hitching post in front of the cabin, Chad silently told himself that as soon as Kail rode away, he would go to the nearest neighbor’s house and ask if he could borrow one of his saddle horses. He would take a shortcut, gallop to the federal building, and warn Chief Brockman about Kail’s plans.
Kail swung atop his horse and with bulging eyes stared back at his uncle. “I’ve
got
to do this, Uncle Chad.”
He dare not let Kail suspect that he was going to leave the house at that moment. He gave Kail a dull look, stepped back, and closed the door. He stood there until he heard the horse trot away.
Suddenly Chad clutched his chest, gasped for breath, and collapsed on the floor. He breathed hard for several seconds, then stopped breathing altogether.
He was dead.
T WO
A t four forty-five that warm afternoon, Paul Brockman turned Chance onto Broadway Street, a block south of the federal building. With his shopping parcel tied to the saddle horn, he figured that instead of riding Chance to the rear of the building, where his father’s horse Blackie was in the small corral, he would just pull up to one of the hitch rails in front. He would wait inside and chat with some of the deputies until his father was ready to head for home.
As Paul drew nearer to the federal building, he saw that the hitch rails directly in front of the building were full. He’d need to use an open spot a few buildings down. Just as he was dismounting, about twenty-five yards away from the front door, he saw deputy U.S. marshal Whip Langford exiting. Paul tied the reins to the rail, then smiled at the approaching man. “Howdy, Uncle Whip. How come your horse is tied out front instead of being in the corral in the rear?”
Returning the smile as he drew up, Whip said, “Well, I’ve been gone from the office since early morning, I returned only a few minutes ago, and now I’m going home. How come you’re here?”
Paul explained; then Whip told him about his morning activity catching an outlaw. While Paul and Whip stood on the boardwalk talking, Paul noticed his father come out the federal building door with Fred and Sofie Ryerson. They paused to chat for a moment.Paul loved the Ryersons and was smiling at the scene as a man on a big gray horse with a black mane and tail rode past him and Whip.
The mounted man drew his gun and aimed it at John Brockman’s back. There was a quick catch in Paul’s breath and a sudden rapid beating of his heart as, with lightning-fast action, he reached forth, grabbed Whip’s gun out of its holster, snapped the hammer back, aimed at the rider, and squeezed the trigger.
The .45-caliber slug plowed into the man’s back, ripping through his heart.
At the sound of the gunshot, John wheeled about to see a gun drop from the man’s hand as he was falling out of the saddle. John watched the man hit the ground beside the gray horse; then his son came toward him with a smoking gun in hand and Whip Langford at his side.
Paul and Whip dashed past the gunman, now sprawled motionless in the street. They glanced at him and quickly saw that he was no doubt dead.
People on the street, including the Ryersons, looked wide eyed at the scene as Paul raced ahead and reached his father before Whip. Paul was shaking badly as he threw his arms around his father.
John hugged his son until Whip drew up, then let go of Paul and looked at the gun in his son’s hand that was still smoking a bit. “Son, what happened? Did you shoot that man on the gray horse?”
Unable to speak at the moment, Paul slowly nodded his head.
“Where did you get the gun?” John asked his son.
“From my holster, Chief,” Whip interjected. “He did it to save your life.”
John blinked. “T-to save
my
life?”
“Yes—Papa,” Paul choked out. Then taking a deep, cleansing breath and running his hands over his eyes to clear away the mist that had formed there, Paul explained with a trembling voice what had happened.
His features a bit pale,
Kail swung atop his horse and with bulging eyes stared back at his uncle. “I’ve
got
to do this, Uncle Chad.”
He dare not let Kail suspect that he was going to leave the house at that moment. He gave Kail a dull look, stepped back, and closed the door. He stood there until he heard the horse trot away.
Suddenly Chad clutched his chest, gasped for breath, and collapsed on the floor. He breathed hard for several seconds, then stopped breathing altogether.
He was dead.
T WO
A t four forty-five that warm afternoon, Paul Brockman turned Chance onto Broadway Street, a block south of the federal building. With his shopping parcel tied to the saddle horn, he figured that instead of riding Chance to the rear of the building, where his father’s horse Blackie was in the small corral, he would just pull up to one of the hitch rails in front. He would wait inside and chat with some of the deputies until his father was ready to head for home.
As Paul drew nearer to the federal building, he saw that the hitch rails directly in front of the building were full. He’d need to use an open spot a few buildings down. Just as he was dismounting, about twenty-five yards away from the front door, he saw deputy U.S. marshal Whip Langford exiting. Paul tied the reins to the rail, then smiled at the approaching man. “Howdy, Uncle Whip. How come your horse is tied out front instead of being in the corral in the rear?”
Returning the smile as he drew up, Whip said, “Well, I’ve been gone from the office since early morning, I returned only a few minutes ago, and now I’m going home. How come you’re here?”
Paul explained; then Whip told him about his morning activity catching an outlaw. While Paul and Whip stood on the boardwalk talking, Paul noticed his father come out the federal building door with Fred and Sofie Ryerson. They paused to chat for a moment.Paul loved the Ryersons and was smiling at the scene as a man on a big gray horse with a black mane and tail rode past him and Whip.
The mounted man drew his gun and aimed it at John Brockman’s back. There was a quick catch in Paul’s breath and a sudden rapid beating of his heart as, with lightning-fast action, he reached forth, grabbed Whip’s gun out of its holster, snapped the hammer back, aimed at the rider, and squeezed the trigger.
The .45-caliber slug plowed into the man’s back, ripping through his heart.
At the sound of the gunshot, John wheeled about to see a gun drop from the man’s hand as he was falling out of the saddle. John watched the man hit the ground beside the gray horse; then his son came toward him with a smoking gun in hand and Whip Langford at his side.
Paul and Whip dashed past the gunman, now sprawled motionless in the street. They glanced at him and quickly saw that he was no doubt dead.
People on the street, including the Ryersons, looked wide eyed at the scene as Paul raced ahead and reached his father before Whip. Paul was shaking badly as he threw his arms around his father.
John hugged his son until Whip drew up, then let go of Paul and looked at the gun in his son’s hand that was still smoking a bit. “Son, what happened? Did you shoot that man on the gray horse?”
Unable to speak at the moment, Paul slowly nodded his head.
“Where did you get the gun?” John asked his son.
“From my holster, Chief,” Whip interjected. “He did it to save your life.”
John blinked. “T-to save
my
life?”
“Yes—Papa,” Paul choked out. Then taking a deep, cleansing breath and running his hands over his eyes to clear away the mist that had formed there, Paul explained with a trembling voice what had happened.
His features a bit pale,
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