Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva Page A

either. They smiled at each other and guffawed.  
    “Stupid old man,” Jerry said behind him, and the barrel disappeared just long enough for Jerry’s foot to replace it.  
    The heel hit Clay right in the back and sent him stumbling forward, sprawling in the dirt.  
    Clay landed on his face, his hands splayed out at his sides. He groaned and slowly inched his knees forward so his buttock was raised in the air.  
    “Jerry? That was a very unwise thing to do.”  
    “If you don’t shut your mouth, old man,” Jerry said, stepping close and leaning down so the gun’s barrel was right by Clay’s head, “then I’m going to shut it for you.”  
    That, Clay thought, closing his eyes, was an unwise thing to do as well.  
    And suddenly he jerked himself up, grabbing the revolver out of Jerry’s hand, twisting hard enough to snap Jerry’s trigger finger.  
    As the young man screamed, Clay took possession of the gun and fired at the two older men with the rifles, one shot each, both in the face.  
    He was on his feet a second later just as Jerry tried to kick out at him.  
    Clay grabbed the young man’s foot in mid-air and twisted, sending Jerry sprawling to the dirt.  
    He stepped past Jerry, shooting him in the chest, and raised the gun at the man who had been holding onto Witashnah.  
    This man raised his weapon to fire at Clay but Witashnah hit him at the last second, sending the man’s shot wide, and Clay aimed and fired and struck the man in the shoulder.  
    But the man didn’t go down.  
    He raised the gun again.  
    Witashnah tried to hit him again.  
    He smacked her with the gun on the side of the head, sending her to the ground, then aimed once more at Clay who was advancing, taking close aim, squeezing off a shot— bang! —and the bullet tore into the man’s arm, sending his weapon flying.  
    The man, panicked, turned and grabbed hold of one of the horses, swung himself up onto it and kicked it hard, the horse whinnying and then galloping away.  
    Clay tossed the revolver aside and hurried over to the two older men. He picked up one of their rifles, checked the chamber, and then brought the stock to his shoulder.  
    He lined his eye up with the sight and watched as the last of the Reverend’s men hurried away.  
    He let in a breath, let out a breath, keeping his eye on the target, watching the man growing smaller and smaller.  
    In his mind Clay calculated the distance and the slight amount of wind and the final trajectory of the bullet, and at the last moment he raised the rifle just slightly and squeezed the trigger.  
    The rifle kicked in his hands.  
    The shot rang out in the silence.  
    For a long moment nothing happened—just the man riding off on the horse—and then suddenly the man jerked and went rigid and fell off to the side, his foot catching in the stirrup and dragging him along dead as the horse continued onward out of town.  
    Clay stood frozen for an instant, his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until that instant passed that he realized just how much pain he was in. Muscles he hadn’t used in quite some time screamed out their agony.  
    He tossed the rifle aside and hurried over to where Witashnah was slowly picking herself up off the ground.  
    “Are you all right?”  
    Her face was bruised, blood streaking her cheek.  
    “I am fine. How ... how did you do that?”  
    Clay shook his head. “It wasn’t all me. It was ... your grandfather.”  
    She just stared back at him.  
    “He was a warrior, wasn’t he? When he was younger. He killed many men in battle.”  
    Witashnah nodded slightly. “I have heard stories.”  
    Clay looked back at the three dead bodies in the street.  
    “Others might be coming.”  
    “That horse may return to town as well.”  
    Clay motioned at the mercantile.  
    “Then we best hurry.”

 
     
     
     
    20.

    The sun had gone past the midday mark by the time Clay and Witashnah returned to the cave. They were