Free .45-Caliber Deathtrap by Peter Brandvold

covered load, and removed one of the ropes tied over the tarp. “Gonna have me a look inside, see what that short-trigger freighter done donated.” He chuckled, cast another nervous glance into the creek gorge, then removed another rope.
    When Zorn had removed the ropes hooked to steel eyes on the far side of the wagon box, the men each took a side of the tarp, lifted it, and peered over the tailgate.
    KAA-BOOM!
    Joe Zorn’s head instantly vaporized, blood spraying behind the wagon like red paint.
    â€œNo!” shouted Webber.
    KAA-BOOM!
    The blast took him through the chest, lifting him straight up in the air and six feet straight back. He hit the ground, arms and legs spasming, his eyes already glassy.
    Cuno was halfway up the riverbank, moving toward the wagon, when he’d heard the shotgun blasts and the man’s shout. Cuno stopped, listening and wondering as the twin echoes chased each other around the canyon. He heard running footfalls, then scrambled up the bank, pulling at weed clumps and fixed rocks, no longer caring how much noise he made.
    He’d just lifted his head above the road’s crest when a man ran past him from left to right, heading for the wagon fifty feet away.
    Cuno crouched and leveled his Winchester. “Hold it!”
    The man skidded, stopped, and swung around with his Spencer. Cuno drilled him twice through the chest, then flinched as a bullet sliced across his own left temple.
    He whirled, saw a slumped figure in the road, and triggered the Winchester twice more. One round smacked through the man’s left hand resting on the ground before ricocheting off the rock beneath it. The second plunked through his right cheekbone and smashed him straight back on the trail, flopping like a landed fish.
    Cuno ejected the smoking shell casing, levered another into the chamber, and swung the Winchester’s barrel around, looking for more shooters. The mules were braying and bobbing their heads, trying to plunge forward through the rocks, but to no avail. The wheels held fast. The animals and a single, high-hunting hawk made the only sounds, the only movements.
    â€œOh, Christ!” A man’s voice rose from the wagon. There was a dull thump and a wooden clatter, as of something hitting the ground. “Mercy!”
    Staying to the opposite side of the trail, Cuno ran down the side of the wagon, stopped, and aimed the Winchester toward the back. The tailgate was open. Lying twisted and groaning on the ground beneath it, clutching his left knee with both hands, was Serenity Parker. His shotgun, both barrels smoking, lay over the leg of one of the two dead men.
    â€œChristalmighty, Parker, what in the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œFlyin’ whores!” Parker gritted his teeth. “Hurt my knee.”
    â€œCan you stand?”
    â€œGive me a second.” He clutched the knee for a time, slowly released it. Even more slowly, he stretched the leg out, then glanced at Cuno. “Give me a hand.”
    Cuno took the Winchester in his left hand, offered his right to the old man, gingerly helped the man to his feet. Parker stood, testing his weight on his right knee, then gently flexed it.
    â€œThink it’ll be all right now.”
    â€œWhat the hell were you doing in my wagon?”
    The old man looked sheepish, but as he glanced around at the two men he’d nearly obliterated with his gut shredder, he gained a look of surprise and admiration. “I reckon you could call me a stowaway.”
    â€œIf you wanted a ride somewhere, you could have asked me for one. You didn’t need to hide under the tarp.”
    The old man walked around, limping, testing the knee. He walked over to Webber, stooped with a grunt, trying to bend only his left knee, and picked up the shotgun. He wiped the blood-flecked stock on his thigh.
    â€œI reckon I ain’t really goin’ anywhere. I mean, I’m goin’ where you’re goin’.” He