‘What the hell have I bitten off here?’ Willis whispered to himself as he tried to work out where the rest of the gang were. The wind howled like a pack of ravenous timber wolves all around the saloon. It was only mid-afternoon but it was as dark as night outside the Longhorn.

  His sand filled eyes searched the room. The bar counter was horseshoe shaped and enabled patrons to wander around it on both sides of the large room. At least a half dozen of the outlaws were somewhere behind the solid wooden counter. Willis was well aware that no amount of buckshot could penetrate the dark stained joinery and find any of those secreted there. The men who had taken cover behind upturned tables were a different matter though. Just like himself they had only an inch of wood separating them from life from death. One well-placed bullet would breach the flimsy barricades.

  Willis could hear spurs moving around the far side of bar counter. He turned and aimed the hefty weapon to the end of the bar closest to where he knelt. The first head that poked out from behind the dark stained mahogany would get blown off its owner’s shoulders, he silently vowed.

  His finger trembled on the twin triggers of his shotgun in readiness. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he defied his desire to fire the brutal weapon. Willis waited for what felt like an eternity.

  Willis heard more movement. It did not come from behind the bar counter but from beyond the upturned tables close to the swing doors.

  Suddenly in total unison a volley of bullets came from the barrels of four of the outlaw’s six-shooters. The top of the upturned table rocked as a half-dozen bullets tore chunks out of it above Willis.

  He ducked.

  Hot splinters showered over the crouching figure as another of the deadly gang emerged from the far side of the bar counter where Willis was already aiming his shotgun. The sheriff spotted the .45 before he saw the outlaw.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Willis squeezed one of his shotguns triggers. A deafening flash of buckshot greeted the outlaw before he had time to either aim or fire his Colt.

  The fearsome blast spewed fiery venom at the side of the bar counter. The head of the outlaw was decapitated by the merciless shot. Within a heartbeat Willis had swung around and fired the remaining barrel of his shotgun over the top of the damaged table. The outlaws closest to the swing doors sucked on sawdust as the buckshot tore tables and chairs apart in searched of fresh targets.

  Using the choking cloud of gun smoke as cover Willis forced his hefty bulk up and ran across the distance between the table he had sheltered behind and the horseshoe shaped bar counter. A handful of shots vainly tried to hit the laboring lawman but all they managed to hit was the far wall. The sound of glass shattering filled the room as picture frames were blown to bits.

  Willis dropped down beside what was left of the dead outlaw. He knelt and swiftly jerked the mighty barrels of the shotgun down. Two smoking spent cartridges flew over his shoulder. Willis could feel the blood soaking through the knees of his pants.

  Gasping for air the sheriff rammed two fresh shotgun cartridges into his smoking barrels. He had sooner snapped the weapon together again when another barrage of bullets ripped what was left of the card table apart. The table fell in two parts on to the floorboards.

  The wily sheriff suddenly realized that if he had remained there he too would have been torn apart. Sweat soaked his clothing as Willis began to wonder how long his luck would hold out.

  Somehow he was still alive and unscathed. That in itself was a miracle but in truth Willis had never believed in miracles. He gripped his red hot shotgun and prayed to a god he had also never believed in until this very moment.

  At the far end of the car counter sat on the ground amid the swirling smoke Bart Savage looked at what remained of his gang. There were just seven left intact.

  Savage growled like an angry bear. His nostrils flared as he held both his guns in his hands and stared at the sawdust between his legs. Dave Travis moved closer to his leader and reloaded his smoking gun.

  ‘Who the hell is that, Bart?’ Travis snarled as he knelt beside the shoulder of Savage. ‘It sure can’t be Johnny Mason.’

  ‘What we gonna do, Bart?’ Sly Potter asked his brooding leader. ‘Whoever that damn varmint is he’s got us pinned down here.’

  ‘He’s also killed four of us.’ Reynolds added. ‘We’re being whittled down real fast.’

  The eyes of Savage darted at Potter and the others. There was a madness in them which each of those who rode with the deadly outlaw recognized.

