Finest Hour Read Online Free PDF Page A

this once. Toss your keys and pistols out into the brush.”
    “Or what?” sneered Willie.
    “Or I’ll shoot you both.”
    “You gonna draw down on both of us?” Willie squared himself, and Si took a step away from the car, his hand moving slowly toward the pistol in his belt.
    Mason took a breath and let it out slowly, feeling his heart calm and his hands steady. He played out the draw. As soon as the Supergrade cleared the holster, he would double-tap Willie in the chest. When the muzzle settled from the second shot, he would shift his aim to Si—one shot in the upper torso. He doubted that more than one 230-grain slug would be needed for the old man. The whole sequence could be completed in a single second.
    “Ah, hell,” Si said, tugging for his pistol. “Let’s jus’ get this over with.”
    Mason drew his Supergrade, but before he could get off a shot, Willie dove forward with both arms extended. He probably would have gotten hands on Mason too, had it not been for Bowie. The dog caught him in mid-stride, latching onto the meat of his calf and dragging him to the ground.
    With Willie down, Mason sidestepped and shifted his aim to Si, watching out of the corner of his eye as Leila bolted toward the truck.
    Bad luck being what it is, the front sight of the old man’s revolver snagged on his belt, and the gun discharged, sending a .357 Magnum slug deep into his belly. Si collapsed to the ground, moaning. While the gut shot certainly put him at a profound disadvantage, it also prevented Mason from seeing his hands.
    “Toss the gun!” he shouted, training his Supergrade on the man’s head.
    Si groaned, toppling over onto his side as he tucked into a ball.
    “Do it!”
    The old man shoved the bloody revolver out from under him.
    Mason shuffled forward and kicked it under the car. Stepping clear of Si, he turned back to check on Willie. The poor redneck was screaming like he had fallen into a wood chipper, as Bowie ripped into him, snapping and biting at his hands, arms, and groin.
    “That’s enough, Bowie.”
    Without turning around, the dog slowly backed away.
    Mason nodded to Willie. “Toss your gun too.”
    Willie’s fingers were badly chewed, and he had to clamp the gun with both palms in order to sling it away.
    “Christ Almighty, Marshal,” he groaned, propping up on one elbow. “That beast ain’t got no right eatin’ me like that.”
    Mason leaned down and patted Bowie.
    “Watch him.”
    The dog licked his lips, never once taking his eyes off Willie.
    Mason walked over and retrieved the man’s revolver. It was a Taurus .44 Magnum with a six-and-a-half-inch ported barrel, beautiful, but too heavy to be used for anything other than big game hunting. He ejected the cartridges and hurled the pistol into the brush.
    “Mason!” hollered Leila. She had made it halfway to the truck before stopping to look back. “Everything okay?”
    He waved her on. “Go on to the truck. I’ll be along in a moment.”
    With his Supergrade at the ready, Mason edged up to the driver’s door and peered inside the car. The back seats were stuffed with food, water jugs, and cartons of cigarettes, but as he had suspected, there were no other occupants.
    He holstered the pistol and slid out his hunting knife. He couldn’t in good conscience leave Willie and Si without transportation in the middle of nowhere, but he could at least ensure they weren’t able to follow in short order. Mason stabbed the blade into the sidewall of the closest tire, watching as the rim slowly settled into the soft dirt. The car was still drivable, but certainly not fast enough to keep up with him and Leila. And while Willie could likely round up a spare from the service station, changing a tire with mangled fingers would be a slow and painful process.
    Willie called to Si, but the old man didn’t answer. He had slid over to lean against the front fender and was now slumped forward, clutching his belly. The front of his shirt and trousers