Free Crossing the Line by J. R. Roberts Page A

again and pressed it up under the big man’s chin.
    The big man either didn’t feel the sharpened steel against his neck or he was tired of being kicked around, because he stuck his free hand straight out to clamp it around Clint’s throat. He squeezed and bared his teeth like an animal going in for the kill.
    Clint couldn’t draw a breath.
    In a few seconds, he wouldn’t be able to see. Bright red blobs danced across his field of vision as the big man did his damnedest to choke the life out of him. Rather than try to kick or squirm, Clint pressed the one advantage he already had by jamming the blade up under the big man’s chin until blood trickled along the handle.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Clint asked.
    â€œPayin’ you and the nigger a visit.”
    â€œCouldn’t leave well enough alone?”
    â€œYou and that cheater made things this way,” the big man said. “We just aim to finish ’em.”
    â€œAll right. Let’s see what your friends’ intentions are.” After saying that, Clint turned toward the cabin and shouted, “Hey, George! Looking for me?”
    â€œThat’s him!” George said from the distance. “Over there! I see him!”
    Although the big man started shouting something back, his voice was washed out by the sudden outbreak of gunfire. If Clint needed any confirmation as to whether George meant to kill him or Carl, he had it now. Simply hearing Clint’s voice had been enough to unleash a torrent of gunfire.
    Clint let go of the big man and slipped away before he could be caught. That left the big man to his own devices, but he was also under a whole lot of fire. Rather than try to chase Clint or signal his partners, the big man dropped down and covered his head with both hands. Considering the lead flying all around him, it was the smartest move he could have made.
    The gunfire tapered off quickly enough. A few seconds later, George hollered, “I get you, Adams? What about your darkie friend?”
    â€œIt’s just me, you stupid son of a bitch!” the big man cried. “Adams ran off already.”
    A man stood up and George started walking toward him. The moment George opened the cylinder of his pistol to reload, the man who’d just gotten to his feet aimed his own gun at him.
    â€œYou really are stupid,” Clint said.
    Just then, the big fellow started to get up from where he’d been crouching. Seeing that George had walked toward Clint by mistake, the big fellow stayed down.
    â€œCall your other friend back here,” Clint said.
    â€œWhy the hell would I do that? Your nigger friend owes me.”
    â€œHe’s got a name,” Clint told him as he sighted along the top of his modified Colt. “And I suggest you start using it.”
    â€œMy other friend’s got a name too,” George said. “But you don’t got to worry about that. He’ll introduce himself to that sweet piece of dark meat any time now.”
    Clint looked toward the cabin and judged the front door was no more than thirty or forty yards away. The third intruder of the night was approaching the door and reaching out for the handle.
    â€œGo on and head inside,” George shouted. “I’ll be along directly.”
    Clint watched the third man for a few more seconds, which was just long enough to spot the gun in the intruder’s hand. The man tried to open the door, but found it to be locked. He then lifted a foot and opened the door with one vicious kick. Before his foot came down again, Clint’s pistol spat one round that hissed through the air to drill a hole clean through that shin. The would-be intruder’s leg snapped to the side as if it had been tied to a runaway bronco, spinning the man ninety degrees and sending him to the ground.
    Carl stepped into the doorway holding a rifle and a shocked expression that Clint could see even from where he was