and drilled him cleanly through the body.
But before Bo could fire again, Cara LaChance managed to throw herself forward, despite the chains burdening her. She rammed a shoulder into Brubaker’s back. The deputy had whirled around to meet the threat of the three gunmen, and turning his back on her was a mistake.
The impact sent Brubaker stumbling into Bo just as the Texan squeezed the Winchester’s trigger a third time. Being jostled like that threw off his aim. His shot went over the head of the third man, who sprayed lead at them as fast as he could jerk the trigger of his revolver.
Bo flung himself forward on the ground as slugs whipped through the air above him. From the corner of his left eye, he saw that Cara had bellied down, too, to make herself a smaller target while the bullets flew. Brubaker had dropped to his knees. Bo spotted blood on the deputy’s face.
There was no time to see how badly Brubaker was hurt. Bo heard shots blasting in front of the trading post, too, and knew that Scratch was probably in danger, but he couldn’t go to his trail partner’s aid right now, either.
The third gunman back here still had to be dealt with. From his prone position, Bo fired again. Not surprisingly, the shot went a little low. It clipped the third man’s thigh. Blood flew, and the slug’s impact was enough to spin the man halfway around and drop him to one knee as the wounded leg went out from under him. He dropped the gun he had emptied by now and used that hand to grab a porch post and steady himself while he yanked another pistol from behind his belt.
He and Bo fired at the same time. The gunman’s bullet smacked into the ground about five feet in front of the Texan, kicking dirt into his face and momentarily blinding him.
Bo had already sent a slug ripping through the gunman’s neck, though. The man rocked back as crimson gore fountained from his ruined throat. His gun roared again, but it had sagged toward the ground right in front of the rear porch. His fingers slipped off the porch post, and he pitched forward to land on the ground, where the blood welling from his throat quickly formed a dark red puddle in the dirt.
Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Bo shoved himself to his feet and levered another round into the Winchester’s chamber. He was fairly confident that all three gunmen were dead, but he kept them covered anyway as he glanced over toward Brubaker. The deputy had collapsed, and he was either dead or passed out.
And Cara LaChance was trying to crawl away, dragging her chains after her.
The two men in front of the trading post had made a mistake by getting as close to Scratch as they had. As they went for their guns, the silver-haired Texan lunged forward and rammed his Winchester’s barrel into the belly of the nearest man as hard as he could.
That brutal blow made the man double over, retching, and he forgot all about trying to draw his gun. The next instant, the butt of Scratch’s rifle slammed into the side of his head and sent him sprawling on the ground at his companion’s feet.
The second man had to dart aside to avoid tripping over the man Scratch had knocked down, and that slowed his draw by a split second. That was long enough for Scratch to swing the Winchester toward him and fire.
The heavy bullet smashed into the man’s chest and knocked him backward. His finger jerked the trigger of his gun just as he cleared leather. The shot tore downward through his own boot, probably blowing off a toe or two.
That injury was the least of the man’s concerns. He pressed his free hand to his chest as he tried to stay on his feet and struggled to lift his gun. Blood bubbled over and between his fingers. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he went down in a slow, twisting collapse.
The first man had regained his senses enough to draw his gun and fire up from the ground at Scratch, who jerked aside just in time to avoid the two slugs as the man triggered twice. Both shots went through the open door of the wagon and drew frightened shouts from Elam and Lowe.
Scratch hoped the stray bullets hadn’t hit either of the prisoners, but he didn’t have time to worry about them. He swung his leg in a kick that sent the gun spinning from the hand of the man who had just tried to kill him.
Scratch stepped back quickly and leveled the rifle at the man on the ground.
“All right, mister, get up,” he ordered. “But don’t try anything else or I’ll ventilate you.”
The man was still pale from the pain and shock of being hit in the belly by Scratch’s rifle and then getting clouted on the head. He groaned and then gasped, “You ... you killed Cousin Bob!”
“You’re lucky you ain’t dead, too,” Scratch told him. “Now get up.”
During the ruckus, he had heard shots coming from behind the trading post, quite a few of them, in fact, and he was worried about Bo. Obviously the two who had played drunk and tried to get the drop on him that way hadn’t been acting alone. Their partners had gone after Bo and Brubaker.
The shooting had stopped now, and Scratch wanted to go see if his old friend was all right. First, though, he had to do something with this varmint.
A horrified cry erupted from inside the wagon. Jim Elam screamed, “Oh, my God! Dayton’s hit! There’s blood all over the place! Somebody help him!”
Instinctively, Scratch turned in that direction, just for the barest instant.
That was long enough for the man on the ground to surge to his feet and lunge at Scratch, the midday sunlight winking off the long, heavy blade of a Bowie knife he had drawn from under his shirt. He swung the knife up, aiming to plant the cold steel in Scratch’s belly.
CHAPTER 9
Bo stepped over to Cara and reached down to grab hold of the trailing chain.
“Hold it,” he told her. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She rolled onto her side and started cursing him. He ignored her and used the chain to drag her back the few feet she had managed to cover. That made her howl even more obscenities. He knelt beside Brubaker and took the padlock from the deputy’s coat pocket.
While he was this close, he rested a hand on Brubaker’s back and felt it rising and falling. Brubaker had passed out, but he wasn’t dead. That was a relief, but Bo was still considerably worried about Scratch.
He used the padlock to fasten Cara’s chain to the handle of the outhouse door. She might be able to pull the handle off the door or the door off its hinges, but that would take quite a bit of time and Bo intended to have things squared away by then.
He set his rifle well out of Cara’s reach—not that she could do much with it while her hands were chained behind her back—and grasped Brubaker under the arms. Bo dragged the deputy out of Cara’s reach as well.
He had already figured out it was best not to take any chances with her.
Then he picked up his Winchester and loped toward the front of the trading post.
He heard Jim Elam yelling something about blood inside the wagon. As he swung around the vehicle, Bo’s keen eyes spotted a man leaping toward Scratch with a knife in his hand. There wasn’t much room to get a shot off without risking hitting his friend, but Bo didn’t have a choice. Another second and that varmint would bury the blade in Scratch’s body.
Bo lifted the rifle and fired, letting instinct and experience guide his aim.
The slug shattered the man’s shoulder and drove him off his feet. He dropped the knife and rolled on the ground, screeching in agony. Scratch kicked him in the head to stun him and shut him up, then looked over at Bo and nodded.
“Much obliged,” he said. “I might’ve been able to get out of the way of that Bowie, but it would’ve been close. Where’s Forty-two?”
“He was hit when they jumped us back there by the outhouse,” Bo said. “Don’t know how bad he’s hurt. How about you?”
“I’m fine,” Scratch assured him. “Not so sure about the prisoners. Where’s the gal?”
“Chained to the outhouse.”