  Bart Savage was the most dangerous of creatures at the best of times but when riled he became a maniac. He would kill anyone when he was cornered. No one was safe not even those who rode with him.

  ‘We ain’t the ones pinned down, boys.’ Savage hissed like a sidewinder ready to strike with venomous fangs. ‘That critter just thinks he’s got us pinned down. There are still eight of us and only one of him. By my reckoning we got him pinned down.’

  The outlaws flanking Savage began to nod in agreement.

  Savage slowly got to his feet and defiantly looked down across the top of the long curved bar counter. He had no fear of being shot like sane men. In all his days he had never even been wounded, not even in the most brutal of gunfights. Savage inhaled deeply. He had just one thought in his mind and that was to kill the man who had somehow managed to reduce his gang by a third in only a few minutes.

  ‘Get on your feet, boys.’ Savage ordered. ‘We’re gonna kill that bastard.’

  The seven remaining outlaws looked at Savage in disbelief as he lowered his chin and continued to glare to the far end of the long counter.

  ‘Get up on them boots of yours.’ Savage snarled and waved the barrels of his guns at his kneeling men. ‘Are you all yella? Are you scared of a man with a scattergun? We’ve faced worse than that.’

  Reynolds cleared his throat and looked up at Savage who was still openly defying anyone to try and shoot him. ‘So far that man has killed four of our boys with that scattergun, Bart. Even a drunken halfwit can kill with one of them damn things. A man don’t even have to aim. Them things just kill when you pull on the triggers. He killed Joe, Bob and Chaz with one shot. He’d have killed more if we’d been closer.’

  ‘Scatterguns kill real bad.’ Travis sighed.

  ‘So do I. So do I.’ Savage felt his whiskered chin resting on the knot of his bandanna. ‘Now get up on your feet or I’ll start killing you all by myself. I want you to split into two groups and rush him from both sides of this bar counter. He can’t kill us all.’

  Potter gulped. ‘He’ll sure try.’

  ‘I got me a plan.’ Savage said.

  ‘What are you intending on doing, Bart?’ Travis fearfully asked as he reluctantly rose to his full height beside the snorting Savage. ‘When we rush that bastard on both sides of this counter, what will you be doing?’

  Savage looked at his men who began to stand as his waved his weapons in their direction.

  ‘I’m gonna kill him.’

  Chapter Six

  THE STORM WAS growing more intense. The wise could feel it in their bones. The vast sky was filled with clouds of every hue and they were moving in all directions. Distant thunder echoed across the Bar 10 and it was heading toward the ranch with each beat of the onlookers hearts. The horsemen who rode across the increasingly windy range toward the ranch house and outbuildings knew that this was a dangerous time of the year but none of them realized that the true danger lay west of the Bar 10 in the sprawling town of Sutter’s Corner. It would make anything the weather had in store for them eventually seem futile.

  The ancient Tomahawk straddled his black gelding and led both Johnny Puma and Happy Summers into the very heart of the courtyard and did not stop spurring until they had ridden into the large barn. The whiskered old man dismounted first and shook himself like a hound dog after it had gotten wet. Sand fell from the wily Tomahawk as his wrinkled eyes watched his far younger companions easing themselves from their own horses.

  ‘When do you figure this storm will ease up, Tomahawk?’ Happy asked the old man who rested a hand on his lethal Indian hatchet. ‘We could hardly find enough steers out there to make a bowl of stew.’

  ‘It’ll be over before sundown.’ Tomahawk said with a nod of his head as he rested a hand on the tall stable doors and stared at the clouds of sand which kept sweeping across the center of the ranch.

  ‘You said that yesterday, Tomahawk.’ Johnny smiled as he released his cinch straps and dragged his saddle off the back of his pinto. ‘And the day before.’

  Tomahawk gave a toothless smile. ‘And I’ll say it tomorrow as well if’n it don’t stop blowing.’

