The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman Page A

the site of the ambush, John drew his pistol.
    â€œWhen I start running, Ben, you stay right with me.”
    â€œWe’re gettin’ mighty close, I figger.”
    â€œYou might hear one of them shoot.”
    â€œI hope this works.”
    â€œSo do I,” John said to himself.
    How long were they going to wait before they took a shot? John wondered.
    A hundred yards. He could almost feel the sights of a rifle on him. He lowered himself until his head was directly behind Gent’s neck.
    The rocky spires and the stones stood out red and clear in the full blaze of sunlight. Behind the rocks, shadows. Movement.
    He saw the snout of a rifle slide alongside one of the spires, its muzzle pointed straight at him.
    â€œNow,” John shouted and dug his spurs into Gent’s flanks.
    The horse rocketed beneath him and leaped into a full gallop,his head stretched out, ears flat, lips peeled back to brace the wind. John hugged the horse’s neck, his head resting gentlyon its shoulder.
    He drew his pistol, cocked it, held it tight against his leg. Below him, the ground blurred past. Beneath the pounding hoofbeats he could hear the thunder of his own heart, feel his throbbing pulse in his ears.
    Next, he heard a loud crack! , like a bullwhip snapping the air.
    Over his head, John heard the hiss of a bullet as it passed a foot above him.
    Then there was another rifle shot and a bullet thudded into the earth below him, between Gent’s legs, plowing a foot-long furrow before it struck a rock.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben and Dynamite, a half-length off to his left. Dynamite was tearing up the distance,eyes rolling wide open so that the whites gave him the look of madness.
    Thirty yards they covered, John figured, then forty, and three rifles boomed in less than three seconds. A bullet sizzled past his ear like an angry hornet and his throat went dry. He looked toward the rocks and saw how close they were.
    Repeating rifles, he thought. A Henry, maybe a couple of lighter Winchesters, all .44s, each bullet with enough lead to smash a man’s heart to a pulp, flatten like a hammer when it struck bone, splintering a man’s ribs into slivers.
    The men behind the rocks stepped out, rifles at their shoulders.
    John saw them, judged them to be less than thirty yards away. He raised his pistol, took aim, and fired at the man most in the open.
    His bullet went wild, but all three men crouched and fired at him or at Ben.
    He heard the bark of Ben’s pistol and saw a chunk of rock break off one of the spires. There was a glimmer of red dust as some of the particles disintegrated into powder.
    â€œGet the bastards!” a man shouted.
    â€œKill ’em,” another yelled, jacking a cartridge into his rifle’s firing chamber.
    John swung his pistol on another man who had his rifle to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger, felt the pistol buck in his hand.
    Bullets whined as they skidded off rocks as Ben and John fired as fast as they could cock and pull the triggers of their pistols. The acrid smell of exploding gunpowder filled the air.
    John knew he was ten or twelve yards from the rocks where the bushwhackers had waited for them.
    Smoke wafted from the rifles and pistols.
    He saw one of the men buckle as a bullet smashed into his midsection.
    He heard a thunk and saw Ben’s horse falter, stagger, and drop to its knees. Ben vaulted over the horse in a somersault and hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of reddish dust.
    As one of the men swung his rifle to bear on Ben, John shot him. He saw his head explode like a melon, spraying blood and brain mush onto one of the spires. The man went down like a sack of lead sash weights.
    One rifleman still stood there, his body partially concealed behind a rock.
    That man, Roscoe Bender, swung his rifle toward Savage and took deadly aim.
    John reined in Gent, pulling the bit so tight he knew he must be cutting the horse’s mouth. The horse