Yellowstone Memories by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page A

second time I seen you down here snooping around, and it’ll be your last.”
    “Get outta here, Kirby, or I’ll shoot.” Wyatt steadied his voice to keep his words from shaking as he cocked his Colt. “I don’t wanna shoot you, but I will. You almost blew my head off.”
    “You? Shoot me?” Kirby’s laughter echoed through the trees. “I’m shakin’ in my boots, Wyatt. You can’t even shoot a prairie dog. Now come out with your hands up and tell me where that gold’s at, or I’ll fill you both full of lead.”
    Wyatt spun around to Jewel. “How’d he know the prairie dog thing?” he whispered, humiliated. “I didn’t tell a soul.”
    “What? Forget that.” Jewel smacked him. “The barn,” she whispered.
    “It’s our only hope. We’re too far away to reach the horses, and they’ll slaughter us out here in the open.”
    “How many guys are there?”
    “I counted five. We’re done for if we don’t get to shelter—either from bullets or from freezing to death.” Her teeth chattered, and Wyatt noticed a bluish sheen to her lips.
    “See over there in the trees?” Jewel pointed. “Another one of Kirby’s crew. They’re surrounding us. We’ve got no choice but to move while the snow’s the thickest. Cover me.”
    “What? Cover you?”
    “Shoot, for goodness’ sake!” Jewel pushed the barrel of his Colt toward the forest. “Distract them while I get to the barn, and I’ll cover you while you run.”
    The forest curved to reveal a dilapidated barn behind the outhouse, and Jewel crawled backward on her knees. She slipped behind a shrub and then into a stand of aspens. Wyatt could barely see her; a wall of snow blew in from the north, making it almost impossible to open his eyes.
    Wyatt watched her go, and a strange emptiness welled up in his chest. Jewel’s strength somehow fortified him; when she was with him, she made him feel capable. Confident. Better than he was.
    All he could do now was steady his shaking hands long enough to aim.
    Wyatt blasted his revolver into the bushes then cocked and let the second bullet clink in the chamber. Two shots whizzed past him, and one grazed the skin of his shoulder, leaving a burned streak. Wyatt aimed, trying to see through ice-clouded glasses, and pulled the trigger. He heard a groan. A curse.
    Had he really hit somebody? Wyatt lifted his head, surprised to see one of the men on the ground, holding his bleeding arm.
    Well I’ll be
. Wyatt glanced down at his revolver in surprise.
    “Wyatt Kelly, you little runt! I’ll skin you alive for bustin’ up my arm,” a man’s voice rang through the woods. “Come out now and I’ll kill you quick-like. If not, you’ll take whatever I decide to dish out—and I won’t make it pretty.”
    Wyatt licked his lips and tried not to picture what the man had in mind, and instead scooted backward on his elbow and belly. He scooched to the side and fumbled in his pocket for more bullets and then hastily reloaded his Colt.
    He’d just aimed through a patch of spruce limbs when somebody grabbed him roughly by the collar and threw him to the ground. Knocking the breath out of him.
    Through a snowy haze Wyatt saw a musket butt raised to strike him. A hand slapped his revolver to the ground, and Wyatt clenched his eyes shut. Preparing himself for the blow and the bullet that would knock him senseless, into the arms of a God he’d only just begun to think about.
    A rifle shot echoed against the trees, and Wyatt heard a yelp of pain. He opened his eyes in surprise to see the musket butt waver and fall. The man doubled over, leaning against a tree for support. Blood leaked through his shirt and coat, spattering in crimson drops on the white snow.
    Wyatt gaped a few seconds, so shocking was the sight of another man’s blood and the reality that he’d been granted another few seconds to live.
    Run, you blockhead!
    Sanity overcame his woozy senses, and Wyatt scrambled to his feet and darted into the snowstorm toward