the equivalent of a lead-embroidered death certificate. He rolled over and looked back up the hill toward the hiding place of his deputy. Horror made a grimace out of his normally composed features. Coming noiselessly through the brush toward Wes was one of the Tollivers. The assassin held a cocked six-gun in his grimy paw, and Jack caught infrequent glimpses of the sweat-stained, dirty Stetson and the crouched-over shoulders. He knew that Flourney was lying there blissfully unaware that death was staking him with an implacable certainty.
Masters rolled recklessly backward and came up to one knee. The brush shook violently but that wasa chance he had to take. A bullet in the back wasn’t half as bad as being forced to sit back and watch the slaughter of his deputy. He aimed back up the hill, hunkered over his carbine, and let his finger rest caressingly over the trigger. The hunched-over figure appeared briefly, sideways, as the killer dodged into a small clearing. Jack breathed a very brief prayer and pinched the trigger. The Tolliver bushwhacker disappeared in a flurry of threshing limbs. A wild, shrill, and abandoned scream chilled the listeners on the slope and in the house.
Wes scrambled furiously back toward the victim, cocked .45 in hand. Fury burned in him like a consuming flame. He had not only lost the only worthwhile target he had seen during the entire fracas, but the scream had startled him into a cold sweat. He emerged into the clearing where the dead posse man lay and glowered at the smashed head of a stranger who he knew to be a Tolliver. Reluctantly he turned around and crawled back to his rifle, grabbed it in a hard fist, and began a swift descent of the brushy slope.
Jack was in a position where he could see the three saddled horses tied to the old log corral. It made him feel more confident, even though the shadows were lengthening at an alarming rate. He scooped up a rock and flung it overhand toward the house. The ruse didn’t work. He skirted through the brush as far as he dared and gained a slight sideways view of the porch; ejected brass cartridge cases caught and reflected the dying rays of the sun like scattered nuggets of gold. There wasn’t much time left, and the sheriff had a reputation at stake. He arose to a crouch, dropped the carbine, and drew his six-gun. For a long second he hesitated, then he begana wary, inanely reckless charge across the clearing toward the edge of the house.
Wes Flourney was unaware of the sheriff’s charge toward the adobe until he heard the close crash of two guns nearby. One was a rifle and the other a deeper, less piercing belch of a short-barreled six-gun. He wanted to risk a peek but dropped flat instead. None of the slugs bludgeoned into the brush within hearing distance and the deputy correctly assumed that they were aimed at the sheriff, not him. He came up to one knee, held his six-gun ready, and risked a quick peek.
Jack had swapped point-blank fire with Link Tolliver. He had recognized the big paunchy figure before one of the renegade’s bullets crumpled his right leg to support him as he limped forward, three slugs still left in his hot gun.
Suddenly Link Tolliver appeared on the porch; he had two heavy saddlebags thrown over his massive shoulder and a defiant, crazy look on his face. He had made a decision. Either he shot his way clear or he went to hell with the Mendocino loot still in his possession. Jack Masters leveled and fired once. Tolliver sagged, forced himself upright, and began an inexorable walk toward the sheriff. There was a ghastly smile on his sweat-streaked face, a wild, animal snarl. His gun belched twice in quick succession. Jack felt the burn of the slug over his hip. He was dimly conscious of the sticky warmth that was running down the inside leg of his pants to pour into his boot.
He raised his gun barrel a little and squeezed the trigger. The heavy walnut butt slammed into his palm. Link Tolliver stopped in mid-stride.
Masters rolled recklessly backward and came up to one knee. The brush shook violently but that wasa chance he had to take. A bullet in the back wasn’t half as bad as being forced to sit back and watch the slaughter of his deputy. He aimed back up the hill, hunkered over his carbine, and let his finger rest caressingly over the trigger. The hunched-over figure appeared briefly, sideways, as the killer dodged into a small clearing. Jack breathed a very brief prayer and pinched the trigger. The Tolliver bushwhacker disappeared in a flurry of threshing limbs. A wild, shrill, and abandoned scream chilled the listeners on the slope and in the house.
Wes scrambled furiously back toward the victim, cocked .45 in hand. Fury burned in him like a consuming flame. He had not only lost the only worthwhile target he had seen during the entire fracas, but the scream had startled him into a cold sweat. He emerged into the clearing where the dead posse man lay and glowered at the smashed head of a stranger who he knew to be a Tolliver. Reluctantly he turned around and crawled back to his rifle, grabbed it in a hard fist, and began a swift descent of the brushy slope.
Jack was in a position where he could see the three saddled horses tied to the old log corral. It made him feel more confident, even though the shadows were lengthening at an alarming rate. He scooped up a rock and flung it overhand toward the house. The ruse didn’t work. He skirted through the brush as far as he dared and gained a slight sideways view of the porch; ejected brass cartridge cases caught and reflected the dying rays of the sun like scattered nuggets of gold. There wasn’t much time left, and the sheriff had a reputation at stake. He arose to a crouch, dropped the carbine, and drew his six-gun. For a long second he hesitated, then he begana wary, inanely reckless charge across the clearing toward the edge of the house.
Wes Flourney was unaware of the sheriff’s charge toward the adobe until he heard the close crash of two guns nearby. One was a rifle and the other a deeper, less piercing belch of a short-barreled six-gun. He wanted to risk a peek but dropped flat instead. None of the slugs bludgeoned into the brush within hearing distance and the deputy correctly assumed that they were aimed at the sheriff, not him. He came up to one knee, held his six-gun ready, and risked a quick peek.
Jack had swapped point-blank fire with Link Tolliver. He had recognized the big paunchy figure before one of the renegade’s bullets crumpled his right leg to support him as he limped forward, three slugs still left in his hot gun.
Suddenly Link Tolliver appeared on the porch; he had two heavy saddlebags thrown over his massive shoulder and a defiant, crazy look on his face. He had made a decision. Either he shot his way clear or he went to hell with the Mendocino loot still in his possession. Jack Masters leveled and fired once. Tolliver sagged, forced himself upright, and began an inexorable walk toward the sheriff. There was a ghastly smile on his sweat-streaked face, a wild, animal snarl. His gun belched twice in quick succession. Jack felt the burn of the slug over his hip. He was dimly conscious of the sticky warmth that was running down the inside leg of his pants to pour into his boot.
He raised his gun barrel a little and squeezed the trigger. The heavy walnut butt slammed into his palm. Link Tolliver stopped in mid-stride.