Free Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page B

with that!” Boyle kicked angrily at a stick. “We’d better burn those wagons and get out of here. I don’t like the feel of this place.”
    Barker said nothing, but after thinking it over he got up and walked to the wagon door. “All right!” he spoke impatiently. “Open up or we’ll break the door in!”
    Straining his ears, Mabry heard somebody within the wagon reply, but could distinguish no words. Then Barker turned to the others. “She says she’s got a gun.”
    â€œShe’s lying!”
    Boyle picked up the ax and walked to the door. He balanced the ax, drew it back, and swung hard. As the ax struck there was a heavy concussion within and Boyle sprang back, tripping over the ax and falling. There was a bullet hole in the door on a level with his head.
    Mabry hesitated. He could walk in now, but if he were killed in the shoot-out, Healy would be helpless to get the girls back to civilization. He might kill all three, but the odds were against it, and having killed Guilford, they would not submit tamely to capture.
    There was no simple solution. At present they were stopped cold, yet there could be little food in the wagon and the women’s fuel must be about gone. There were blankets, however, and plenty of clothes. And they could huddle together for warmth.
    Carefully he eased back into the trees. At night, that would be the time.
    Snow fell, hissing softly. The tracks he left behind were gone. When Mabry got back to the black, the big horse was covered with snow. Mabry went up to him, speaking softly. Suddenly the horse jerked his head up and his ears twitched.
    That and the sudden smash of sound were the last things Mabry remembered.

    I T WAS THE nudging of the horse that brought him out of it. That and the awful cold.
    He felt the horse nudging at his shoulder and whimpering, and then he felt the cold. In all his life he had never known such cold, for there is no cold such as that when the inner heat of the body dissipates itself and the cold penetrates to even the deepest tissues. His body was a thing of ice.
    He rolled over and tried to bring his arms under him, but the muscles refused to work. Then he rolled once more and back again. His legs would not function, or his arms, but he could roll, and the rolling made his body prickle with a million tiny needles.
    He rolled and rolled, back and forth, and his head began to throb, and somewhere down inside him there was a birth of pain.
    He worked his fingers, and finally, after several attempts, he got to his knees. Feebly he grabbed for the dangling stirrup, but missed. He fell face down on the trampled snow under the horse.
    The will to live was too strong. He began to fight, struggling against the cold as against a visible antagonist, knowing death was very, very near.
    He had been shot. That much was clear. He had been wounded. He had lost blood. That was against him, for a wounded man has small chance for survival in the cold. And the cold was frightful. It had cut deep, it was within him, robbing his body of its last heat. But he would not let himself die. He got his hands under him again, and he rolled over again, and he got to his knees again.
    How long it took him he had no idea. It seemed an endless, bitter struggle. But he got to his knees again and he reached out and drew the stirrup close. He could not grasp it, for his hands were like clubs, useless except for fumbling movements.
    He thrust his arm into the stirrup, and using that leverage, he got half way up, then lunged to his full height and fell against the horse.
    Leaning there, he thrust his icy hand under the saddle girth, up under the blanket and against the warm belly. He held it there while the patient black waited and snow fell steadily.
    He worked his fingers and the blood began to flow again. His hands were still numb, but the fingers moved. He withdrew his hand and grasped the pommel, pulling himself into the saddle and knocking most