as his horse went head over heels. He turned in his tracks, firing his rifle from the hip.
Hockett was a big man, and tough. He had been a buffalo hunter, a cow thief, and a scalp hunter, and he had nerve. Levering the Winchester, he fired again and again. He got one, saw another stagger. He hosed bullets at them ... too fast.
The Winchester clicked on an empty chamber and he dropped it, drawing both guns.
Something jerked at his sleeve, sand kicked against his boots. He saw a horse fall, heard a shrill scream of pain from behind him, and he thumbed back the hammer of the .44, firing coolly.
There was no doubt in his mind. With shocking clarity, he realized this was the end.
A bullet smashed into his shoulder, turning him half around. He dropped his gun, but with a border shift tossed the gun from hand to hand, then fired again. He stood, spraddle-legged atop a hummock of sand, his long hair blowing wild, a splash of blood across his face from a split scalp.
A bullet knocked a leg from under him, and on one knee he calmly fed shells into the gun. His shoulder was hurting, but he could still use it, so no bone was broken.
Behind him there were yells, screams of anguish, and the crackle of flames.
Now a dozen Indians surrounded him, baiting him as they might have baited a wounded bear. He mopped the blood from his face, holding his fire.
His horse was down not far away and his canteen was on the saddle. The distance to the rocks was no more than thirty yards. Straightening to his feet, he limped and staggered to the horse for the canteen and slung it over his shoulder.
Glancing around, he saw the wagon top ablaze, and the bodies of the others scattered around, festooned with arrows. Indians were looting the wagon before the burning canvas fell in upon it.
Taking up his rifle, he merely glanced at the Indians, who watched him curiously.
Then he started toward the rocks.
He understood them, he thought bitterly, and he knew they would wait, just as he in their place might have waited. They would allow him to get close to the rocks, almost to safety, before they opened fire.
So he must judge. He walked on, his back muscles held tight against the expected bullets. One step ... two ... three.
He broke into a plunging run, staggering and falling, dragging his injured leg.
He managed at least three steps before every rifle smashed lead at him, every arrow sought him.
Yet he made it to the rocks, pierced through and through with bullets and arrows, and then fell into a crevice among the rocks. In the last moment before he toppled into the rocks he turned on them and opened fire, emptying his pistols. And then he fell.
An Apache, riding close, thrust a spear into his side. And then they left him alone, for they knew he would not move again and they would return for his weapons when they had looted his wagon.
He coughed blood, lying jammed among the rocks, and once he opened his eyes to look up at the wide sky. Like Bob Marker, Rio Hockett had been a Missourian, and when only a youngster he had ridden on a couple of raids with Bloody Bill Anderson, riding with a young horse thief with red-rimmed eyes who kept batting his lids named Dingus James. Jesse James, they called him later.
The sky looked the same as in the days when he had plowed a straight furrow back on the farm ... he had never plowed one since.
He coughed again, and closed his eyes. There was so much pain that he hardly felt any of it at all, but he could hear the Indians shouting and laughing as they pulled the rest of the supplies from the wagon.
Suddenly he felt a tug at his belt, and opening his eyes he looked up at Bosky Fulton.
Fulton was holding a finger to his lips, but seemed unharmed. Swiftly and roughly, Fulton pulled Hockett's gun belt loose, then took his gun and what remained of his belongings. With no thought for the pain he might cause by the rough handling, he turned the wounded man roughly this way and that, going through his
Hockett was a big man, and tough. He had been a buffalo hunter, a cow thief, and a scalp hunter, and he had nerve. Levering the Winchester, he fired again and again. He got one, saw another stagger. He hosed bullets at them ... too fast.
The Winchester clicked on an empty chamber and he dropped it, drawing both guns.
Something jerked at his sleeve, sand kicked against his boots. He saw a horse fall, heard a shrill scream of pain from behind him, and he thumbed back the hammer of the .44, firing coolly.
There was no doubt in his mind. With shocking clarity, he realized this was the end.
A bullet smashed into his shoulder, turning him half around. He dropped his gun, but with a border shift tossed the gun from hand to hand, then fired again. He stood, spraddle-legged atop a hummock of sand, his long hair blowing wild, a splash of blood across his face from a split scalp.
A bullet knocked a leg from under him, and on one knee he calmly fed shells into the gun. His shoulder was hurting, but he could still use it, so no bone was broken.
Behind him there were yells, screams of anguish, and the crackle of flames.
Now a dozen Indians surrounded him, baiting him as they might have baited a wounded bear. He mopped the blood from his face, holding his fire.
His horse was down not far away and his canteen was on the saddle. The distance to the rocks was no more than thirty yards. Straightening to his feet, he limped and staggered to the horse for the canteen and slung it over his shoulder.
Glancing around, he saw the wagon top ablaze, and the bodies of the others scattered around, festooned with arrows. Indians were looting the wagon before the burning canvas fell in upon it.
Taking up his rifle, he merely glanced at the Indians, who watched him curiously.
Then he started toward the rocks.
He understood them, he thought bitterly, and he knew they would wait, just as he in their place might have waited. They would allow him to get close to the rocks, almost to safety, before they opened fire.
So he must judge. He walked on, his back muscles held tight against the expected bullets. One step ... two ... three.
He broke into a plunging run, staggering and falling, dragging his injured leg.
He managed at least three steps before every rifle smashed lead at him, every arrow sought him.
Yet he made it to the rocks, pierced through and through with bullets and arrows, and then fell into a crevice among the rocks. In the last moment before he toppled into the rocks he turned on them and opened fire, emptying his pistols. And then he fell.
An Apache, riding close, thrust a spear into his side. And then they left him alone, for they knew he would not move again and they would return for his weapons when they had looted his wagon.
He coughed blood, lying jammed among the rocks, and once he opened his eyes to look up at the wide sky. Like Bob Marker, Rio Hockett had been a Missourian, and when only a youngster he had ridden on a couple of raids with Bloody Bill Anderson, riding with a young horse thief with red-rimmed eyes who kept batting his lids named Dingus James. Jesse James, they called him later.
The sky looked the same as in the days when he had plowed a straight furrow back on the farm ... he had never plowed one since.
He coughed again, and closed his eyes. There was so much pain that he hardly felt any of it at all, but he could hear the Indians shouting and laughing as they pulled the rest of the supplies from the wagon.
Suddenly he felt a tug at his belt, and opening his eyes he looked up at Bosky Fulton.
Fulton was holding a finger to his lips, but seemed unharmed. Swiftly and roughly, Fulton pulled Hockett's gun belt loose, then took his gun and what remained of his belongings. With no thought for the pain he might cause by the rough handling, he turned the wounded man roughly this way and that, going through his
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