'Don't pay no attention to this crybaby,' Cletus said. 'I know for a fact that Morgan has the money, an' that he'll pay it to get this snot-nose kid back.'
'Whatever you say, Cletus,' Diego said.
' Let's get headed north. Glenwood Springs is a hard three-day ride.'
'Will they send a posse after the boy?' Diego inquired.
Cletus grinned, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. 'If they do, we'll kill the sons of bitches an' be done with them. Just keep an eye behind us. It's time we covered some ground before it gets full dark.'
'It is better if we do not have a fire when we make camp,' Diego said.
'We ain't gonna make camp. We'll keep pushing these horses all night. Come sunrise, we'll find us a ranch someplace an' take fresh horses.'
Diego turned his head north. 'This is very empty country, _compadre_. What if there are no ranches where we can steal fresh horses?'
'We keep ridin' the ones we've got.'
Diego reined his brown gelding off the ridge. 'I do not like this place.'
Cletus gave him a sour look. 'Why the hell is that, Diego?' he asked, not really caring.
'Is too cold here,' the Mexican _pistolero_ said. 'Even a woman could not keep me warm on a night like this. Maybeso a bottle of tequila.'
Cletus led the way up the ridge toward dark mountain silhouettes looming in the distance. He knew he'd made the right choice when he'd brought Diego Ponce with him to earn this high bounty. Ponce was half crazy, as good with a bowie knife as he was with a pistol or a rifle. And when it came to killing men, no matter who they might be, he had no remorse, no misgivings about spilling their blood.
* * * *
Diego trotted his horse up a steepening slope, catching up to Cletus and the boy.
'They come,' Diego said softly. 'I counted seven of them and they are using their horses very hard.'
Cletus cast a look toward a narrow pass between mountains only a few hundred yards away. 'We'll ambush the bastards here,' he said. 'It'll be a posse from Trinidad. Won't be a one of them who knows how to shoot.'
'I will find a place to hide,' Diego said, spurring his horse past Cletus and Conrad.
* * * *
Sheriff Maxey knew the trail was fresh. Every time he climbed down from the saddle he found crisp hoofprints made only hours ago.
'We're closing in on them, boys,' he said. 'Get your rifles and shotguns ready.'
Maxey led them into a rocky pass. Night shadows hid what lay beyond the entrance.
Just as they entered the passageway, a rifle shot echoed from rocks high on the rim. Dave Matthews let out a yelp and went tumbling from the saddle.
Then a hail of lead came at Maxey's posse from two sides. A horse went down, whickering in pain. Homer Martin, Trinidad's only blacksmith, shrieked and tumbled over his horse's rump with blood squirting from his head.
Bob Olsen was cut down by a withering blast of gunfire from the east side of the pass. His horse crumpled underneath him and he slumped over the animal's neck.
Jimmy Strunk, a boy of fifteen, began screaming for his mother when a bullet shattered his spine. He threw down his father's rifle and slid underneath his prancing pinto's hooves, trampled to death when his horse galloped away with his boot hung in a stirrup.
Buford Cobbs, a saloonkeeper, had his head torn from his torso by a .44-caliber slug that severed his spinal column. His head rolled off his shoulders like a grisly ball before he fell to the rocky floor of the pass.
Alex Wright, a cowboy from the Circle B Ranch, felt something enter his throat. He tried to yell, but only a stream of dark blood came from his neck. He threw up his hands to surrender to the shooters just seconds before he died. His horse plunged out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a dull thud.
Sheriff Charlie Maxey had only a brief moment to understand his mistake ... he'd ridden into a trap, an ambush.
He jerked his horse around and stuck spurs into its ribs as hard and fast as he could. His chestnut reached a full gallop at the same instant when a bullet passed cleanly through his liver, exiting through the front of his flannel shirt.
'Edith!' he cried, calling out his wife's name when a jolt of pain went through him. He dropped his rifle and clung to the saddle horn for all he was worth as the gelding galloped away from the booming guns.
He closed his eyes, trusting the horse to take him back home in the dark.
* * * *
Sheriff Maxey survived the ride back to Trinidad with blood covering his saddle, his horse's withers, his pants and shirt. His right boot was full of blood. His winded horse trotted down the main street of Trinidad and came to a halt in front of the sheriff's office.
Charlie Maxey finally released his iron grip on the saddle horn and fell to the ground. He took one final breath and lay still.
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