The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman Page A

focused the binoculars, brought the pistol up large enough to see the silver inlay, the image sharp in the lenses of his glasses.
    He looked at Luke.
    Blood dripped from Luke’s shoulder and there was a large stain on his midsection, another on his leg. His face looked pale, his features threaded with pain.
    He had seen enough. There was no saving Luke and he was outnumbered. One of the old fellow’s bullets had struck his rifle, knocked the sights off. The young feller and the old guy were too far away for a pistol shot.
    His heart pounding, Pete retreated, found his horse, and led him for some distance before he mounted him and stole away through the dark trees, heading toward Fountain Creek. Ollie would be mad as hell, but he wasn’t going to stick around and face up to the young one. The one with the fancy pistol, the one who was torturing Luke and enjoying himself while Luke lay there, bleeding to death, his guts poking out of his abdomen like oily blue snakes.
    Lightning flashed and there was a thundercrack that made four men jump inside their skins.
    Thunder pealed across the sky and behind it the nattering whisper of rain, steaming down the mountainside, great sheets of it blown south and east by the wind.
    â€œMy mother, her name was Clare,” John continued, “was the sweetest person I ever knew. She had a heart of gold and used to read stories to me at night. Even when she was tired from working all day, she’d tuck me and my sister Alice in bed every night and tell us stories until our eyelids got heavy and droopy and we fell asleep. She made my father Dan happy, too. And he doted on her. He treated her like a queen, and she treated him like a king. That was my mother, Luke, and she’s lying in the ground, too, all of her stories dead on her lips.”
    â€œI can’t take no more,” Luke said. “Please don’t tell me no more about them people.”
    â€œThem people, Luke? Why, you don’t deserve to breathe the same air they did. You killed them. For what? Some gold that you’ll spend on whores and whiskey? Buy yourself a new pair of boots, or a saddle? Spend money you didn’t earn and took from truly good people? People you murdered, you bastard.”
    â€œIt was Ollie,” Luke said. “He made us do it.”
    â€œOllie?”
    â€œHobart. He put us up to it.”
    â€œWell, I can’t wait to meet Ollie Hobart,” John said. “At the business end of this Colt in my hand. I wonder how brave he’s going to be. As brave as you, you sniveling little shit?”
    â€œJohn, you done said enough,” Ben said.
    They could hear the rain now, off in the distance, and there was lightning close by, stitching jagged lines of silver in the black clouds, striking the ground as thunderclaps boomed in their ears and echoed through the canyons, off the high rimrock, and off into desolate nothingness.
    The fissure in Luke’s belly had widened and coils of intestines were easing out. They glistened like water snakes or nightcrawlers. The hole in his abdomen had grown larger, probably from the time John had put his boot on his testicles, forcing Luke to react.
    â€œBen, bring up the horses and shake our slickers, will you?” John said. “Can you manage with that game ankle?”
    â€œYeah. I can manage.” Ben got to his feet, resting against the tree for support. “How much longer you going to rag this poor bastard?”
    â€œJust a while longer, Ben. Go on. That rain’s going to hit us pretty quick.”
    â€œYeah. I’ll get the horses.”
    Ben hobbled off, using his rifle as a crutch.
    â€œLuke, you still here?”
    Luke had closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow and there were rales in it, as if his throat had filled with sand.
    Luke opened his eyes.
    â€œYeah, you bastard.” Raspy, weak, that was Luke’s voice now. He had not long to live, John thought.
    â€œI’ll put