so dry he could almost feel his tongue swelling to fill up the whole cavity. He wondered if he dared move enough to sneak a sip out of his canteen. The thought of the water in his mouth was like a torment, a temptation he wasn’t sure he could resist much longer.
Then, just as he was about to give up, he caught a slight movement at the far corner, the furthest front corner of the cabin to his left. It wasn’t much, just a flash of motion at the corner down near the ground.
Longarm figured Shaw had taken a very quick peek to see how much distance he’d have to cover to get close enough to the wash to look down and discover what condition Longarm was in.
After that nothing happened for a few moments. Longarm kept his eye riveted on the corner. When it seemed he could stare at the corner no longer, he saw Jack Shaw take a cautious step out into the open. He was holding a rifle with both hands, but he had a revolver shoved into his belt. He was perhaps fifty to sixty yards away.
As Longarm watched and held his breath, Shaw took a step. Then he stopped and glanced back as if to reassure himself that cover was near.
He took another step toward the wash, and then another. His line of approach was taking him at an angle from the corner, an oblique approach pointed straight toward where Longarm lay watching.
Shaw took two more steps and then stopped. He put the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down its length, and swept the muzzle up and down the length of the wash. Longarm was becoming uncomfortably aware of how close Shaw was getting. In a few more steps he’d be able to see into the wash.
Shaw lowered the rifle and took two more steps. Longarm calculated he was no more than thirty to forty yards away. The land Shaw was standing on was slightly higher than the land around the wash. It gave him an advantage.
Longarm steeled himself, willing his muscles to be ready to spring into action. He knew he would have to use the carbine. It was far too long a shot for his revolver, especially since it was the one with the short barrel. Shaw started to take another step and Longarm knew it was time. In as fluid a motion as he could make, he rose from the wash, going to one knee, bringing up his rifle, and cocking it as he did. He had been afraid to cock it before for fear that the noise would alert Shaw. It seemed to take him forever to swing the rifle up to his shoulder.
Shaw’s face briefly registered surprise and then an instant of confusion. But that passed quickly. It was clear he didn’t have time to get his own rifle in firing position. In a single move he whirled and began running for the safety of the corner of the rock shack. He’d been twenty yards away from the cabin when Longarm had suddenly risen up out of the wash. By the time Longarm got the rifle to his shoulder and cocked it Shaw was within twenty feet.
Slowly Longarm tracked the fleeing figure with the muzzle of his rifle. Slowly his rear sight and front sight lined up. They were aimed directly at the small of Shaw’s back. It was the biggest target because Shaw was running hunched over.
When Shaw was within eight to ten feet of the corner of the shack, Longarm slowly squeezed the trigger.
There was a faint click. There was no explosion, there was no gunshot, there was no bullet whizzing through the air to strike Jack Shaw in the small of the back and knock him flat.
Longarm did not know what had happened, but he dropped instantly back into the ditch. He worked the hammer of the carbine back and forth near his ear. He could hear the sound of grit. He ejected a shell, catching it in the palm of his hand, and looked at the end where the firing cap was. There was a very faint indentation on the edge of the rim-fired shell. He cursed silently and long to himself. Grit and dirt had gotten into the working parts of his rifle, enough to slow the hammer down so that it didn’t strike the cartridge cap with enough force to explode the cartridge. He felt stunned, heartsick. He said softly, “Son of a bitch.” He knew he’d never get a better chance. All that effort, all that discomfort, all that patience, all for nothing.
From back inside the cabin Shaw said, with a laugh in his voice, “You got to load them things, Custis, else they don’t work worth a damn.”
Longarm levered all six shells out, working to free the hammer and firing pin. As best he could he blew into the mechanism, hoping he had cleared it out enough that it would work. It had been just the worst kind of luck—there was no other name for it. Longarm had dragged rifles through the dirt for a hundred yards and they’d never misfired. Until now. He rolled back over against the face of the wash and began reloading his rifle. He said, “Naw, Jack, it was loaded. Must have been some dust or dirt got in the firing mechanism.
“That will happen to you in the desert. Course I’m kind of glad it did. You had me cold.”
“Yeah, I shore thought so.”
“Got to give you credit, Custis. You suckered me on that one. I’m a lucky duck to be all in one piece. Don’t believe I’ll be trying any such tricks on you again anyways soon.”
Staying as low as he could, Longarm reached over and got the stump of the cigar. It had gone out. He had no plans to relight it, but he carefully put it back in his shirt. He said, “Well, Jack, you’ll be glad to know that little stunt cost me half a cigar. I reckon that will go on your bill.”
“Be glad to pay it, Custis. Why don’t you step on up to the pay window right now.”
Longarm had carefully loaded his rifle so that the shell that had not fired was in the chamber. He carefully worked the hammer back, dulling the clitch-clatch sound it made as he cocked it slowly. When the rifle was ready to fire he took a cautious look over the edge of his hole.
There was no sign of Jack Shaw. Longarm would have liked to have had at least a boot toe to shoot at, but there was nothing. Next he glanced toward the packhorse. To his amazement the horse had somehow stretched his neck over the fence, bending the top board of the corral as he did, until he had managed to get his muzzle into the huge barrel that caught the water pumped up by the windmill. Apparently the few light breezes that had sprung up had been sufficient to fill the barrel to the brim so that the packhorse was able to just reach some moisture with his lips and suck it down. Longarm envied him. He took another careful swig out of his own canteen, being judicious and stingy with himself. The night might not be so bad, but the next day, he knew, was going to be hell.
Glad now that he didn’t feel the need to kill the packhorse, he readied himself to test his rifle. He was able to draw his legs up without exposing himself so that he could come to his knees quickly. He took one more peek to make sure his enemy was not visible, and then came up swiftly and fired at the window. The hammer fell, the firing pin worked, and the bullet exploded. He was already facedown back in the wash as he heard the bullet go into the cabin and the whine and sing as it ricocheted around the inside walls of the rock shack.
He heard Shaw let loose with a volley of oaths. It didn’t last long.
Finally Shaw said, “What the hell you reckon you be doing?”