  Happy rested his own saddle on a stall rail and then moved to Tomahawk’s horse and raised its fender. ‘If this storm keeps up we’ll have to delay the cattle drive by my reckoning.’

  Tomahawk nodded. ‘Yep.’

  Suddenly all three cowboys heard the door of the ranch house and turned to look. With the wind still blowing a cloud of sand across the courtyard none of them could see the building nor the tall man who was walking toward them until he emerged from the yellow wall of sand and entered the livery.

  Gene Adams rubbed his eyes and then looked at the three windswept cowboys and silently nodded. Each of them touched the brims of their hats as the tall rancher walked to a bale of hay and sat down.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gene boy?’ Tomahawk asked as he rested his bony backside down neck to his oldest friend. He had known Adams too long not to recognize when the white haired rancher was troubled. ‘You look like you got something gnawing at your innards.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Adams smiled. It was forced and did not convince any of the cowboys that it was genuine.

  ‘Don’t go handing me that.’ Tomahawk pressed. ‘Something is troubling you, boy. Spit it out.’

  Adams leaned back and looked at Johnny. ‘Remember a long time ago when me and Tomahawk first met you, Johnny?’

  Johnny gave a slow nod. ‘You mean when you and Tomahawk found me all shot up and saved my bacon, Gene? That ain’t a time a man can easily forget.’

  Tomahawk elbowed Adams. ‘We said we’d never talk about that, Gene boy.’

  Happy Summers edged toward his three companions.

  ‘What’s all this about Johnny being all shot up?’ he curiously asked. ‘I never heard about that before.’

  Tomahawk waved a finger at Happy. ‘This ain’t none of your business, Happy. Keep your nose out of this.’

  The rancher sighed and placed a hand on Tomahawk’s bony shoulders. ‘Ease up, Tomahawk. I know that we said we’d never speak on them days but something has cropped up.’

  Johnny moved closer to the two seated men. ‘Tomahawk’s right, Gene. We always said that we’d not speak about that.’

  Gene Adams stood. He towered over Johnny as their eyes locked on to one another. ‘I had me a visitor earlier.’

  ‘Who?’ Johnny wondered.

  ‘Bob the bartender from Sutter’s Corner was here.’ Adams whispered. ‘He come riding in here and had himself a real bad story to tell.’

  ‘I didn’t even know he could ride a horse.’ Tomahawk quipped.

  ‘He can’t.’ Adams said.

  Johnny pushed his hat brim back. ‘And this story concerns me somehow?’

  ‘It sure does, son.’ Adams said. ‘Bob said there was a gang of critters in his saloon and they already killed two folks including Maisie the bar girl. They’re looking for you and they sent him here to tell you to come to town.’

  Johnny looked grim. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘You recall a Bart Savage, Johnny?’ the rancher could see the memories flood back into the face of the young man.

  Johnny rubbed his jaw as a hint of tears filled his eyes. ‘I sure do. He killed my sweetheart and everyone in Rio Maria apart from me.’

  Happy lowered his head and walked away from the three other men. He had heard more than he cared for.

  Tomahawk eased his old body of the bale of hay and walked to the side of the youngster. His bony fingers rested briefly on the arm of cowboy as he shook his head sadly.

  Johnny inhaled deeply and looked up at the rafters before returning his eyes to the troubled ranchers.

  ‘Savage wants me so I reckon it would be darn impolite to disappoint the bastard, Gene.’ The cowboy sighed as both his hands rested on the twin grips of his matched pair of holstered .45’s. ‘I’ll saddle a fresh mount and head on to Sutter’s Corner before he kills any more innocent folks.’

  As Johnny turned he felt the powerful grip of a black gloved hand on his arm. He stopped and looked hard into Adams’ face.

  ‘I gotta go, Gene. You know that. He wants me and he ain’t going to stop killing until I show.’

  ‘He ain’t alone, Johnny.’ Adams hissed. ‘He has eleven men with him and this ain’t going to be a showdown. Savage intends slaughtering you.’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘I ain’t figuring on committing suicide. I’ll take down as many of them varmints as I can before they finish me.’

