The Lonely Hunt by James A. Muir

Author:James A. Muir [Muir, James A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western series, Westerns, Angus Wells, Piccadilly cowboys, Piccadilly Publishing, revenge, action heroes, Cowboy fiction, Pulp fiction writing
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Levy heard the firing and groped for his bottle. He swallowed the final dregs of the fiery liquor and threw the empty container off into the mesquite. He fumbled the Sharps out of the scabbard and kicked his horse into a lumbering gallop up the trail. Cursing the over-age animal, he swung it off the Caretas trail in the direction of the ranch.

He halted on the right side of the fence and studied the scene through whisky-blurred eyes.

It was hard to know exactly what was happening. Nolan and Christie were bellied down behind a snorting horse, pumping bullets at the house. Luis and Manolo were crouched behind another animal, firing like the others at what appeared to be an empty shell. The only moving thing around was Ginny.

And as he focused on her, his eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped open.

Ginny was sitting, mother-naked, on the porch, bawling like a fresh-branded calf as the slugs blasted splinters all around her. Zach Levy shook his head and wiped a shirt sleeve over his eyes, wondering if that good whisky had painted pictures on his mind.

But when he looked again, he knew it was for real. Ginny was there, a sitting target for the four men spread around the yard.

He grunted and climbed down off the horse, not noticing as the beast shied and cantered back towards Galenas. For the first time in months his hands didn’t shake, they were steady as the old days when his hopes were high and his eyes bright as he pushed a cartridge into the breech of the buffalo gun. He set the hammer at half cock and moved up towards the fence.

No one noticed him as he sidled through the scrub, coming up to the rail so that he had a solid firing position for the heavy rifle. He set the barrel on the topmost pole and sighted carefully. The whisky fumes seemed to be gone from his mind, his eyes were clear as he studied his naked wife and the black-vested figure of her lover stretched before him. It was like the old days when he was fighting Apache and Yaqui for this crummy stretch of wasted land that had been all he’d ever owned in life.

He sighted carefully, conscious of the faint breeze, and hauled the hammer of the Sharps back to full cock. Then he began to take up the trigger slack.

‘This’s fer you, Ginny,’ he mumbled as he squeezed the trigger.

The .50 caliber bullet hit Ginny Levy dead center between her breasts, drilling a neat hole not very much bigger than a large nail-head through her clavicle. The exit hole was the size of two big fists, a raw tunnel through which spewed blood and bone and grey lung matter.

The force of the bullet, from a rifle designed to kill buffalo at a quarter mile range, picked her up off the porch and threw her backwards into the house, smashing the chair as she tumbled head over heels in crazy, blood-stained cartwheels to fetch up in a limp bundle against the stove.

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