Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) by Ralph W. Cotton

of sight behind a stand of thick, mature pines that stood like ancient columns between heaven and earth. As they stepped down from their saddles silently, Sam drew his big Colt and cocked it down his side.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mattie whispered.
    â€œCooking smoke,” Sam whispered in reply.
    â€œI don’t see it,” Mattie said, glancing all around.
    â€œBecause it’s gone,” Sam said. “Somebody cooked up some rattlesnake, then put the fire out.”
    Mattie sniffed the air closely. A look of recognition came to her face.
    â€œNow I smell it,” she said.
    Sam nodded and said, “Stay here with the horses. I’ll move in close and see if they’re still there.”
    â€œBe careful—” she said, catching herself but stopping a second too late.
    Be careful?
Sam just looked her up and down.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” she whispered.
    â€œI’ll try,” Sam said in a lowered voice.
    He crept through the pines toward the shack in a crouch, his six-gun in hand. Circling the small clearing, he stepped out and approached the shack from the side, keeping himself unseen. He tested the plank porch before putting all his weight on it. Once he determined it was all right, he moved to an open window and peeped inside for any sign of life.
    He saw no fire in the small hearth, only a bed of waning red coals. But he did see a tin skillet of rattlesnake meat lying on a wooden table. A blackened coffeepot sat in the hearth coals. The aroma of snake meat and coffee wafted faintly—just as he’d thought, he told himself, easing silently to the open front door. Nobody left coffee and a skillet of snake meat to go to waste.
    Stepping inside the door, Sam walked to the rear window and glanced out, noticing a fatigued horse tied to a pine sapling at the edge of the clearing. No sooner had he seen the horse than he heard the creaking of a roof plank and glanced up at it.
    Here he is,
Sam told himself.
    He eased closer to the skillet on the table, picked it up and shoved it onto a low, glowing bed of ashes, his eyes upturned, listening. With his gloved hand, he reached into the skillet, picked up a small gray-white chunk of back meat and put it in his mouth.
    Chewing slowly as if to keep from being heard, he waited in a tense silence until he heard the roof creak again, footsteps moving diagonally upward toward the center. Then he stopped chewing and fired three quick shots almost straight up, stair-stepping each shot higher toward the roof’s peak.
    â€œAiiii!
Son of a bitch!” a voice cried out in pain.
    With his Colt raised, Sam followed a loud thumping sound down the roof with the tip of his smoking barrel. Where the noise stopped, he fired again. This time he heard the man fall off the edge of the roof and land heavily on the ground outside the rear window.
    Stepping over to the window, Sam began chewing again, the big bull rattler not being the most tender he’d ever eaten. He looked down on the ground at the bloody man, who was struggling toward a fumbled rifle a few feet away.
    â€œDon’t try for it,” Sam warned him, his Colt ready to fire again. “You’re shot bad as it is.”
    The wounded man stopped reaching for the rifle and rolled onto his bloody side. He stared up at the Ranger with clenched teeth, his mouth bleeding.
    â€œDamn you to hell, look at me!” he shouted. “Shot straight up! Blown off the
got-damn
roof!” He clutched at the inside of his upper thigh, where a stream of heavy blood spewed between his fingers. “I hate to even guess where that bullet went.” Seeing Sam chew the snake meat, he sobbed pitifully, “I’ve carried that rattler all day, looking to sup on it.”
    â€œIt won’t go uneaten, I promise,” Sam said as if offering the man consolation.
    â€œI swear to God, if this ain’t the awfulest damn mess I’ve ever seen!” the man raged and sobbed. He