Free Comstock Cross Fire by Gary Franklin Page A

heard the volley of slugs slam into the hay barn they were hiding behind.
    â€œThey’re going to come for us,” Eli said. “They’ve no intention of running back to town.”
    Dalton moaned, then managed to ask, “All of ’em, you think?”
    â€œYeah, except maybe the one that I accidentally hit with a ricochet.”
    â€œWell, we can’t stand up against all of ’em.”
    â€œI know that, dammit! We’re gonna have to get on those horses and make a run for it and we’d better do it right now.”
    â€œShit!” Dalton cried.
    â€œLet’s go!”
    Eli grabbed the lead rope to the black horse he’d chosen to ride, and he looped it to make reins. It wasn’t a big horse, but it was stout and looked to be strong and willing. It wasn’t easy for him to swing up on the black with the Sharps rifle, but somehow he managed.
    â€œCome on, Dalton!”
    Dalton was hurt, woozy, but desperately trying to mount the fractious gray and still keep hold of the double-barreled shotgun. But the gray was jumping around and it was a tall horse. Too tall for Dalton to swing up onto with the shotgun gripped in one hand and his head spinning crazily.
    â€œDrop the shotgun and get on that horse!” Eli shouted as rifle shots opened up like winking cats’ eyes in the fields. The muzzle flashes were a lot closer than they had been, and that told Eli that the Mormons had been rapidly crawling across the field to get into firing range. “Come on, Dalton, drop your gawddamn shotgun and swing onto that damned gray horse because those Mormons are comin’ for us!”
    But Dalton was hurt, angry, and scared, and he was fighting with the gray horse. He tried to hit the gray in the head with the barrel of the shotgun, and missed. The shotgun flew out into the darkness. Dalton cursed and then grabbed the gray’s mane, and somehow finally swung onto the animal’s back. But it reared up into the air and out of the corner of his eye, Eli saw the crazed animal fall over backward.
    â€œDalton!”
    The Mormon rifles were firing again, and bullets were cutting the air like wasps all around Eli. One clipped his black’s ear and the frightened animal almost spun out from under Eli, dumping him. The gray horse scrambled off Dalton’s writhing body and bolted into the night. The other two stolen horses still hitched to the buckboard began to fight and surge against the brake.
    â€œAhhh!” Dalton screamed as the iron-rimmed wheels of the buckboard skidded across his lower legs. “Oh, gawd! Oh, gawd!”
    Eli wanted to jump down and help his kid brother. But the bullets were flying everywhere and he knew that there was no time left to be a hero. Either he ran . . . or he died!
    â€œEli, don’t leave me!”
    Eli drove his heels into the flanks of the black and sent it flying away from the barn. His fingers were laced in the animal’s mane, and in his other hand he held the heavy Sharps rifle.
    He thought he heard his brother calling. . . . no, screaming . . . his name, but he shut out the sound and concentrated on riding to save his life.
    There were two or three more shots from behind the barn and then silence. Silence except for the blood pounding in Eli’s ears, racing even faster than the black’s flying hooves.

8
    â€œSOMEONE IS COMING,” Joe Moss announced. “But it’s probably not Dalton and Eli because this one is alone and riding a black horse without a saddle.”
    Ransom Holt picked up his rifle and waited.
    â€œIs it a Paiute?” Fiona asked, squinting into the afternoon sun.
    â€œNope,” Joe told her. “Paiutes ride better’n this fella and they’re usually smaller.”
    â€œIt’s Eli,” Ransom announced with disgust. “Dammit, something must have gone wrong in Placerville!”
    Joe and Fiona, shackled and chained, stood and waited along with Ransom Holt.