luck—hell, he’d done the same a time or two—he sat down on his log near the fire. The other lawmen all put up their guns and slacked back down into their previous places around the fire. Stockton and Gentry tossed the newcomers a couple of plates and three-tined, wood-handled forks and made room for them around the fire.
As the two walked past Spurr, Spurr caught a brief glimpse of Willoughby rolling a quick, shrewd glance toward him. It was so fleeting as to be damn near unnoticeable.
To anyone but a seasoned lawdog.
“Sure do appreciate this, fellas,” Willoughby said, instantly stretching his previous grin across his face.
“De nada,”
Spurr said.
At the same time, he snaked his right hand across his belly and unsnapped the keeper thong from over the hammer of the Starr .44 he wore for the cross draw just left of his shell belt’s square buckle. He slid the popper from its sheath at the same time he saw Willoughby wheel toward him, hardening his jaws and steeling his eyes as he clamped a big, brown hand over the wooden grips of the Schofield .44 thonged on his right thigh.
Spurr bounded up off his log, raised the Starr like a club, and smashed it down hard across the side of Willhoughby’s head. The man screamed and dropped his gun and ran staggering across the fire. At the same time, Beauchamp twisted around quickly, a cocked Smith & Wesson in his hand.
Spurr’s pistol leapt and roared. Flames lapped from the maw. Beauchamp grunted and triggered his Smithy into the log near where Ed Gentry was still sitting, the lawman’s lower jaw hanging. He’d managed to clamp his hand over his holstered pistol by the time Beauchamp had stumbled across the fire, kicking burning branches every which way, and fell in a heap with his pants on fire, screaming, blood oozing from the hole in his chest.
Willhouby had dropped to his knees at the base of a tree.
“Goddamn, you miserable sons o’ lawdoggin’ bitches!” he wailed as he reached inside his denim jacket and hauled out an over-and-under derringer.
Spurr swung his Starr toward the raging would-be dry-gulcher but slackened his trigger finger when Dusty Mason’s Colt Army thundered twice, drilling one shot through Willoughby’s forehead, the other through his chest, punching him back against the tree and silencing his caterwauling forever. The derringer dropped in the dirt.
All the lawmen were standing now, boots spread, staring in awe at the two dead men. Beauchamp had knocked over the beans. The scattered branches burned. Flames licked up both of the screaming brigand’s legs and he kicked at them as though they were dogs that had grabbed ahold of his ankles. At the same time, he clamped a hand over the ragged, bloody hole in his chest.
“Help me!” he cried. “Please, god—someone get some water. Don’t let me burn, you bastards!”
Web Mitchell plucked the empty bean pot off the ground and yelled, “I’ll fetch some water!”
“Forget it.” Spurr extended his Starr and put the howling bushwhacker out of his misery with a well-placed shot to his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose.
Silence save for the cracking of the several small fires settled over the lawmen’s camp. The others looked at the two dead men, then at Spurr, scowling curiously. Runningfoot thuds sounded from the direction of the trail, and Spurr turned to see Calico Strang run into the trees and stop suddenly, mouth agape, chest rising and falling sharply, his cocked rifle in both his slender, black-gloved hands.
“What the hell…?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know,” said Bill Stockton, straight-faced but chuckling incredulously.
“Horse thieves,” Spurr said. “Didn’t recognize ’em ’cause they used their own true names. Willoughby and Beauchamp. They was a part of a horse-stealin’ ring down in the Nations some years ago. I killed Beauchamp’s brother, Lyle, but couldn’t pin nothin’ on him or his cousin, Willoughby, so I had to let
As the two walked past Spurr, Spurr caught a brief glimpse of Willoughby rolling a quick, shrewd glance toward him. It was so fleeting as to be damn near unnoticeable.
To anyone but a seasoned lawdog.
“Sure do appreciate this, fellas,” Willoughby said, instantly stretching his previous grin across his face.
“De nada,”
Spurr said.
At the same time, he snaked his right hand across his belly and unsnapped the keeper thong from over the hammer of the Starr .44 he wore for the cross draw just left of his shell belt’s square buckle. He slid the popper from its sheath at the same time he saw Willoughby wheel toward him, hardening his jaws and steeling his eyes as he clamped a big, brown hand over the wooden grips of the Schofield .44 thonged on his right thigh.
Spurr bounded up off his log, raised the Starr like a club, and smashed it down hard across the side of Willhoughby’s head. The man screamed and dropped his gun and ran staggering across the fire. At the same time, Beauchamp twisted around quickly, a cocked Smith & Wesson in his hand.
Spurr’s pistol leapt and roared. Flames lapped from the maw. Beauchamp grunted and triggered his Smithy into the log near where Ed Gentry was still sitting, the lawman’s lower jaw hanging. He’d managed to clamp his hand over his holstered pistol by the time Beauchamp had stumbled across the fire, kicking burning branches every which way, and fell in a heap with his pants on fire, screaming, blood oozing from the hole in his chest.
Willhouby had dropped to his knees at the base of a tree.
“Goddamn, you miserable sons o’ lawdoggin’ bitches!” he wailed as he reached inside his denim jacket and hauled out an over-and-under derringer.
Spurr swung his Starr toward the raging would-be dry-gulcher but slackened his trigger finger when Dusty Mason’s Colt Army thundered twice, drilling one shot through Willoughby’s forehead, the other through his chest, punching him back against the tree and silencing his caterwauling forever. The derringer dropped in the dirt.
All the lawmen were standing now, boots spread, staring in awe at the two dead men. Beauchamp had knocked over the beans. The scattered branches burned. Flames licked up both of the screaming brigand’s legs and he kicked at them as though they were dogs that had grabbed ahold of his ankles. At the same time, he clamped a hand over the ragged, bloody hole in his chest.
“Help me!” he cried. “Please, god—someone get some water. Don’t let me burn, you bastards!”
Web Mitchell plucked the empty bean pot off the ground and yelled, “I’ll fetch some water!”
“Forget it.” Spurr extended his Starr and put the howling bushwhacker out of his misery with a well-placed shot to his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose.
Silence save for the cracking of the several small fires settled over the lawmen’s camp. The others looked at the two dead men, then at Spurr, scowling curiously. Runningfoot thuds sounded from the direction of the trail, and Spurr turned to see Calico Strang run into the trees and stop suddenly, mouth agape, chest rising and falling sharply, his cocked rifle in both his slender, black-gloved hands.
“What the hell…?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know,” said Bill Stockton, straight-faced but chuckling incredulously.
“Horse thieves,” Spurr said. “Didn’t recognize ’em ’cause they used their own true names. Willoughby and Beauchamp. They was a part of a horse-stealin’ ring down in the Nations some years ago. I killed Beauchamp’s brother, Lyle, but couldn’t pin nothin’ on him or his cousin, Willoughby, so I had to let
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