Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) Read Free Page B

of many riders moving together across the windswept ground. The gang appeared to rotate in a long loop covering the Mexican desert and hill country from the border, stretching as far south as Mexico City. They hadn’t broken up and gone in separate directions after they realized he was on their trail.
    They had left men behind to kill him, plain and simple. This told him a couple of important things. The Torres brothers had yet to split up the money from the banks and payrolls they had raided and robbed across the Arizona Territory border. Wise thinking on the part of their leaders , he thought. It was hard to hold a group of killers together when they had pockets full of stolen money to spend.
    It also told him the Torres brothers didn’t mind leaving a few men behind to kill him, knowing if those men never made it back alive, it only meant more money for the rest of the gang.
    Some things were not hard to figure, he told himself. Like how close this Frenchman and the Torres brothers must be, for him to lie on the gang’s behalf, when he knew their horses’ hoofprints led right to his cantina door.
    So much for that, Sam thought. He’d remember Defoe, Wild Roses and the Bad Dogs Cantina.
    Places like this were a safe haven for men like the Gun Killers Gang. When and if the time came, he would ride back here and find them—some of them anyway. That was how the job worked: gather information from every source along their trail. Sooner or later, the Gun Killers would raise their heads, and when that time came, he’d be ready and waiting.

Chapter 3

    At the well, the Ranger stood beside the dun while the thirsty animal drew water from a runoff trough. As the thirsty horse drank its fill, Sam took down three canteens hanging from his saddle horn, uncapped them and held them under the water until they where full.
    When he’d recapped the canteens and hung them back on his saddle horn, he pushed his sombrero back, letting it hang down his back, pulled the black bandanna from his head and plunged his face down into the cool water.
    He took a long swig, swished his face back and forth and raised it. Slinging his wet hair back from his eyes, he stuck the black bandanna under the water for a rinse, wrung it out and fitted it back atop his head. He wiped his wet face with both hands and looked warily back and forth at the empty street.
    He gazed off along the trails leading into the village for any sign of rising trail dust and saw none, indicating that no one from the cantina had gotten nervous and decided to leave on his account. He took in a long, refreshed breath, let it out and pulled his sombrero up onto his head, atop the cool wet bandanna, enjoying it while it lasted—which wouldn’t be long in the scorching heat.
    Â 
    Across the empty street, Matten Page crept around the corner of an alleyway, out of the darkened shade and down behind the low remnants of a crumbling adobe wall. He peered up over the edge of the wall, Winchester rifle in hand, and watched the Ranger adjust his sombrero and snug the string up under his chin.
    Here it is , Page thought, steadying his rifle atop the wall and gazing down the rifle barrel. He had the Ranger in his sights. He had the sun in the Ranger’s face; he had the wall for cover. He had every element of surprise, and this was all the edge he needed. He cocked the hammer back quietly. Five seconds from now, he would be the man who killed the Ranger —and it was about damned time, he told himself. He squinted his left eye shut and took fine aim with his right.
    â€œMister, look out !” Erin Donovan cried out in a voice that was nearer to a scream.
    What the—! Page turned his eye from the Ranger and stared in bewilderment at the woman running fast along the middle of the empty street, her long dress causing a flurry of dust. She screamed at the Ranger at the top of her lungs, “It’s an ambush! He’s going to kill