied enemy.

Hardesty took a chance, aimed more or less where he’d last seen the target, squeezing off another shot that echoed through the streets of Jefferson. He pictured neighbors cringing in their homes, ducking for cover, then a muzzle flash across the street forced him to drop and grovel as a pistol bullet hummed past, overhead.

Reloading was more difficult while lying belly-down, but he’d grown used to it in combat. Simple motions, hurried without being rushed, a crucial difference in killing situations where a hasty move, a single slip, meant death.

The rifle was his favorite, although it couldn’t match a six-gun’s rate of fire. For that, if he was forced to work close in, Hardesty had an old Colt Walker Model 1847 tucked under his belt, gouging a kidney as he lay prone on the ground.

He had to glance down at the Sharps, couldn’t reload it in the dark by feel alone, and lost track of his adversary as he cranked the tape primer forward, its scorched paper strip dangling over the rifle’s receiver. Hardesty thumbed back the hammer, eyes straining into the night for a scurry of movement, feeling as if he’d gone blind.

Where in hell was the Yankee?

Why in hell hadn’t he asked for more shooters to help him?

Too late. After three shots, he knew someone had to be fetching the law. Not bad news, necessarily, what with the sheriff behind him, but Hardesty knew it was better to just slip away if he could, try again under better conditions next time. He hated disappointing Mr. Coker, but he didn’t fear the boss man when you got right down to it. If Coker tried to punish Hardesty over a twist of fate, he’d better think again.

No movement yet, across the street, and he was easing backward into deeper shadows, lurching to his feet on one good leg, when Ryder fired again. This time, the bullet notched Hardesty’s hat brim, nearly took it off his head.

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