Longarm and the Arapaho Hellcats by Tabor Evans Page A

his head.
    The third man had dropped to a knee and was struggling to cock his rifle.
    Longarm quickly rose and fired three more quick rounds down the slope and watched with satisfaction through his own wafting gray powder smoke as the third shooter was thrown backward and went cartwheeling on down the slope and out of sight in the darkness.
    A voice yelled from downslope. “Rainey, ­George—­you fellas get him?”
    Silence.
    Longarm couldn’t help but allow himself a savage grin.
    â€œNo, they didn’t get me!” he shouted, listening to his own echo vault around the canyon. “But I’ll be back to get the rest of you sons o’ bitches! And when I do, there’ll be hell to pay and no hot pitch!”
    Longarm wheeled and quickly climbed the ridge, chuckling savagely.

Chapter 11
    Longarm didn’t think any of Drummond’s men were coming for him. When he’d climbed to the top of the ridge, he paused and stared out over the canyon.
    Nothing but silence. He could see the flickering lights of the cabin, and little else. The moon had risen higher, shifting shadows.
    Longarm looked down the slope to the right, where he’d left McIntyre and the rest of the posse. Only silence from that direction, too. An eerie, ominous silence like that in a graveyard at midnight.
    Longarm hated to leave the posse, but he had no choice. Drummond might figure on him returning for them. He’d likely have at least one, maybe two men picketed over the dead men. Longarm couldn’t take the chance. He’d camp a ways away from the canyon for the rest of the night and return the next morning to see to both the posse and Drummond’s bunch.
    Weariness was heavy inside him as he made his way back to where he and the others had tied their horses. He’d untied the sorrel and was about to step into the saddle when he stopped. He looked back toward the ridge.
    He couldn’t leave the posse without one more look and listen. One or two might still be alive . . .
    He retied his horse and walked back up to the ridge. He dropped to a knee just below the crest, doffed his hat to make himself a smaller target, and waited, staring into the valley that was dark save for the lights of the cabin. He looked down the ridge into the trees. No movement. No sound. Nothing.
    Drummond’s bunch had most likely made sure they’d killed all of the posse members before heading back to the cabin.
    Longarm leaned his rifle against his shoulder and raked a gloved hand through his ­close-­cropped hair. He set his hat on his head and rose. He’d started back down the slope toward the horses when brush crunched and crackled behind him. There was a thump and a groan.
    Longarm wheeled, quietly racking a round into the Winchester’s breech and aiming straight down the dark slope from his right hip. He scowled into the darkness, waiting for a gun flash. None came.
    Another groan. About thirty yards down the slope, at the edge of the pines, a shadow moved.
    Longarm walked slowly, cautiously back up to the ridge crest and down the other side, keeping the rifle aimed from his hip. The shadow was a man writhing on the ground at the edge of the trees, groaning. Longarm quickened his pace. He knelt down beside the man, who lay belly down, trying feebly to rise to his hands and knees.
    It was McIntyre. Longarm could see the man’s thick, ­gray-­blond hair and mustache, the lanky frame clad in dark trousers, cream shirt, and brown vest. Longarm grabbed his arm.
    â€œThrum!”
    The man jerked his arm away with a start and lifted his ­fear-­sharp eyes to Longarm. He blinked, relaxed. “Custis,” he rasped.
    â€œHow bad you hit?”
    McIntyre shook his head. In a pinched voice, he said, “Not as bad as the others.”
    With Longarm’s help, the sheriff rose to his knees and sat back on his heels. There was a dark stain low on his right side. The moonlight