Twin Guns by Wick Evans Page B

quietly with drawn guns. A horse whose rider was swaying drunkenly in the saddle trotted into view between the boulders. As he caught sight of the ominously waiting Wagon crew, he shouted, "Don't shoot no more, men; I'm already carrying enough lead."
    He released the saddlehorn, which he had been gripping with both hands, in an attempt to raise his hands in the ancient gesture of surrender. He never completed the move, however, for when he relaxed his grip he slid to the ground in a grotesque heap, clawing feebly at leather as he fell.
    Josh hurriedly dismounted and went to him. The man was trying desperately to get to his knees but couldn't make it. He fell flat on his chest, managed to turn himself over and lay on his back, arms outflung.
    Josh breathed, "Look at the hole in this kid."
    The boy, who had propped himself up on one elbow, snarled at him, "Kid, nothin'! I'm past twenty!" He tried to say more, but gasped for breath, and a crimson thread trickled down his beardless chin. He lay watching them, his eyes suddenly pleading. "I ain't dyin', am I?"
    No one answered. Josh and the others looked away in embarrassment as Kirby fumbled for words.
    The boy spat out his words. "I ain't no cow thief. I been runnin' with Dawes' bunch all right, but I ain't hazed no stolen cows. I'm no cow nurse. I'm a darn good gunhand. Even Whitey says so." He closed his eyes.
    "Who is Whitey?" Josh asked, with a glance at the others. Kirby spoke up before the boy could open his eyes.
    "I think I know the answer. Remember that pale gent we ran into in the Nugget? The one Lon beaned when he tried to draw on me?"
    The boy's eyes opened. In them there was a look of fanatic admiration. "I heard about that. It's a good thing for you he didn't get to make his draw, mister. He's the Lightning Kid, the fastest draw in the country."
    "You mean
was
, don't you?" Josh asked, thinking of the furious gunfire they had heard. "What happened at Dawes? That's where you got this hole, isn't it?"
    "Whitey was still alive when I got away," the boy answered. "That blasted posse took us by surprise. Dawes didn't even have a man staked out as lookout. Darn Dawes, anyway. He's the cause of all our trouble."
    "Looks like you picked the wrong man to work for," Kirby told him.
    Scorn crossed the young gunman's face. "Heck, I didn't work for that yellow-livered skunk. He was just boss of the crew; he took his orders from the same place all of us did, the Syndicate at Galeyville."
    Realization of the effect his words had on his intent audience suddenly came to him. "Whitey always said I talked too much," he muttered.
    "What about the Syndicate, boy? They seem to be the ones who are responsible for this hole in your chest. Better talk fast; you haven't much time."
    The boy's glazed eyes were lit by a final spark of anger. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he gritted, and died.
    In silence they stared at the dead youngster, Kirby still squatted at his side. He got to his feet stiffly, like an old man. "Blast men like Whitey anyhow. This kid might have been a useful citizen one day if he hadn't give a man like Whitey hero worship." Shaking his head sadly, he went on, "Let's get him off the trail and under the rocks. It'll have to do until someone can get around to giving him a decent burial."
    Quietly they set about the unpleasant chore. Then, satisfied that the body was safe from buzzards and coyotes, they climbed into leather. Ringo said, "I hope we're not too late for the fireworks. I just heard some more shootin' up ahead."
    "I caught that, too," said Josh. "We better shake a leg. Might be needed."
    Things were under control when they crossed H Bar D range and rode cautiously into the yard of the spread's headquarters. They found the posse standing in a group near the front porch. Half a dozen figures lay sprawled in the yard, and they could see several others inside the house. Two possemen stood at either end of the porch, rifles at the ready as they watched a shed among the