The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman Page B

skidded to a stop and John bailed out of the saddle.
    The sky, the mountains, the rocks, and the land twisted in a blinding blur. All time seemed to stop on the brittle cusp of eternity. He felt his feet hit hard ground and a shock went through his body. His legs went numb as he waited for a .44 slug to blow out his brains and obliterate all thought, all memory,all breath, all precious, fleeting life.

15
    Even though john’s senses were scrambled, spinning like a whirligig, and his brain jolted off its axis, he brought his pistolup and leveled it at the head of Roscoe Bender.
    â€œMister, you either lower that rifle or I squeeze this trigger.”
    John knew it was a bold statement. The man’s face was just a blur to him. The man had three heads, none of them in focus. But John held his front blade sight on the center image and it would take only a tick of his finger to bring the hammer down on a loaded .45 cartridge.
    Bender’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the pistol in Savage’s hand. He saw the glitter of silver on the barrel, the rich bluing, the steady hand, the cocked hammer.
    â€œYou-you won’t shoot me?” Bender stammered.
    â€œNot if you lay your rifle down real quick.”
    John heard a groan from Ben, but he did not look to see if his friend was all right. He concentrated on keeping his arm straight and steady and holding an unblinking gaze on the man with the rifle. He had no idea if the other two men were dead or alive.
    Slowly, the rifle began to drop away from Bender’s shoulder.
    â€œJust let it drop to the ground, mister,” John said. “Then step away.”
    Bender hesitated.
    â€œI don’t know if I can trust you,” Bender said.
    â€œI’m the only one you can trust. Better do it now. I got a hair trigger on this pistol and I just have to hiccup and you’re a dead man.”
    Bender lowered the rifle another six inches.
    John’s jaw tightened and his eyes widened until they were as black as the twin barrels of a shotgun.
    Bender eased the hammer down to half cock and dropped the rifle on the ground. Then he slung an arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes from the blazing sun at John’s back.
    â€œNow step away,” John ordered. “I won’t shoot you.”
    Bender took two steps away from the fallen rifle.
    â€œThat damned sun,” Bender said.
    John heard a low groan and his gaze shifted to one of the men on the ground. Kerrigan was doubled up, both hands holding his stomach. His hands were drenched with blood. He writhed in agony, his eyes closed against the glare of the sunlight.
    â€œWho’s that?” John asked.
    â€œName’s Kerrigan.”
    â€œYour name?”
    â€œRoscoe. Roscoe Bender.”
    â€œWho put you up to this, Bender?”
    Bender did not answer.
    John stepped closer to Bender. Roscoe’s eyes were fixed on the pistol in Savage’s hand.
    â€œIf you live long enough, you can give Ollie Hobart back whatever he paid you. Not that it’ll do him any good. He’s goingto Boot Hill.”
    â€œMe, too, I reckon,” Bender said.
    John gave Bender a look of contempt. The man was wettinghis pants.
    â€œNo, you’re going to have to live with yourself awhile longer, Bender.”
    Ben was sitting up, holding his head with both hands.
    â€œCripes,” Ben said, his voice a rasp in his throat.
    â€œYou all right, Ben?”
    â€œI’ll live, I reckon. Poor Dynamite. I think his leg’s broke.”
    Ben crabbed over to his horse. Dynamite was lying on his side, holding a foreleg up. The leg and hoof were bloody. A black hole oozed blood just below his kneecap.
    â€œYou owe that man a horse, Bender. Maybe yours if he likes it. Where did you hide them?”
    Bender pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
    Kerrigan looked up at Savage with a cockeyed gaze. His hand slid away from his belly, crawled down to the butt of his pistol.
    John swept his gaze