rattlesnakes, although boots would have looked pretty silly with Bermuda shorts. I moved the gun from the small of my back to the front pocket of my shorts, as I didn’t want to sweat on it.
And headed down.
The path was steep. The rocks underfoot loose. More than once I slipped, but never fell, thanks to my cat-like reflexes.
I reached the valley floor without melting or mummifying. There, I found some shade at the base of the cliff wall where I stopped and drank some water.
The valley was far removed from anything. Why had Sly, or whoever he was, been out here in the first place?
Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was part of a bank robbing gang and this valley was their hideout; maybe his fellow bangers turned on him.
The wind picked up, bringing with it a spicy mix of juniper and sage. Or maybe I was just smelling my own cooking flesh.
I knew from my readings that Sylvester A. Myers, the man who first found Sly back in 1901, had been looking for the next great silver claim. Turns out he found a mummified man instead.
The sun angled through the narrow canyon walls. The walls were mostly dirt and sandstone, layered with the occasional swath of something darker, perhaps basalt. The hawk or vulture continued to circle slowly above. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.
Something scuttled in a bush nearby.
Ah, life emerges.
Before me was a mound of three huge boulders. Screwed into one of the boulders was a very old and faded brass plaque. It read: “In memory of the Nameless who helped settle the Wild West.”
That was assuming a lot. Maybe Sylvester didn’t help settle anything. Hell, maybe he had done his best to unsettle things. Maybe that was why he was shot.
Maybe, but somehow I doubted it.
I bent down and took a handful of the hot sand, sifted it through my fingers. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of a man staggering through these canyons, gut-shot, bleeding and hurting. Alone and probably scared. Or not. Do cowboys get scared?
Yeah, probably.
To the east, high on the high cliff above, something flashed . Instinctively, I turned my body, narrowing myself as a target. Beside me, next to my left elbow, a section of the boulder exploded in a small cloud of dust, pelting me with rock fragments. I dove, rolling.
The report from a rifle followed, echoing throughout the valley.
It kept echoing even as I kept rolling.
Chapter Twenty-three
I rolled to the relative safety of the boulders, dirt and sand going up my shorts and into places it had no business going.
Worry about sand in your craw later.
Good idea.
The rocks gave some shelter, but not as much as I would have liked as I was forced to stay low to the ground with my face pressed against the hot earth. I removed my Browning, hoping sand hadn’t gotten lodged in the barrel.
A second shot thunked near my shoes. I jerked my exposed legs in closer as an earsplitting echo followed the shot.
Jesus, that was close.
Blindly, I eased my arm around the boulder, let loose with two shots of my own in the general proximity of the spot I had seen the reflection. The two shots were to give the shooter something to think about. I had seven more to be more careful with.
My return fire seemed to work. The shooting from above stopped, at least for the time being. I lay there behind the boulder, trying to make myself as small as possible—a difficult task at best—alert for any sounds or movement.
And then I saw movement, but not the kind I expected.
Ten feet away, emerging from the shadows of a smaller boulder, probably awakened by the gunshots—that is, if they even slept—was a tarantula. From my perspective, with my face pressed against the hot sand, the thing looked gargantuan.
The gargantuan tarantula took a few steps in my direction.
Jesus.
My skin crawled, and if I wasn’t currently under gunfire attack I might have jumped up and ran.
It continued toward me. Slowly, deliberately....
I swallowed. Sweat rolled from my temple and into
And headed down.
The path was steep. The rocks underfoot loose. More than once I slipped, but never fell, thanks to my cat-like reflexes.
I reached the valley floor without melting or mummifying. There, I found some shade at the base of the cliff wall where I stopped and drank some water.
The valley was far removed from anything. Why had Sly, or whoever he was, been out here in the first place?
Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was part of a bank robbing gang and this valley was their hideout; maybe his fellow bangers turned on him.
The wind picked up, bringing with it a spicy mix of juniper and sage. Or maybe I was just smelling my own cooking flesh.
I knew from my readings that Sylvester A. Myers, the man who first found Sly back in 1901, had been looking for the next great silver claim. Turns out he found a mummified man instead.
The sun angled through the narrow canyon walls. The walls were mostly dirt and sandstone, layered with the occasional swath of something darker, perhaps basalt. The hawk or vulture continued to circle slowly above. Maybe it knew something I didn’t.
Something scuttled in a bush nearby.
Ah, life emerges.
Before me was a mound of three huge boulders. Screwed into one of the boulders was a very old and faded brass plaque. It read: “In memory of the Nameless who helped settle the Wild West.”
That was assuming a lot. Maybe Sylvester didn’t help settle anything. Hell, maybe he had done his best to unsettle things. Maybe that was why he was shot.
Maybe, but somehow I doubted it.
I bent down and took a handful of the hot sand, sifted it through my fingers. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of a man staggering through these canyons, gut-shot, bleeding and hurting. Alone and probably scared. Or not. Do cowboys get scared?
Yeah, probably.
To the east, high on the high cliff above, something flashed . Instinctively, I turned my body, narrowing myself as a target. Beside me, next to my left elbow, a section of the boulder exploded in a small cloud of dust, pelting me with rock fragments. I dove, rolling.
The report from a rifle followed, echoing throughout the valley.
It kept echoing even as I kept rolling.
Chapter Twenty-three
I rolled to the relative safety of the boulders, dirt and sand going up my shorts and into places it had no business going.
Worry about sand in your craw later.
Good idea.
The rocks gave some shelter, but not as much as I would have liked as I was forced to stay low to the ground with my face pressed against the hot earth. I removed my Browning, hoping sand hadn’t gotten lodged in the barrel.
A second shot thunked near my shoes. I jerked my exposed legs in closer as an earsplitting echo followed the shot.
Jesus, that was close.
Blindly, I eased my arm around the boulder, let loose with two shots of my own in the general proximity of the spot I had seen the reflection. The two shots were to give the shooter something to think about. I had seven more to be more careful with.
My return fire seemed to work. The shooting from above stopped, at least for the time being. I lay there behind the boulder, trying to make myself as small as possible—a difficult task at best—alert for any sounds or movement.
And then I saw movement, but not the kind I expected.
Ten feet away, emerging from the shadows of a smaller boulder, probably awakened by the gunshots—that is, if they even slept—was a tarantula. From my perspective, with my face pressed against the hot sand, the thing looked gargantuan.
The gargantuan tarantula took a few steps in my direction.
Jesus.
My skin crawled, and if I wasn’t currently under gunfire attack I might have jumped up and ran.
It continued toward me. Slowly, deliberately....
I swallowed. Sweat rolled from my temple and into
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