Free The Shadow Man by F. M. Parker

agreement. All the men watched Kirker expectantly.
    â€œAll right. Save a couple of the prettiest. But don’t let that get in the way of catching every one of them and their kids. Now, stand ready with your rifles.”
    The Indians rode into a grove of cottonwoods and out of sight. They reappeared a few seconds later, much closer. Kirker saw their long war lances tied on the sides of their mounts and sticking up at steep angles in the air. Two braves had bows and arrows, and three held rifles across the saddles in front of them.
    â€œThey’ve killed some buffalo,” Rauch whispered. “I can see the big haunches tied over the backs of those two packhorses.”
    â€œPlenty of buffalo back to the east,” Borkan said.
    â€œNo talk,” snapped Kirker. “Listen for my word to begin shooting.”
    One of the women spotted the approaching horsemen. She shouted out a happy greeting. The remaining women and children spun around to see what she saw. Then the whole group started to call, the children running forward in young, loose-legged strides.
    The riders stopped in the center of the cluster of tepees. Five slid from the backs of their cayuses. The last man started to dismount, then caught himself, and his eyes jumped to the rim of the caliche hill. He ignored one of the women speaking to him and stared hard, directly at Kirker’s hiding place. His rifle began to lift.
    Kirker saw the gun moving and the man’s chest swelling with a large draft of air, like a man who is preparing to shout a mighty blast.
    â€œThe smart son of a bitch knows we’re here,” Kirker cursed. “I’ll kill him. You fellows shoot the others. Shoot!”
    Kirker hefted the rifle to his shoulder. At a range of slightly more than two hundred yards, putting a bullet into the center of the man’s chest wouldn’t be a difficult feat. Kirker fired.
    The Indian dodged to the side with amazing swiftness. Kirker knew the man had moved before he could have heard the gunshot. He must have seen the gunpowder smoke spouting from the rifle barrel, and as difficult as that was to believe, reacted to that sign of danger before the bullet could reach him.
    But even as quickly as the Indian had moved, he was not swift enough to entirely escape the ball of lead hurtling at him. Kirker saw the bullet strike the Indian, spinning him violently to the side. The shot meant for the heart had hit the arm up high near the shoulder. The man caught his fall and pulled himself erect, instantly flinging himself forward along the neck of his cayuse. He almost vanished from view behind the body of his mount, only an arm showing over the neck of the animal, and a heel over its back.
    The man was yelling orders at the women and children. They began to run in frantic haste, scattering up and down the riverside.
    Beside Kirker, the snarling crack of his men’s heavily charged rifles was deafening. In the Indian camp two braves were hit with deadly blows and fell to the ground. Another was knocked tumbling. He leapt up immediately and dashed for a clump of trees. A bullet broke his spine, and he went down in a tangle of legs and arms.
    The man Kirker had shot had given a command to his pony, and the animal sprang into a full run down the riverbank. Kirker grabbed up his second rifle, caught the neck of the pony in the sights, and tracked the target. The .54-caliber slug would easily penetrate the neck of the animal and kill the brave.
    The rifle cracked. The top part of the cayuse’s neck exploded in a puff of hair and flesh.
    The fatally wounded beast swerved to the side, away from the horrible blow of the bullet. It continued its wild run. In its pain the dying horse didn’t see the riverbank.
    The cayuse and the clinging rider plunged over the brink and vanished into the mad, swirling flow of the rushing river. Neither man nor animal reappeared on the foaming surface. The yellow torrent poured onward, hiding