Part 36 (2/2)

I kicked my legs down and got to my knees as a bunch of hors.e.m.e.n charged through a break in the rocks, their guns ablaze.

I patted my sides, figuring I must've lost my Colts in the fall. But they were snug in their holsters. For just an instant. Then they filled my hands.

I shot two blokes out of their saddles straight away.

Then McSween got hit. I saw him in the muzzle flashes, both his pistols blasting as slugs smacked his chest, knocking him backward. At least three men caught his lead and dropped from their horses before he went down.

I don't believe I witnessed the ends of Chase or Emmet or Snooker.

My eyes weren't watching for them.

My eyes were on the hors.e.m.e.n as they dashed this way and that, yelling and firing, some riding at me with their guns aroar.

I used only my right hand, as I'd had little practice with my left. I never moved my legs at all, but stood there at the edge of the campsite, aiming and firing. When my hammer came down on a used sh.e.l.l, I dropped that gun and switched to the other.

Before you know it, that one ran out, too.

I went to reload, and thought it strange I hadn't been killed yet. I just hoped I could get it full of bullets and take down a few more of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds before they got me.

But when the cylinder was full and I raised my arm to continue killing, I couldn't find a target.

I fired once, anyhow, to scatter the horses.

As they hurried off, the moon came out. Its pale light came down. In front of me, shrouded by drifting gunsmoke, was a field of twisted bodies.

They weren't all dead.

Some men lay there, writhing and moaning.

I checked on them. They weren't McSween or Chase or Emmet or Snooker.

I shot them.

At daybreak, I covered my friends with rocks. I read out loud from Chase's Bible.

I let the men from the posse lay where they'd fallen. There were eleven.

I set all the horses free except General. I gathered money, food and ammunition, as there was no advantage to leaving such things behind. Then I saddled up General and rode out.

PART FOUR

Plugging On

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

Ishmael.

The wound I'd taken in my side while standing watch didn't amount to much, just a gouge across my ribs. More than once, I wished whoever'd taken the crack at me had been a better shot.

I knew I wasn't fit to go on living.

The third or fourth night after the shootout at the camp, I decided to blow out my brains. It seemed a proper way to stop myself from doing more harm in this world.

I'd built a fire, which was only to keep me warm as I hadn't cooked a meal or eaten much of anything since the shooting. I sat down beside it and put a Colt to my head. Then it seemed maybe I ought to leave a letter behind.

A letter for who, though? Mother? Sarah? Neither of them was ever likely to see my last message, left out here in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe somebody would find it, sooner or later, and send it along. I couldn't count on that, though. Every day, I'd been riding west, putting my back to the sunrise and heading for the sunset, and not once had I met up with a human being. That suited me. But it didn't allow much hope of anyone finding my note.

What would I write in it, anyhow? That I was the curse of death to everybody I met? That I'd turned bad and killed men? Wouldn't serve any useful purpose for Mother or Sarah to know such things. Better to let them go on wondering what had become of me than to weigh them down with the grim truth.

So I gave up the notion of leaving a message.

I thumbed back the hammer and was all set to squeeze the trigger when General gave a snort.

The sound reminded me that he was hobbled for the night. He would die if I went and shot myself without releasing him first.

I only aimed to kill myself, not General.

So I holstered my gun and went to him. He looked over his shoulder. ”You'll be quite better off without me, chum,” I explained, and gave his neck a pat.

Then I crouched down and untied the hobble.

”Get on, now.” I smacked his b.u.m. He trotted off a bit, stopped and looked back at me.

It was no concern of mine. He was free. He could stay or go, as he chose. I judged he'd move on once I'd finished putting a slug into my brain pan.

I walked back to the fire, sat down, and drew my Colt. As I pulled back the hammer, I remembered how the train conductor had tried to shoot me dead, only his gun had misfired.

It hadn't been a bad round, as it had gone off just a while later when I was riding away with the boys, shooting at the sky.

I'd counted the misfire to be a rare piece of luck.

I didn't look at it that way now. It had been the worst kind of luck, leastwise for the gang and the men that came after us in the saloon and the chaps of the posse. All those fellows were dead because of one misfire.

Well, it wasn't likely to happen twice.

And if it should, I had me four more chambers full of bullets in the one gun, five in the other. (Emmet had taught me not to travel about with a round under the hammer, and only to load that chamber for target practice or troubles.) There wasn't enough luck or magic or whatever in this world to stop them all from doing their job.

A miracle wouldn't be saving me this time.

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