Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter by William W. Johnstone

saw a rider come through a rippling heat haze to the north.
    At first man and horse seemed elongated, like the tall, angular image of Don Quixote in the yellowed page of an ancient book, but as they emerged from the haze the rider shrank to normal size.
    The man came on steadily at a walk, and Judy had no doubt that he’d seen her. Her first instinct was to turn around and head back to the ranch. But Judy Campbell had a streak of Scottish stubbornness that would not allow her to turn tail and run from a stranger who probably meant her no harm.
    A few moments later she regretted that decision.
    The man who approached her rode a mouse-colored mustang, and despite the stifling heat he wore a bearskin coat that Judy fancied she smelled when the rider was still yards away.
    The man drew rein, lifted his sweat-stained plug hat, and grinned. “Howdy, little lady. All by yourself?” He carried a Henry rifle across his saddle.
    â€œNo,” Judy said. “My father and brothers are just behind me.”
    The man’s mud-colored eyes flicked to the girl’s back trail and his grin widened. “Now what’s a pretty little filly like you doing in this wilderness, and riding a five-hunnerd-dollar cuttin’ hoss to boot?”
    â€œI told you, I’m riding with my father and brothers,” Judy said. “Now please be on your way.”
    â€œAn’ that’s a damned lie,” the man said. He swung up the muzzle of his rifle, then, “Git off that pony. Go on now, or I’ll blow you off’n it.”
    â€œI have money,” Judy said. Her brain busily calculated how fast she could shuck her rifle. Not fast enough. “You can have it.”
    â€œWhat I want from you ain’t money, little gal,” the man said. “After you get a taste of me you’ll beg to become my woman, lay to that.”
    â€œI swear, my father will hang you,” Judy said.
    â€œI’ll take my chances.”
    The man’s lips peeled back from a few black teeth. He had the eyes of a reptile. “Now git off that hoss, girlie. Do it!”
    Judy had a Barlow folding knife in the pocket of her canvas riding skirt.
    She pinned her hope on its carbon steel blade . . . if she could get to it.
    After Judy stepped out of the saddle the bearded rider motioned to a grassy narrow bank wedged between two huge boulders.
    â€œGit over there and lie down,” he said. He grinned. “Smell the flowers.”
    Blue and white wildflowers peeped shyly through the grass. It was a shady, peaceful spot where something unspeakable was about to take place.
    Judy lay on her back and reached into her pocket. She retrieved the knife but had no way of opening the blade without being seen.
    Her heart thumped in her breast and her mouth was dry with fear as the man, massive in the bear fur, swung from the saddle and stepped toward her.
    â€œGit them duds off, little lady,” he said. “And I mean all of them.”
    Playing for time, Judy fumbled with the top buttons of her shirt. She smelled the man’s rank stench, the animal stink of him.
    He shrugged out of the fur coat and let it fall to his feet. “Now it’s fun time,” he said. He started to unbutton his pants.
    At exactly the same moment Judy Campbell lost all hope, the rapist and murderer named Sam Ball lost a large chunk of his head.

    The heavy caliber bullet hit the back of Ball’s skull and exited an inch above his right eye, taking with it a great mass of bone and brain. When he dropped at Judy Campbell’s feet her would-be rapist was still unbuttoning his pants in hell.
    The girl sat up as a handsome, white-haired man on a great dappled gray rode at a walk toward her. He held an elegant English hunting rifle upright on his thigh, and a black cloak hung from his shoulders and draped over the hindquarters of his horse. A steel ax hung from his saddle.
    Dr. Thomas Clouston drew rein, a look of concern on his