Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

The gunmen slowed, then stopped, weapons pointing straight at her. Her heart was racing so fast, she wasn’t sure she could make a sound, but somehow she heard herself yell, “Tell Carlos, I’ve hidden the baby where he’ll never find him. If he wants to see his grandson, he’ll have to talk to me.”

One of the gunmen put his hand to his ear, then nodded at his comrades. He started toward her while the other two stayed where they were. Shaking with hope and fear, Rachel bent over and began the tricky process of climbing through the fence.

From somewhere on the edges of her consciousness she heard a powerful engine revving…the screech of tires. Someone shouted, called out her name, but she didn’t pause. Out in the meadow, the two gunmen raised their guns.

Then all hell broke loose. And Rachel was caught in the middle of it-literally. Hung up in a barbed wire fence.

Barreling along the lane, J.J. could barely see through the dust cloud he was raising. But he saw Rachel. Saw her come flying out of the shelter of the trees into the open, waving her arms. At first he thought she’d lost her mind. Then, that she was waving at him. Then he saw she was heading straight for three thugs armed with assault rifles. What the hell?

When he saw her bend down and start to climb through the fence, and one of the gunmen lower his rifle and start toward her, his heart nearly stopped. Part of him was so furious with her he could have killed her himself. The other part…the biggest part was so terrified he felt paralyzed.

As he brought the pickup to a jolting halt, he caught movement from just beyond the horrifying scene being played out by the fence. He opened the door and dove out, telling Moon to stay put as he slammed the door shut. Crouched by the front fender, he could see Sage ahead in the trees, pulling himself upright with his back against the trunk of a tall pine. His shirt was stained dark and his right arm hung limp at his side. In his left hand was J.J.’s Glock. He waved the Glock at J.J. and made a jerking motion toward the meadow with his head.

J.J. got the message. Go get her. I’ll cover you.

He nodded. Ran in a crouch around the front of his truck and headed for Rachel, who was still bent over in the middle of the barbed wire fence. He got to her about the same time Delacorte’s goon did.

The goon halted and leveled his gun at J.J., who was wishing he’d unholstered his backup Glock before dashing to Rachel’s rescue. It was the kind of rookie mistake that could cost a man his life. And was about to cost him his.

In the next fraction of a second, he saw the goon’s gun go flying out of his hands. The man screamed and grabbed his thigh, and went down with blood squirting from a bullet hole in his pants leg.

Thanks, Sage. I always knew you’d be a good man to have on my side in a fight.

Out in the meadow, the other two gunmen had opened fire. J.J. grabbed Rachel and hauled her out of the fence, ignoring the sounds of ripping cloth. He had her almost back to the cover of his truck when he felt his right leg go out from under him. He caught hold of the front bumper to keep from going down, all but threw Rachel behind the front tire, then dove headfirst after her. He couldn’t feel his right foot, but was afraid to look at it, pretty sure he wasn’t going to like what he saw.

“You’re hurt,” Rachel confirmed. She was on her knees beside him, her cheeks streaked with tears and dust. Her eyes, he saw, were glassy with shock.

J.J. grunted. He was too busy trying to get his backup Glock out of the holster on his wounded leg to reply.

Sam Malone was making his way along the creek, heading toward the old ranch house, when he saw the black chopper beating its way up the canyon. He watched it hover over the meadow, then drop out of sight behind the barn.

“Don’t much like the look of that, Ol’ Paint,” he said to the horse, who twitched his ears in reply. Sam urged the painted horse into a gallop.

Keeping the barns between himself and whatever was going on out in his meadow, he didn’t see the gunmen get out of the chopper and head for his house. He didn’t see Sage go dashing up the lane. But he heard the sound of gunfire. That was when he pulled up in the shelter of the corrals and unbuckled the leather flap that held his hunting rifle in its saddle holster. The rifle was a favorite of his, a nice old Winchester bolt-action-not fancy, but it would do the job. He loaded a magazine, threw the bolt a couple of times, then laid the rifle across his lap and said, “Let’s go, Paint.”

He came out of the shelter of the barn unnoticed, and saw Rachel come running down the driveway, yelling and waving her arms. He saw her stoop down to climb through the fence. He saw the sheriff’s pickup truck go barreling along the lane, screech to a halt, and the sheriff jump out and run to Rachel. He let out a cackle of approval.

Then he saw the guy closest to the fence go down, and the two out in the meadow raise their guns. He saw J.J. grab Rachel and run for his truck in a hail of gunfire. And he saw him go down. He didn’t see Sage, not then. But rage filled him.

I’m not letting those hoodlums hurt our granddaughter, Elizabeth!

A breeze skirled through the corral, raising dust. It brought a whisper. What do you think you can do to stop it, old man?

“I may be old, but I can still ride, and I can still shoot!”

He looped the reins around the saddle horn, shouldered the Winchester, dug his heels into the painted horse’s sides and said, “Come on, Paint!”

Once clear of the corral fences, Sam Malone gave a blood-curdling yell, and horse and rider went hurtling across the meadow toward the advancing gunmen, Sam firing the rifle as he rode.

The two gunmen never saw them coming.

It was Rachel’s nightmare playing out in broad daylight.

Gunfire, the smell of blood and gasoline…but I’m lying in dust and trampled grass, not wet and grimy pavement. No gleaming asphalt and flashing lights. The sun is hot on my scalp. I see Nicky’s bloody hand as he pulls up his pants leg and unbuckles-no, not Nicky. It’s J.J. who unbuckles the gun from his ankle, which is bloody and turned the wrong way.

Or is it?

Everything was chaos, happening either in slow motion or too fast to take in.

Crouched down beside J.J. with her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to drown out the gunshots, Rachel heard a terrible sound. A blood-curdling yell that stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She’d heard that sound before. She’d heard it in those old western movies she’d watched with her grandmother.

Impossible. And yet.

It was an Indian war cry, straight out of Old Hollywood, if not actual history.

Flat on her belly, she peered under the truck and knew she must be dreaming. She’d been shot, perhaps, and hadn’t realized it. Now she was delirious, or dying.

Out in the meadow, suspended in heat shimmer, a rider on a painted horse was bearing down on the helicopter and the two remaining gunmen. He rode tall in the saddle, hat gone, white hair and beard blowing in the wind, and as he rode, he was firing a rifle and yelling that hair-raising war cry.

J.J. couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had to look. Dragging himself around the front end of the truck, he managed to get himself into position to see what was happening out there in the meadow. And now that he could see it, he still couldn’t believe it.

From out of nowhere, it seemed, came a horse and rider at full gallop, straight into the face of the two men armed with assault rifles. The man had white hair and a beard, and was riding no-handed, firing a bolt-action rifle and yelling like a banshee. A one-man cavalry charge.

The two gunmen seemed to freeze-in a state of shock, probably. Then they both ran for the chopper. They had barely scrambled aboard before the chopper lifted off. The old man on the horse waited calmly, rifle raised, as the chopper launched into the air. He took careful aim, following the chopper’s flight, and fired. Threw the bolt and fired again. The chopper seemed to hesitate. Then it wobbled, dipped to one side, plunged straight down into the meadow grass and erupted in a ball of flame.