He made himself as small as possible and then tried to catch his breath. His left shoulder ached from falling on it, but he moved his arm around enough to know that nothing was broken, only bruised and battered.
He moved his right hand to his hip. The Colt was still in its holster. Sam drew the weapon, and even though he knew the range to the ridge was too great for a handgun, he felt better holding the revolver.
If he stayed where he was, maybe sooner or later the bushwhackers would get tired of the standoff and come after him.
That was when he would have his chance to use the Colt.
On the other hand, if they were smart they might just try to wait him out. The sun was climbing in the sky, and he didn’t have any shade here. It wouldn’t be too many hours before his position would become unbearably hot.
Then his choice would be to leave his cover and probably get shot down, or stay there and bake.
The rifle fire stopped. Sam figured the two bushwhackers were up there on the ridge talking about the situation and trying to figure out what to do next.
He wondered if the shots would draw any attention from the Devil’s Pitchfork. The sound of them might have reached the ranch headquarters.
But if the bushwhackers were two of John Henry Boyd’s men, which Sam supposed was possible, then it wouldn’t really matter.
Sam lifted his head just enough to glance at the ridge. As he did, a bullet slammed into the rock about a foot away. A stone splinter stung his cheek. More shots blasted and sent slugs ricocheting off the rock as he ducked down again.
Well, they were still up there watching and still wanted him dead, he reflected. He had established that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Staying as low as possible, Sam turned his head to look for his horse. He didn’t know how badly the animal had been wounded.
To his relief, he saw the horse grazing on the hardy bunchgrass about a hundred yards away. A bloody streak on its hip showed where a bullet had creased it for the second time, causing the violent reaction that had cost Sam his place in the saddle.
Sam’s gaze lingered on the butt of the Winchester that rode in a sheath strapped under the left stirrup.
He wished he had the rifle. Pinned down like he was, the Winchester wouldn’t do him much good, but with it the odds might not have seemed quite so overwhelming.
He blinked as beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. The heat was getting worse.
Already his mouth felt like cotton.
The shooting had stopped again. The bushwhackers were going to wait and let the sun do their work for them, Sam thought. How long could he stand it before he was forced into the open?
With no warning, more shots abruptly blasted out. Instinctively, Sam lowered his head even more, but after a second he realized that he didn’t hear any bullets ricocheting off the rocks around him.
Not only that, but the sound of the shots was different as well. They were coming from somewhere else on the ridge.
And they weren’t directed at him.
The duller boom of six-guns being fired came to his ears. It sounded like quite a battle was going on up there.
Sam risked a look and caught a glimpse of two figures on horseback vanishing over the top of the ridge. They were moving fast, and the shots that still rang out hurried them on their way.
Were those the bushwhackers, Sam wondered, or had whoever was trying to come to his aid been forced to flee?
Either way, he knew this might be the only chance he had to get out of this trap. He leaped to his feet and broke into a long-legged sprint toward his horse.
No bullets came searching for him. When he reached the horse, he yanked the Winchester from the saddleboot, worked the lever to throw a round into the chamber, and whipped around toward the ridge, ready to return fire if any came his way.
Silence had fallen over the valley again. Sam turned his head to look all around him, searching for any other sign of a threat. He didn’t see any, but he didn’t relax his vigilance.
Movement on the ridge caught his eye. He picked out two riders working their way down the slope. They were too far away for him to make out any details, but something about them was familiar.
When they reached the floor of the valley and rode toward him, he realized what it was. He recognized the two horses: a buckskin and a paint.
That was Stovepipe Stewart and Wilbur Coleman riding toward him.
Sam’s forehead creased in a frown as he thought about the two cowboys. From the looks of it, they had rescued him from the bushwhackers.
But there had been two bushwhackers, too, Sam reminded himself. It was possible Stovepipe and Wilbur could have been the men he had seen retreating over the ridge. They could have pretended to flee, circled around, and be riding toward him now intending to claim that they had saved his bacon.
But why would they do that? Maybe to gain his trust, Sam thought.
However, there was no doubt in his mind that the hidden riflemen wanted him dead. Those shots had come too
