The Loner: Dead Man’s Gold Read Free Page B

knew the next shot from that distant marksman might be fatal. He brought the horse to a sliding stop beside her, leaned down, and wrapped his left arm around her. She cried out again as he lifted her off her feet and set her in front of him.
    Then he was galloping toward the wagon, and as he approached he shouted to the woman’s companion, “Get back on the wagon! Get it moving!”
    Those hills were close to a mile away. That had been one hell of a shot to come as close as it had to killing the woman. The Kid knew instinctively that that had been its intent. She had said that this fella Fortunato would try again to kill them. The Kid wondered briefly if Fortunato himself was the one who’d pulled the trigger.
    The woman’s traveling companion was an older man. He had taken his hat off, and his white hair shone in the sun. The Kid shouted at him again to get on the wagon and get the vehicle rolling, and this time the man gave a little shake of his head and reacted, as if he hadn’t fully understood the first time. He clapped the hat back on his head, ran to the front of the wagon, and clambered up on the seat.
    The Kid’s back was to the rifleman. His skin crawled. He knew that if he was targeted and the bullet found its mark, he would never hear the shot. The bullet would travel faster than the sound of its firing. But all he could do was keep going and wait for the dreadful impact of the lead, if such was his fate.
    He reached the wagon. The old man was slapping the reins against the backs of the team and shouting at the horses. They broke into a run, which rocked the old-timer back on the seat as the wagon jolted into motion. He regained his balance and started slashing at the horses’ rumps again as The Kid rode past.
    The Kid thought about veering in close to the wagon and transfering the woman to the seat, but decided that was too dangerous. If she slipped, she might fall under the wagon wheels. Anyway, she was probably safer right where she was, with his body serving as a shield from any bullets that came their way.
    He looked back as the buckskin pulled slightly ahead of the wagon. No matter how high-powered that rifle was, they had to be at the very outer edge of its range. At distances like that, a couple of hundred yards could make a big difference.
    The Kid remembered his father, Frank Morgan, telling him about an old friend of his, a buffalo hunter named Billy Dixon, who had made a mile-long shot during an Indian fight down in Texas twenty-some-odd years earlier, shooting a chief’s horse right out from under him at that range. But that had been a spectacular shot, a once-in-a-lifetime shot, and probably more than a little bit of luck had been involved, too.
    Despite the fact that he thought they were probably safe now, The Kid kept the buckskin running and waved for the old man to keep the wagon moving, too. He didn’t slow down until they had put another five hundred yards behind them. Even then he just slowed down and didn’t stop, even though he was sure they were out of range of the rifleman in the hills.
    When he looked back, he saw the sun glint on something again. He knew it was probably a foolish thing to do, but he lifted a hand in a mocking wave of farewell.
    Then he turned back to the woman and asked, “Are you all right?”
    She didn’t answer him. Her head lolled loosely on her neck. The Kid bit back a curse. His left arm was still tight around her, just under her breasts, and he could feel her heart beating so he knew she wasn’t dead. She must have passed out, he thought. He needed to find some place where they could stop safely and he could take a look at that wounded arm to see how bad it really was.
    The arid flats stretched for a couple of miles, but he saw more hills and some green where they ended. There might be a little shade and some water, and both of those things would be welcome.
    He kept moving at a steady pace, staying a short distance ahead of the wagon. As he rode toward