“What—?” she managed to say before one of Richards’s gunhands cut her off.
“You run on home now, schoolmarm. This here might git messy.”
Sally stuck her chin out. “I will stand right here on this boardwalk until the soles of my shoes grow roots before I’ll take orders from you, you misbegotten cretin!”
Buck grinned at her. Now this lady had some
“What the hell did she call me?” the cowboy said to his friend.
“Durned if I know.”
The cowboy swung his eyes back to Buck. “You insulted Miss Janey, boy. She’s madder than a tree full of hornets. You got fifteen minutes to git your gear and git gone.”
“I think I’ll stay,” Buck said. He had thumbed the thongs off his .44s after pushing Sally to one side.
“Boy,” the older and uglier of the bodyguards said, “do you know who I am?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Buck replied.
“Name’s Dickerson, from over Colorado way. That ring a bell in your head?”
It did, but Buck didn’t let it show. Dickerson was a top gun. No doubt about that. Not only was he mean, he was cat quick with a pistol. “Nope. Sorry.”
“And this here,” Dickerson jerked a thumb, “is Russell.”
Buck hadn’t heard of Russell, but he figured if the guy rode with Dickerson, he’d be good. “Pleased to meet you,” Buck said politely.
Dickerson gave Buck an exasperated look. “Boy, are you stupid or tryin’ to be smart-mouthed?”
“Neither one. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to continue my stroll with Miss Reynolds.”
Both Dickerson and Russell dismounted, ground-reining their ponies. “Only place you goin’ is carried to Boot Hill, boy.”
Several citizens had gathered around to watch the fun, including one young cowhand with a weather-beaten face and a twinkle in his eyes.
“Stand clear,” Buck told the crowd.
The gathering crowd backed up and out of the line of impending fire. They hoped.
“I’ve bothered no one,” Buck said to the crowd, without taking his eyes from the two gunhands facing him. “And I’m not looking for a fight. But if I’m pushed, I’ll fight. I just wanted that made public.”
“Git on your hoss and ride, boy!” Russell said. “And do it right now.”
“I’m staying.”
“You a damn fool, boy!” Dickerson said. “But if you want a lead supper, that’s up to you.”
“Lead might fly in both directions,” Buck said calmly. “Were I you, I’d think about that.”
Some odd light flickered quickly through Dickerson’s eyes. He wasn’t used to being sassed or disobeyed. But damn this boy’s eyes, he didn’t seem to be worried at all. Who in the devil was they up against?
“That’s Buck West, Dickerson,” the young cowboy with the beat-up face said.
“That don’t spell road apples to me,” Russell said. He glared at Buck. “Move, tinhorn, or the undertaker’s gonna be divvyin’ up your pocket money.”
“I like it here,” Buck said.
“Then draw, damn you!” Dickerson shouted. He went for his gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Russell grab for his .45.
Buck’s hands swept down and up with the speed of an angry striking snake. His matched .44s roared and belched smoke and flame. The ground-reined horses snorted and reared at the noise. Dickerson and Russell lay on the dusty street. Both were badly wounded. The guns of the PSR men lay beside them in the dirt. Neither had had time to cock and fire.
“Jumpin’ jackrabbits!” the young cowboy said. “I never seen nothin’ like that in my life.”
Buck calmly punched out the spent brass and dropped the empties to the dirt. He reloaded and holstered his .44s, leaving the hammer thongs off.
Sheriff Dan Reese and Deputy Rogers came at a run up the wide street. Many townspeople had gathered on the boardwalks to crane their necks.
“Drop those damn guns, West!” Reese yelled before arriving at the scene. “You’re under arrest.”
“I’d like to know why.” Sally said, stepping up to stand beside Buck. Her face was very pale. She pointed to Dickerson and Russell. “Those hooligans started it. They ordered Mr. West to leave town. When he refused, they threatened to kill him. They drew first. And I’ll swear to that in a court of law.”
“She’s right, Sheriff,” the young cowhand said.
Reese gave the cowboy an ugly look. “Which side are you on, Sam?”
“The side of right, Sheriff.”
Dickerson cried out in pain. The front of his shirt was covered with blood. The .44 slug had hit him squarely in the chest, ricocheted off the breast bone, and exited out the top of his shoulder, tearing a great jagged hole as it spun away.
