Free Showdown at Gun Hill by Ralph Cotton Page A

horses to the high trail, headed back into the cover of rock and scattered pine woodlands. “He runs out of retired
colonels
, there’s always majors, captains and so on, down the line.” He gave a wry grin. “We can’t kill them all.”
    Bard looked back at Worley and Cross.
    â€œWho says we can’t?” he said over his shoulder.

Chapter 7

    In the evening sunlight, Sheriff Stone led the prisoners up a narrow path to the crest of a hill line. Sam brought up the rear and kept an eye on the prisoners and their back trail. The sheriff realized the Ranger still didn’t trust him a hundred percent, but the more sober he became, the better he understood. He would not have come on this trip on his own, yet regardless, he had to admit that the longer his sobriety held out, the better he was starting to feel. Being back on the job, gun in hand, helped, he reminded himself. It helped a lot.
    There were still twinges and shakes in his hands and chest. Dark, destructive thoughts still set upon him once in a while, like some ugly spirit that followed him until it found an opportune time to strike. At those times, he believed he would have traded his soul to the devil for just one long pull on a bottle of rye.
    â€œWe’ll stay up here overnight, Sheriff,” the Ranger called out as the four of them topped the hill. As Stone reined his horse down and turned it to face the prisoners, he looked all around for a sheltered place to make a camp amid a sparse scattering of pine woods.
    â€œThink you can uncuff us long enough to relieve ourselves, Ranger?” Rudy Bowlinger asked, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, gesturing toward the sparse woods. “You can keep an eye on us from here. We won’t go nowhere. You’ve got our word.”
    â€œYou’re not talking about a one-hander?” Stone asked, studying the outlaw suspiciously.
    â€œNo, sir, Sheriff,” Rudy said. “This is a two-hander if I ever had one—unless you want to stay a good distance from me the rest of the trip.”
    â€œKind of you to give us your word, Rudy,” Sam said before Stone answered. “But we’ll just cuff one hand to a pine sapling. You’ll do okay.”
    â€œI don’t get a very good feeling for that, Ranger,” Rudy replied. He shifted uncomfortably again. “But I’ve got no time to jaw over it.” He looked serious. “I’ve got to go.”
    â€œAll right, Sheriff,” Sam said to Stone, “let’s get over into the shade.”
    Stone led the three forward, keeping his horse to the edge of a clearing so they wouldn’t be exposed in the open sunlight. When they were inside the shelter of tall older-growth pines, they stopped the tired horses and stepped down from their saddles.
    â€œI’ve got these two,” Stone said as Sam pulled out the key to the handcuffs. Sam only looked at him and laid the key in his outstretched hand. He could tell the sheriff was feeling better. He saw fewer tremors in his hands, less stress pain around his eyes.
    â€œLet’s go,” Stone said to the prisoners, stepping back, keeping his hand on his holstered Colt.
    Sam took down his canteen and watched, rifle in hand, as the three walked away along the edge of the clearing toward a stand of rock and brush. As he raised the canteen to his lips, he saw a quick flash of sunlight among the taller hillsides to their right and instinctively called out Stone’s name in warning. But his warning came too late. He saw the first rifle shot hit Rudy Bowlinger and send him staggering sidelong in a broken, twisted waltz. Blood flew before the sound of the distant shot resounded on the towering hillsides.
    â€œGet down!” the Ranger shouted in reflex. He dropped the canteen and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. As he took cover behind a thick pine, he returned fire. With no target other than the direction of the flash of sunlight