Free Lookout Hill (9781101606735) by Ralph W. Cotton Page B

gruesome sight than they ducked down quickly as the sound of rapid pistol fire erupted from the direction of the house.
    A loud yell and a round of maniacal laughter arose behind the echoing gunfire. Both Umberto and his son let out a breath, realizing that this was just wild, random firing—at least no one was firing at them. Umberto gave a troubled look at the dead lying strewn on the ground beside them.
    “That is not the old woman, Daphne,” he whispered warily.
    “No, it is not,” said Julio. He rose into a crouch enough to duck-walk over to his father’s side.
    “Stay close to me,” Umberto said. “We must see about the woman.”
    The two moved forward in a crouch as another round of gunfire erupted, then ended in a loud yell and another peel of laughter. During a reloading lull, they ran the last few yards and ducked for cover at the corner of the house. They both looked down curiously at long lines scraped in the dirt from the porch, around the corner and to the rear of the house. They stiffened as six more pistol shots erupted rapidly followed by a cackle of laughter as a man’s voice called out, “
Yiiii-hiii!
I’ve never owned so many bullets in my
whole damned life!
”
    “Quickly, follow me,” Umberto said to his son. Realizing the pistol had once again been emptied in a wild, mindless shooting spree, he jerked the machete from his waist.
    “No, Papa, wait!” said Julio, reaching for his father’s arm. But he was too late.
    Umberto stepped into sight from the front corner of the house and stood facing Hodding Siebert with his machete hanging at his side.
    “Who the hell are you?” Siebert said, the Dance Brothers revolver lying empty, open and smoking, in the palm of his left hand. His right hand was full of bullets, ready to reload.
    “Do not load that gun, hombre,” Umberto warned.
    Now that his father had made the unwise move, all Julio could do was follow suit. He stepped out from the corner of the house and stood beside his father, his bare feet spread apart, the machete in hand.
    “The hell you say!” Siebert shouted, sticking bullet after bullet into the Dance as quickly as he could, some of them falling to the ground in his efforts.
    Father and son charged forward, wielding the big glistening blades above their heads. But Siebert fell back three steps hurriedly, managing to get four bullets into the gun, then raise and fire it as the two made it dangerously close.
    “Close, but no prize for second best!” Siebert shouted as four shots erupted almost as one. At his feet, the young Mexican writhed in pain, the machete gripped tightly, blood pumping hard from two bullet holes in his chest. Six feet behind the boy, his father lay dead, a brutal exit wound gaping on the back of his head, another on the back of his neck.
    “Here, give me that,” Siebert said. Clamping his boot down on Julio’s wrist, he jerked the machete from his hand. “This might sting a little,” he warned, raising the big blade high above his head.
    Julio screamed, but he was silenced when the sharp blade came down and did its job.
    Siebert turned loose of the sunken blade and walked away to the barn without a second look.
    “If a man needs some practice, he can do worse than come here for it,” he chuckled. He snatched up the reins to the black mare he’d hitched to a half-collapsed fence rail.
    But his cheerfulness ended when he led the mare into the barn and saw a big liver-colored dun gelding lying dead on the floor.
    “What the hell…?” Siebert walked closer and looked down at the wide puddle of dark blood beneath the dun’s neck; then his puzzled eyes went to the rays of sharp sunlight shining through several bullet holes in the barn wall. “I’ve shot the son of a bitch.”
    Beside him the mare scraped a hoof and chuffed.
    “I dare you to say a
damned
word,” Siebert warned her, giving a yank on her reins. He paused in consideration, and then a grin spread across his face. A worn