Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

cartridges were in the special-order, 30 inch barreled Winchester, and twelve total in the two pistols. There would be no room for error if he did not have time to reload.
    Watching the riders approach, Mobley adjusted the folding sight on the stock of the rifle to its 200 yard gradient, close to maximum effective range for the new ‘73 Winchester. At such distance, the 44-40 bullet would drop slightly more than two feet. Beyond that, its trajectory would deteriorate so radically only the very best marksman could hope to make a killing shot.
    Resting the barrel comfortably on the boulder, he examined his enemies as they loped steadily toward his fort. The chill of impending doom inched up the back of his neck. A bitter metallic taste filled his mouth. Vicious and wild, these men looked as if they had never seen the kindness of a mother. Their clothes were outlandish combinations of weird looking striped pants, breechclouts, and fancy vests. Tall crowned hats bounced hilariously on several heads as they galloped. Some looked white, others dark-Indian or Mexican, he could not tell. Several had bandoliers stretched across partially bare chests. All held shiny new, “Yellow Boy,” model 1866 Winchesters and were exceptionally well mounted.
    The horses were unmistakably full-blooded Arabians. The distinctive, graceful and delicate form of the classic small headed black stallion lightly controlled by the leader of the bunch left no doubt. The horse did not just lope. It pranced its way forward, head high, tail cocked, straining at the bit as if it had been trained as a pacer. The other Arabians were of varying colors and shades. Whoever these men were, they were very well equipped. Few breeds could match the stamina of a well conditioned Arabian. Meteor might have had trouble keeping in front. Mobley knew then he’d made the right decision, to fort up.
    Mobley began the slow process of concentration, of mental cleansing that would allow him to focus all of his being on the sights of his rifle, the target held in slight blur. He tracked the leader, eye focus shifting subtly now between target and sight.
    There was something very strange about these men. They looked mostly Indian, Comanches probably, but the Mexican sombreros on some of them did not make sense. They were hundreds of miles from the nearest Mexican settlements and from what he’d heard, large groups of Mexicans were poorly received this far north.
    Wiping sweat from his brow, he allowed his breath to escape slowly. Whoever they were, if they were seriously stupid they would keep riding straight in, hoping to get him with a lucky shot.
    Come on, boys. Let’s see what you’ve got in them gourds, brains or prairie chips.
    It would take fifteen to twenty seconds at full gallop for the riders to cover the ground between his best range to point blank. In that time, he knew he could accurately fire most of the rifle’s full magazine. If they came straight at him, deflection would be minimal, his fire effective. If not, he was in big trouble.
    The riders neither slowed their approach nor spread out. Confident, whooping and hollering, they began to die as Mobley fired carefully and steadily using the boulder as a rest. There was nothing more dangerous; he recalled his grandfather say, than a good shot with a rifle who does not panic. It had been proven during the late Civil War, as studies revealed that in every battle, the most casualties were inflicted by the steady hand of the individual sharpshooter.
    Mobley aimed first at those lagging behind, so as not to alert the front riders to the real danger of his rifle until it was too late for them to take evasive action. Two fell hard, blood exploding from naked chests, legs akimbo as they hit the earth, before the leader looked back. He jerked his horse to a sliding stop, then turned and circled away, whacking the black stallion with the barrel of his rifle. The rest began to check rein, but two more fell before they