Free The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman

ever been on John’s face. Instead, his visage seemed to darken like the clouds, and Ben sensed there was thunder and lightning inside of him, just waiting, like a fuse, to be touched off.
    And the afternoon was coming on, like the brewing storm, when the two men finally ate without much talk between them. Later, Ben found his brother Lee’s holster and gave it to John.
    John strapped it on. The belt bristled with .45-caliber cartridges. John slid the pistol inside the holster and it was a perfect fit. He wore the gunbelt well, as if he were born with it, and it born to decorate him. When he stood up and drew the pistol so fast his hands were a blur, like the downward plunge of a hawk, Ben felt that icy water creep back up his spine. He had never seen anything so fast. Until John drew a second time.
    â€œJust practicing, Ben,” he said.
    â€œI reckon that’s a reason.”
    They both knew what Ben meant. The trouble was that Ben didn’t know what John was practicing the fast draw for. At least he didn’t for sure.
    But he had a pretty good idea.
    The clouds began to darken and thicken, and far off there was the murmur of thunder, so soft they almost missed hearing it. The wind turned brisk and the air was thick with the smell of rain, rain that was, just then, only a promise, not a threat.
    Just like Johnny Savage, Ben thought as he put out the fire, using the spade to shovel sand and water on it, to bury it beyond redemption. They would not light another that day, nor for days to come. And their fare for tomorrow and many days hence most likely would be hardtack and deer jerky unless Ben missed his guess about John’s plans.
    John hadn’t said a word, but Ben was getting to read him pretty well.
    That pistol spoke volumes, even when it was sleeping in its holster, with those words emblazoned on its barrel. That pistol, Dan Savage’s gun, was like a coiled snake, ready to strike the minute it sensed the heat of its prey.
    That Savage gun.

8
    THERE WAS SOMETHING BOTHERING OLIVER HOBART AS HE AND his men rode through the trees back toward their abandoned camp, which was now a prearranged rendezvous site. The creak of his saddle set off an insistent tattoo in his mind, so intrusive after the previous excitement, that he felt as if he had missed something important back at that mining camp. In the heat of battle, and the finding of the gold, the noise of the guns, there had been something else he should have seen back there.
    But he didn’t know what it was.
    Not yet.
    â€œSlow down, Red,” he called to the man ahead of him, who was leading the pack of them through the forest.
    â€œHuh?” Red turned his head to look back at Ollie.
    â€œNo damned need to wear out the horses. We got a long ride ahead of us yet.”
    â€œOh, yeah.” Red slowed his horse as Ollie raised his hand for the others to see.
    â€œTo a walk, Red,” Ollie said.
    All of the men slowed and the saddle creak shifted keys, lost its former rhythm. Now it was just a steady drone in Hobart’s ear, more like the sound pond frogs made just after dusk.
    A mule deer arose from its bed at the sound of the passing horses, its ears thrust forward, coned to catch and decipher the crackle of twigs, the pad of iron hooves. Its black tail twitched nervously as it stood above the dust wallow where it had lain since early morning. It resembled a large mouse with its oversized ears and gray coat. The doe lifted its head, its black nostrils poised to sniff and suction every vagrant scrap of scent that wafted its way. Through the trees it could see the legs of the passing animals, and it could smell the leather and the sweat, the horse scent and the man scent. But it held its rigid stance, tail flicking like a cat’s in convulsive, jerky vibrations that were the only sign of its nervousness. The horses passed and their hoofbeats faded. It sniffed the wallow as if to mark its contours. Then it folded its