Chapter One #2
Clint swallowed hard, jaw tight, and laid the girl down gently on the grass. He knelt beside her, dipped a cloth in the last of the canteen water, and pressed it to her brow. “You just hang on, all right?” he muttered. “We’re close. Just gotta make it to town.”
She blinked at him, slow and unfocused. Her little hand clutched that blood-spattered folder of papers she refused to part with. It was no child’s toy. What in the world was she guarding so closely?
Clint stood and turned toward his saddlebags. He heard a branch cracking. Not the way an elk moves. Too heavy.
Then a shot kicked up dirt inches from his boot.
Clint’s instincts snapped alive. He yanked his Winchester off the saddle and dropped low. “Stay down,” he hissed at the girl, eyes sharp, scanning the rocky hills above. “Get behind that big rock.”
The girl slid behind the stone without hesitation.
A bullet slammed into the tree just inches from Clint’s head, splinters flying. Was the shooter mocking him?
“I’ve been waitin’ for you, Whitmore.”
Few out here knew Clint’s real name was Nathaniel Whitmore. It was the identity he’d shed along with his deputy badge. Whoever was calling him by that name had a score to settle.
Clint’s stomach sank as he finally recognized the voice. “Maddox Boone?” he called out, crouched low behind the rise, Winchester at the ready.
“You left me to rot in Santa Fe! Said I was gonna hang, but I walked outta that jail three years later. Reckon it’s time we settled up!”
Boone stepped into view, half-shielded by a scraggly tree, a Winchester ’76 slung low and that same wild glint in his eye. Still rail-thin, still filthy, and still missing half his teeth.
Clint cursed under his breath. He remembered bringing Boone in alive after that stagecoach massacre—four dead, including a child. He’d figured the bastard would never see daylight again. Too much damn faith in the law.
“You got a kid with you?” Boone jeered, his eyes darting toward the rock Ruby was hiding behind. “Think that’ll slow me down?”
“She ain’t yours to worry about!” Clint shouted back. “Walk away, Boone. You ain’t gonna like how this ends.”
“I already don’t like it,” Boone spat. He started advancing, his footsteps crunching over shale, finger twitching near his trigger.
Clint kept low, his grip tightening around the Winchester’s worn stock. He glanced back at the girl, who peered behind the rock with wide eyes. “Just stay put,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be fine.”
Boone raised his rifle.
Clint moved like smoke across the slope, shifting sideways to draw Boone’s aim away from the girl’s hiding spot. In one smooth motion, he raised his rifle, eyes locking on Boone’s chest.
He wasn’t about to let that murderer slip away again, and he damn sure wasn’t letting that little girl get caught in the crossfire.
Slipping behind a weathered tree, he crept around the trunk until he had a clear shot.
A bullet hissed past his ear. Clint flinched, heart pounding, then steadied his rifle once more.
Boone was a crack shot and desperate, but Clint was faster.
Just one more second . . .
Click.
The dry snap of a hammer falling behind him froze his blood.
The girl was holding the spare Colt he’d found at the ranch house, the hammer half-cocked, her finger trembling on the trigger. “Put it down,” Clint hissed, voice sharp. “Now’s not—”
The warning came too late.
Boone’s head snapped toward the sound. “Well, well, well,” he crowed, grinning wide. “Ain’t she a firecracker!”
Clint saw his chance. But Boone dove to the side just as Clint fired. The shot hit dirt where Boone had been standing. “Dang it,” Clint growled, snapping off another round as Boone scrambled for cover behind a cluster of boulders. A ricochet sparked off stone, and Boone ran.
Clint took off after him, boots pounding across the loose ground, but Boone was fast and knew these hills better. Within moments, he disappeared like a rattler into the brush.
Clint lowered the Winchester, chest heaving. He scanned the ridge, eyes sharp, ears straining for movement. Nothing but wind, dust, and the blood-red smear of the setting sun.
He thumbed open the loading gate and fed fresh .44-40 cartridges into the rifle.
Then he chambered a round. Lifting the gun again, he scanned the horizon, but Boone was gone, vanishing into the rocks like a ghost.
Clint wasn’t about to leave that little girl behind to run after him. He exhaled hard through his nose and walked back to their makeshift camp.
She stood frozen, holding the Colt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Her eyes were locked on him, guilt written all over her face.
Clint took a steadying breath, then walked over and gently took the pistol from her small hands.
“You did fine,” he said. He knew the chamber was empty, but he had to double-check before stuffing it back into the saddlebag.
He’d better find a gun belt for the pistol soon.
“But next time, stay put till I tell you. Understand?”
She nodded slowly, lips pressed tight.
“And don’t go grabbing my guns unless you’re ready to kill a man.”
She nodded again.
Clint gave her a smile, then cast one last look toward the hills. Maddox Boone was still out there. Still breathing.
But not for long. “Next time I see him,” Clint muttered, “I finish it.” He looked back at the girl. Her face was still flushed with fever. “Come on. We’d better get moving.”
Continue reading… Desert Reckoning