Free Longarm 242: Red-light by Tabor Evans Page B

circumstances, it might be better for him to get out of this alley while he had the chance.
    He patted Dupree on the uninjured shoulder, muttered, “Sorry, old son,” and stood up. His long legs carried him quickly to the far end of the alley. The Colt was still in his hand, ready for instant use.
    Nobody was lurking at the end of the alley, though. Longarm stepped out into a lane that ran behind the buildings along Greenwood Avenue. He looked to his left, and a couple of blocks away saw a man hurriedly climbing onto a horse that was tied behind a building. Longarm started in that direction at a run, yelling, “Hey! Hold it right there!”
    The man thumped down awkwardly in the saddle and twisted toward Longarm. Longarm saw the rifle in the man’s hands, saw the barrel swinging up to point toward him. He dove to the side, landing behind a rain barrel. The rifle cracked and a slug punched through the barrel. Water spurted out on both sides. Longarm felt the stream splashing on the back of his coat.
    He poked the Colt around the barrel and fired twice. That emptied the cylinder, and he had to pull back behind the barrel to reload. There was a handful of fresh cartridges in his coat pocket. He pulled them out, dumped the empties from the cylinder, and thumbed the new bullets in. By that time, hoofbeats filled the cold air, coming closer with each passing second.
    The bushwhacker was charging him on horseback. The man’s rifle barked again, and the bullet smacked into the rain barrel. Longarm forced himself to wait—not an easy thing to do when some son of a bitch was trying to kill him. Then, when he judged the time was right, he rose up and put his left shoulder against the barrel, pushing hard as he surged to his feet. The barrel tipped over, the lid coming off as it fell so that the water inside splashed out into the lane. The sudden flood was enough by itself to spook the ambusher’s mount, but when the now-empty barrel rolled into its path, the horse shied violently, rearing up on its hind legs. The bushwhacker yelled in alarm and grabbed for the saddle horn.
    Longarm drew a bead and shot the man in the right shoulder.
    At least, that was where he was aiming. The horse danced to the side at the same instant Longarm pressed the trigger, and the lawman’s bullet tore into the bushwhacker’s chest instead and threw him out of the saddle. He landed hard, limbs sprawling limply. The frightened horse bolted down the lane, forcing Longarm to spring aside to avoid being trampled.
    He hurried to the side of the fallen gunman. The man’s breathing was harsh and labored. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Longarm went to one knee beside him and said urgently, “You’re hit bad, mister. Why don’t you tell me why you were trying to kill me while you still can?”
    The man looked up at Longarm with unfocused eyes. “B-bastard,” he gasped. “You ... you killed me!”
    â€œJust returning the favor in advance,” said Longarm grimly. “Who are you? Why’d you try to ambush me?”
    The dying man grated out another curse, then in a voice that was rapidly weakening said, “Mallory would’ve ... let me ride with him ... if I’d ki—”
    Blood gushed from the man’s mouth, choking off whatever else he had meant to say. His eyes went glassy in death, and his head dropped to the side.
    He had said enough before he died, though. Judging by his clothes, he was a miner or some sort of laborer, but he had clearly aspired to be more. He had wanted to be an outlaw, a member of Ben Mallory’s gang, and he had thought that killing a suspicious stranger would be his ticket into Mallory’s bunch. Longarm grimaced. He had expected his blunt questions to make him a target, but he had hoped the attempt would come from Mallory himself, not some would-be desperado eager to make a mark.
    Longarm stood and holstered his Colt. He heard