hadn’t intended to kill the deputy United States marshal. He and his companion wanted Longarm alive so that they could savor his death.
They had made a mistake, though. They had gotten his handgun, but they didn’t know about the little two-shot derringer attached to his watch chain and hidden inside his vest. The derringer around which Longarm’s fingers had just closed.
Cautiously, he worked the weapon free from the pocket of his vest and tightened his grip on it. Pins and needles shot up and down his arm, but at least he could feel something again in that extremity. He would have a chance—maybe not a fair shake, but at least a chance—and that was all he had ever asked for in life since he had left West-by-God Virginia all those years ago.
“Don’t cover up his head all the way,” Lloyd said with a cackle of laughter. “I still want him to wake up. Put some dirt on his feet instead.”
No point in postponing things any longer, Longarm decided. He was as ready as he was going to be. He flipped over as fast as he could in the narrow grave and said, “I’m alive, Jimmy.” His fist came up out of the loose dirt with the derringer clutched in it. He hoped like blazes that all the grit hadn’t fouled the firing mechanism.
The scene above him was imprinted on his brain in an instant. Jimmy Lloyd stood to his left, holding the Winchester loosely as he gaped down open-mouthed at Longarm. Mitch Rainey was to the right, the shovel he had been using to throw dirt on Longarm still gripped in both of his hands. The derringer gave a spiteful little crack as it sent a bullet through the open mouth of Lloyd. The outlaw was thrown backward as the slug bored up through his brain and burst out the back of his skull.
“Shit!” Mitch Rainey yelled as he flung the shovel aside wildly and grabbed for the pistol holstered on his hip. However, Longarm had tracked the derringer to the right by the time Rainey’s fingers slapped the butt of his Colt. The little weapon spat its second lead pellet.
Longarm was aiming at Rainey’s balls. That seemed to be a good target from his angle, and the shot would have sure as hell put the outlaw on the ground if it had gone home. Instead, though, Rainey’s contortions as he struggled to draw his gun turned his body just enough so that Longarm’s bullet merely clipped him on the outside of the right hip. Rainey staggered back, yelling in pain.
Bending himself almost double with the effort, Longarm jackknifed up out of the grave. It was only about four feet deep because Rainey and Lloyd had gotten tired of standing there and watching Longarm dig. The lawman put his hands on the ground and pushed himself up, vaulting into the air as he emerged from the hole. He came out to the left, toward the spot where Lloyd had disappeared. The dead man was sprawled on the ground next to the grave, the fallen Winchester beside him.
Longarm dropped the empty derringer, flung out an arm, and grabbed the rifle’s breech as he lowered his shoulder and rolled over the corpse. Rainey’s gun blasted, but the bullet thudded into Lloyd, who was long past being hurt by it. Longarm tumbled completely over and came up with his right hand through the lever of the Winchester. His finger found the rifle’s trigger as he brought the barrel in line with Rainey on the other side of the long, narrow hole in the ground.
There had been no way for Longarm to know if the Winchester was ready to fire, but luck was with him again. The rifle bucked in his hands as it blasted. Rainey was scuttling away from the other side of the grave like a desperate crab. The outlaw went down hard, the impact as he landed on the ground knocking the gun out of his hand.
Longarm came up on one knee and levered the Winchester in the same motion, jacking another round into the rifle’s chamber. He brought it to his shoulder, aiming at Rainey’s fallen gun as the outlaw groped toward the Colt. Longarm fired. The bullet slammed into the revolver and kicked it a good dozen feet from Rainey’s outstretched fingers. Longarm levered the rifle again and said, “The next one goes in your head, Mitch, unless you settle down and don’t move again.”
Rainey cussed a blue streak, but he remained motionless on the ground as Longarm climbed to his feet. He circled the grave, still covering Rainey with the Winchester. As far as Longarm could see, the outlaw had only had the one gun on him. Rainey’s rifle was in the saddle boot of the Appaloosa tied to a bush about forty feet away, next to Lloyd’s chestnut. The gray gelding Longarm had rented in a stable over in Weatherford a few days earlier seemed to have run off. Longarm didn’t much care; the son of a bitch had had an uncomfortable gait about him. Billy Vail might pitch a fit, though, when the Justice Department got charged an inflated purchase price for the animal.
There was nothing Longarm could do about that now. He peered at Rainey over the barrel of the Winchester and asked, “Where’d I get you the second time, old son?” He couldn’t see but one patch of blood on the outlaw’s clothes, and that stain was on Rainey’s hip.
“You only hit me the once, you bastard,” Rainey said. He pressed the palm of his hand against his hip and winced. “A rock rolled under my foot; otherwise I wouldn’t have fallen down and you’d be a dead man now, Long!”
So luck had smiled on him yet again, Longarm thought. Well, it was only fair. If not for that tainted beef, he wouldn’t have been in such a bad fix to start with, and the steak hadn’t smelled or tasted bad. He made a mental vow to never again buy a meal in Pickettville, Texas, should he ever find himself there again.
“If you ain’t injured, get up on your feet,” he told Rainey.
“My hip’s broke!” the outlaw protested.
Longarm sighed. “I doubt that mighty serious-like, the way you were squirming after that six-shooter you dropped a couple of minutes ago. That bullet just creased you, Rainey, but the next one sure as hell won’t.”
Muttering under his breath, Rainey climbed awkwardly to his feet. He listed to the right, favoring the injured hip, but he was able to stand up and hobble away from the grave.
Longarm checked Rainey’s pistol. The cylinder had been smashed and the frame bent by the bullet from the Winchester; the gun was useless, not even worth picking up off the ground. Longarm went back around the grave to make sure Jimmy Lloyd was dead, not that there was much doubt in his mind. It was mighty difficult to survive having half your brain blown out the back of your head, and Lloyd hadn’t managed to beat those odds.
Longarm found his own .44 stuck behind Lloyd’s belt. He tugged the revolver loose and settled it back in the cross-draw rig, then took Lloyd’s Colt as well. That done, he started trying to brush some of the dirt off his clothes. One good thing about the brown tweed which his trousers and coat were made from was that it didn’t show mud stains too much.
“Hey!” Rainey yelled. “How long you going to make me stand here? I’m in pain, you know!”
