Warrior Born (A White Apache Western Book 3) by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Eight

The trap had been cunningly laid. A dozen or more men had waited in the house, covering all four sides, ready to converge at any point once an alarm was sounded. Freshly mown hay had been stacked at various points to conceal additional riflemen. And for all Clay knew, more men might have been lurking in the stable. He cursed under his breath for being the biggest jackass in all of Arizona as he ducked low and darted to the hedge.

“Spread out!” commanded someone in the pasture. “But not too far. We can’t let them get past us.”

Clay cocked his rifle and peered through the thin branches and leaves at the approaching figures. Denton’s men believed an entire Apache band was pinned down. Thank God he’d left Delgadito and the rest in the stand, otherwise there would have been.

Four men now stood about eight yards out, spaced ten feet apart. They concentrated on the yard, scouring the flowerbeds and trees and hedges.

Easing the barrel of his Winchester into the hedge, Clay pointed it at one of the cowhands. Fixing a precise bead was impossible, but at that range he did not have to be precise. He simply centered the barrel on the man’s torso and fired.

The puncher collapsed. His pards instantly cut loose, firing wildly since they had no idea where the shot had come from. Clay swiveled, putting a slug into a second man, who tottered rearward and sprawled onto his back. The last two did not have the gumption for a stand-up fight, not exposed as they were. They retreated toward the hay mounds, levering off rounds as fast as they could work their Winchesters.

Clay pulled his rifle out of the hedge and sprinted to his left, keeping low, his elbow scraping against the tips of branches. Some of the men inside were still shooting, but they were unable to distinguish his form against the dark background of the hedge.

Somewhere a door slammed. Clay realized the gunmen were venturing outdoors. He had to reach the corral before they spotted him. Then, somehow, he and Amarillo must make it to the stand of trees where the others waited. Getting there wouldn’t be easy, but it was their only hope.

A flurry of gunfire broke out near the stable. Clay rose high enough to see the corral and was aghast at spotting Amarillo out in the open. The warrior was fleeing across the pasture to escape a half-dozen men who had emerged from the stable. They had seen him, and even as Clay looked on, they opened fire, stitching the dirt around him with miniature geysers.

Amarillo had almost gained the high grass. He flung himself forward, his arms outstretched, and was midair when bullets cored his hurtling body from back to front. Jerking from each shot, Amarillo arched his spine but did not cry out. He crumpled, landing in a disjointed heap, his legs twitching.

The killers cheered in delight and raced toward him.

Cold rage gripped Clay’s soul. He had never

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