Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek by Mickey Spillane

Author:Mickey Spillane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2021-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

A terrible two seconds passed in which general gunfire might have broken out and carnage would have stained scarlet the white banks on either side of Sugar Creek.

Perhaps it was the rearing of the horses under the Bar-O boys that prevented the third second from being filled with blood and gunsmoke. Maybe it was Willa’s crew already having their guns in hand that gave the Circle G crowd momentary pause, or possibly the frantic, unsettling whinnies and neighs of the horses behind them, tied to pines.

Finally it was Caleb York himself moving to the very edge of the water—holding a palm out behind him to the men whose hands hovered over their sidearms—as he shouted, “Collect your men and go, Jackson! Or there’ll be nothing but dead men left to do it.”

Jackson, still settling his horse, said nothing, but to his credit he too was signaling his men with an upraised palm to hold back.

Then the Bar-O foreman shouted, “You’ll have to answer for this, Sheriff!”

York’s voice echoed across the stream, which ran along on its almost languid way, untouched by human conflict. “Tell your mistress I will call on her yet today! If there’s to be killing, let it wait!”

The tension in the air was palpable—the Bar-O riders with their guns trained, the Circle G men on their feet with hands over holstered weapons.

The horse under him steady now, Jackson climbed down and, with the help of another cowhand, draped the body of Manning Clements over the dead man’s saddle. Jackson spoke to his helper, who nodded, and then was heading back through the scrubby trees leading the corpse’s horse.

“This don’t end it!” Jackson called, ready to ride again.

And with a sweeping hand motion, the foreman led the cowpunchers and the two remaining gunhands away, with only scowls thrown back at their opponents and, thankfully, not bullets.

The rough bunch on the Circle G shore laughed and boasted and milled, and several came over to slap the sheriff on the back. York—relieved though he was to have limited this encounter to one fatality—was in no mood for congratulation.

Then Colman was at his side, for once wearing neither smirk nor sneer, but in no celebratory mood, either. “This ain’t over.”

“Not by a long shot,” York agreed.

Now half a grin formed. “Speakin’ of which, Sheriff, that was a hell of a shot. Just don’t tell me you were aimin’ for the horse.”

“No.”

Colman looked narrow-eyed at York. “At this distance, you went for a head shot with a six-gun?”

York was staring across the stream, where the only sign of the riders now were some puffs of dust and a splotch of red on the grassy, sandy incline.

He said, “I pretty much always go for a head shot.”

“Interestin’ choice,” Colman said. “Kinda risky, though. Chest gives you a bigger target. That’s always my inclination.”

“Head-shot men don’t return fire. But the next time that Bar-O bunch comes around, you can bet they will.” York shifted his gaze to the ramrod. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to break this party up.

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