Free Ghost Warrior by Jory Sherman

flash, drop the shooter.”
    â€œYou’re takin’ a big chance.”
    â€œSo are you, Randy. Now, don’t shoot until I get set and give you the high sign.”
    â€œRight,” Bullard said.
    Zak scooted over to an opening large enough for him to bolt through—to throw himself flat on the ground and look for that muzzle flash. He thumbed back the hammer on his Winchester, nodded toward Bullard.
    Bullard rolled into the small opening, fired a shot into the scrub pines and junipers growing at the far end of the hill behind them. His rifle cracked, sounding like the snap of a bullwhip and the bullet sped toward the trees. He triggered off another shot and Zak hurled himself through the opening.
    The man in the trees fired at Bullard. Zak saw the orange flash through a gap in the trees. The man was on horseback and was using a larger pine tree for cover.
    Zak fired at the horse’s rump, which stuck out, a brownish lump. The bullet struck the tree and sheared off a chunk of bark. The horse bucked forward and Zak saw the rider lower his rifle and fight to stay in the saddle. Then the rider turned and the horse started to gallop back up the slope and into thicker vegetation. Zak levered another cartridge into the chamber and fired a quick shot at the retreating rider. He heard the bullet smash through limbs and crack them into splinters. The hoofbeats sounded loud and then faded.
    He lay there, jacked another bullet into the firing chamber and listened.
    Then he started scooting backwards, feeling his way through the opening in the boulders.
    â€œGet him?” Bullard asked.
    â€œI don’t think so,” Zak said.
    â€œYou got off a couple of shots. See the muzzle flash and all?”
    â€œI did,” Zak said. “And I saw the rider. Just for a moment.”
    â€œNavajo?”
    â€œWell, if it was a Navajo, he was wearing anarmy uniform—a cavalry uniform—and he had on a campaign hat.”
    â€œThe hell you say.”
    â€œMount up and let’s ride up there. I want to see those tracks and follow that jasper, whoever he is.”
    In seconds, the two men mounted their horses and rode toward the trees. They were ten yards apart and hunched over so that they didn’t present their upper torsos to anyone who might still be waiting in ambush.
    Zak studied the tracks and so did Bullard.
    â€œThat’s mighty puzzlin’ and perplexin’,” Bullard said. “You might have been right, Zak.”
    â€œThat’s a shod horse that made those tracks. I did see a uniformed rider. And he was shooting a Spencer repeating rifle.”
    â€œYep, he sure was.”
    Zak looked for blood spatter or droplets on the ground. He knew that he had missed the horse’s rump and he was pretty sure he hadn’t wounded the rider. The tracks showed that the horse was going away at a fast trot, zigzagging through the brush and scrub trees like a fleeing rabbit.
    They rode over a small saddleback and into an even larger hill, one that came to a conical peak another thousand feet higher. But the tracks veered off and started skirting the hill, dropping off to their right. Then the going got rough, for the hillside was steep. Zak saw where the shod horse had dislodged dirt and rocks, slipped sideways a few inches, then climbed higher before going lower again. There were no trails there, and the brush was thick, the ground rocky and treacherous.
    Zak and Randy came to a slide and saw where the rider had plunged his horse straight down.
    â€œReckless,” Zak said, noticing the deep gouges the iron hooves had made as the horse braked and slid down on its rump. The slide ended in a thicket growing among three hillocks. They could both see the first dirt and rocks piled up, either wet and brown or smooth and gray, depending on which side was exposed to the sun.
    â€œHe got clean away,” Bullard said.
    Zak cupped his right ear and turned his head a few inches