Free The Desperado by Clifton Adams

I found my cartridge belt on the floor, swung it around my
middle and buckled it. Pappy didn't move. Didn't make a sound.
    I didn't feel angry now, or in any particular hurry. I knew Creyton
wasn't going to get away with stealing my horse, the same as that time,
years ago, when I had known that Criss Bagley wouldn't hurt me with
that club. I didn't know just how I would stop him; but I would stop
him, and that was the important thing.
    The night was quiet, and the sudden little scamper of Red's hoofs was
the only thing to disturb it as I stepped out of the shack. Creyton had
the horse all saddled and ready to ride by the time I got out to the
shed. He was standing in the shadows, on the other side of Red, and I
couldn't see him very well. But he could see me.
    I never heard of a man talking his way out of horse stealing, and I
guess Creyton never had either. Anyway, he didn't try it this time. He
moved fast, jerking Red in front of him. Everything was so cut and
dried that there wasn't any use thinking about it, even if there had
been time. I dropped to my knees, with one of my new .44's in my hand.
For just a moment I wondered how I was going to get Creyton without
hitting Red. Then I made out the figure of Creyton kneeling under the
horse's belly, and his gun blazed.
    It all happened before Red could jump. I felt the .44 kick twice in
my hand, the shots crowding right on top of Creyton's, and something
told me there was no use wasting any more bullets. Red reared suddenly
and, as he came crashing down with those ironshod hoofs, there was a
soft, mushy sound, like dumping a big rock into a mud hole.
    I thought for a minute that I was going to be sick. But that passed.
I ran forward and caught hold of the reins and stroked the big horse's
neck until he began to quiet down. There were nervous little ripples
running up and down his legs and shoulders, but he got over his wild
spell. I petted him some more, then led him away from the place and
hitched him to a blackjack tree near the shack.
    Paul Creyton was dead. I dragged him out into the moonlight and had a
look at him. His face was a mess of meat and gristle and bone where
Red's hoof had caught him, but that wasn't the thing that had done it.
He had a bullet hole in the hollow of his throat, just below his Adam's
apple, and another one about six inches up from his belt buckle. The
one in the throat went all the way through, breaking his neck and
leaving a hole about the size of a half dollar where the bullet came
out. His head flopped around like something that didn't even belong to
the rest of the body, when I tried to pick him up.
    It had all happened too fast to make much of an impression on me at
first. But now I was beginning to get it. I backed up and swallowed to
keep my stomach out of my throat. I hadn't known that a man could die
like that. Just a flick of the finger, enough to pull a trigger, and
he's dead. As easy as that. The night was cool, almost cold, but I felt
sweat on my face, and on the back of my neck. Sweat plastered my shirt
to my back. I walked away from the place and headed back toward the
shack.
    It occurred to me to wonder what had happened to Pappy. He must have
heard the shooting. The way he slept.
    As I stepped through the doorway, a match flared and Pappy's face
jumped out at me as he lit a cigarette. He put the match out and I
couldn't see his face any more, just the glowing end of that corn-shuck
tube, with little sparks falling every once in a while and dying before
they hit the floor.
    He said at last, “Creyton?”
    “He's dead.”
    I could see the fire race almost halfway down the cigarette as he
dragged deeply. I was still too numb to put things together. I only
knew that Pappy had been awake at the time of the shooting and he had
made no move to help me. He hadn't even bothered to come out and see if
I was dead or not. He took one more drag on the cigarette and flipped
it