Man From Boot Hill Read Free Page B

off-target.
    Nick’s measured shot carved a good-sized hole through Alan’s head.
    Feeling his heart pound against his ribs and the blood churn through his veins, Nick watched Alan flop over and hack up one, final gasp.

THREE
    When Nick turned the gun toward J. D., he saw naked fear in the other man’s eyes. J. D. tried to kick and scramble his way toward the surrounding trees while waving his hands as if he could swat away a bullet. Nick kicked J. D. onto his back while tossing away the gun. He then stood over the younger man and reached down to take hold of the knife still lodged in J. D.’s arm. Although Nick didn’t twist the blade, he held onto it solidly enough to keep J. D. from moving.
    “What the hell brought this on?” Nick asked. “Who are you men?”
    J. D. gasped painfully. As he tried to get away again, he felt the knife staying where it was. Finally, J. D. gave up his struggle and rested on his back. “You…recognized George,” he said, wheezing.
    “George? You mean that boy from the Van Meter spread?”
    J. D. nodded.
    “So what if I recognized him?”
    “Dutch didn’t want the…job to be spoiled.”
    “What job?”
    A good amount of the color had drained from J. D.’s face. His wound wasn’t bleeding too badly, so Nick figured the younger man was fading due to exertion.
    “Tell me,” Nick growled, loudly enough to be heard through the fog in J. D.’s head. “What job?”
    “Dutch…needed someone on the inside. To make it…easier.”
    “Make what easier? Are they going to rob Van Meter’s ranch?”
    Once again, J. D. nodded.
    “When?” Nick asked.
    “Soon. Real soon.”
    Nick straightened up and took his knife with him. The blade came free, allowing J. D. to finally let out the breath he’d been choking on. After wiping the blade on his shirt, Nick ran to search for his gun. Along the way, his mind raced to figure just how quickly a group of men that size could move.
    If Nick knew about anything as much as he knew about his current profession, it was how a gang worked. He’d practically grown up leading one. After getting to the bushes where his gun had been tossed, Nick dropped to his knees and shoved his hands through the brush.
    The sun was a memory and the dim glow in the sky was all but blotted out by the trees over his head. Since he couldn’t see much of anything, he closed his eyes and let his hands continue theirsearch on their own. In the darkness, the ghosts he thought he’d banished came rushing back to him. He saw the faces of men he’d killed, men he’d betrayed, men who were his brothers and men who’d dragged him through hell.
    While trudging through those nightmares, Nick touched the familiar piece of gnarled iron. He quickly found the nub of a handle and then closed his hand around it. To the ignorant eye, the Schofield looked like a piece of cobbled-together junk. Even the handle was chipped down to a stump, but it fit Nick’s hand perfectly.
    Nick lifted the gun while letting out a relieved breath. The fingers clutching the weapon were just as gnarled as the gun itself. His right ring finger was nothing but a short stub and the middle finger was clipped short as well. Although his other fingers were there, the scars made his flesh look more like melted wax. His left hand was slightly better, but not by much.
    Unlike J. D.’s gun, this one didn’t slip. Its handle had been specifically carved to fit his hand as well as compensate for the odd balance due to his missing fingers. Every other part of the weapon was modified as well, allowing Nick to draw and fire it almost as quickly as he could in his youth.
    Gun in hand, Nick hurried to where his horse was waiting. Rasa might have been way past her prime, but the horse knew better than to wander off after being freed from the wagon’s hitch. Whilethe gunshots hadn’t spooked her, she was ready to put some distance between herself and that graveyard. She took off like a shot at the first touch of