Free Six Gun Justice by David Cross Page A

human ear, then suddenly flew away. The two chipmunks scampered away in haste, their tiny ears having detected the same disturbance along the rim, as had the woodpecker.
    Jake raised himself on his elbows, listening with extreme concentration, and then he heard it. The click of horses hooves, and the jingle of spurs, combined shortly with the creaking of saddle leather. Riders were coming, and they were moving at a slow methodical pace. Then one was in view, followed by three other riders. The one in front was peering at the ground, as though searching for something. The something for which he searched was his tracks, and he was following them to the very spot where he had made his night camp.
    Upon reaching the camp sight, the rider circled out from it in ever widening circles, trying to read the direction in which the camper had ridden. He finally drew rein, took off his hat, scratched his head in confusion. This was when Jake squeezed off his first shot, his sights lined up on the tracker. By the time the bullet knocked the man from the saddle, and the sound from the big rifle boomed across the mesa, he had reloaded. His second shot took another man from the saddle as he was still sitting there in confusion, trying to figure what was happening.
    The third shot hit the third man as he turned his horse in the direction of the firing, riding hard for the ambusher, his companion hot on his heels. He had unleathered his rifle and was firing blindly in the general direction from which the puffs of smoke from Jake’s rifle rose, but he was too far away for the bullets from the Winchester to carry. Jake saw the bullet tear a hole into the man’s chest that was as big as his fist, throwing the body over the cantle of his saddle. The fourth man turned to his left, trying to get some distance between him and the shooter, whipping his horse unmercifully in his haste.
    Jake did not fire again. He sat watching the man ride off, hell bent for leather in the direction from which the riders had come. He wanted the man to report the killings to his boss. He wanted the man escape to tell the story to his compatriots, and in the telling, the story would grow in his mind. He would relate it in larger than reality words, thereby putting a scare into the rest of the hard cases, that would make them nervous enough to take the fight out of them, and just possibly make them pull stakes, and leave. Or in a lesser scenario, make them nervous enough to cause mistakes.
    He stayed behind his blind for a time, just to be sure the rider he had let escape had not doubled back. When he was sure the coast was clear, he rose to his feet, gathered the spent brass, and dusted over the spot where he had laid his ambush. He did the same on his way back to his horse, which was tethered some fifty feet away.
    He then mounted and rode away toward the rim again, making his way further to the north west, then turning back toward the south along a strip of rocky ground, walking his horse, and conserving his strength for a time when he might need it. By mid morning, he had traversed an area the brought him to the western most boundary of the Circle M, and turned his horse back to the east. When he was near Murdock’s place, he dismounted, took out his telescope, and scanned the house and grounds around it. The only thing he saw was the smithy, working away at the forge. None of the other hands seemed to be in evidence, but there was a horse tied to the hitch rail.
    He recognized the Appaloosa the man had ridden away from the ambush on, smiling with a grim countenance. He had been right in his assessment. The gun hand had reported directly to his boss. He watched as the rider came out of the house, and could tell that he was having some harsh words with his boss. He finally stomped across the ranch compound to the bunkhouse, and went inside.
    Jake lined the sights of his Spencer on Murdock, and squeezed off a shot. The report boomed across the mesa, and the bullet hit