  ‘You ain’t going alone, son.’ Adams growled. ‘I’m going with you.’

  Tomahawk shuffled toward them. ‘And you ain’t leaving me here to twiddle my thumbs. I’m tagging along.’

  Happy turned around. ‘Can I come with you boys? I don’t know about none of this but I sure don’t like men that kill womenfolk.’

  A tangled web of mixed emotions filled the young cowboy’s heart. Johnny Puma inhaled deeply and walked to the barn doors. The sandstorm was still as blinding as ever. He stared at it and then tilted his head and looked over his shoulder at his three friends.

  ‘Why would anyone want to ride with a man who has a dozen gunmen waiting to open up on him with their guns and use him for target practice?’ Johnny asked. ‘That’s plumb loco.’

  ‘Maybe we like you, Johnny.’ Gene Adams said.

  Tomahawk moved to the side of the tall rancher. He screwed up his wrinkled eyes.

  ‘I’ll go see how many hands there are in the bunkhouse, Gene boy.’

  Adams gripped the thin arm of his friend. ‘Don’t waste your time, Tomahawk. None of the other hands have returned from out on the ranges. I figure they’re all taking shelter in the line shacks until this storm eases up.’

  Tomahawk’s bearded jaw dropped. ‘You mean we is the only ones here to ride with Johnny?’

  Adams gave a sharp nod. ‘Yep. We’ll see if any of our boys are holed up in the line shack between here and Sutter’s Corner. If they are we’ll get them to tag along.’

  ‘That’s a mighty big ‘if’, Gene boy.’ Tomahawk reasoned. ‘Them boys could be anywhere in this sandstorm.’

  ‘You fret too much.’ Adams tugged on his friends jutting beard. ‘No wonder you got so many wrinkles.’

  Tomahawk sniffed. ‘Darn tooting.’

  Johnny had heard the brief conversation and shook his young head. ‘Damn it all. I can’t let you boys ride into this trouble.’

  The rancher looked at the youngster. A smile traced his face as he raised a gloved finger and pointed at Johnny.

  ‘You can’t stop us, son. When anyone picks on any of the riders of the Bar 10 he picks on us all. Whoever Bart Savage is he sure don’t know us but he’ll learn.’

  Tomahawk shook his head thoughtfully. His right hand drew the ancient Indian hatchet from his belt and his eyes studied it. The old man had become an expert with the weapon which had earned him his name. He traced a thumb across its honed edge and then slid it back into its resting place against his withered hip.

  ‘I knew that one day that boy’s history would come looking for him, Gene boy.’ He said. ‘I just never figured it would be like this though.’

  Adams narrowed his eyes and rubbed his jaw. ‘You’re right, old timer. I don’t like the thought that innocent folks are being murdered. There ain’t no call for that.’

  ‘Why’d this Savage hombre wanna kill a female for, Gene?’ Tomahawk asked sadly. ‘She was such a pretty little thing.’

  Adams glanced at the face of Johnny. It was drained of all color and expression. Johnny was totally stunned by the news that he had just imparted to the youngster.

  ‘Some folks have a sickness in them, Tomahawk. I reckon this Bart Savage must be the sickest critter the Devil ever spawned.’

  Tomahawk slapped his bony hands together.

  ‘We’ll feed and water the nags and rub the critters down and then head on to town.’ He said.

  ‘There ain’t no time for that, Tomahawk.’ Adams said firmly as he turned and looked at the younger cowboys. ‘Happy and Johnny can saddle three fresh mounts for you all to ride and I’ll saddle my mare.’

  ‘I’ll get the horses out of the stalls, Johnny.’ Happy told his pal.

  Johnny moved across the barn toward Adams. He could not hide the anguish he was feeling at the thought of any of his pals getting hurt or worse.

  ‘This is my fight, Gene.’ Johnny said.

  ‘Savage shouldn’t have gunned down innocent folks, son.’ Adams argued. ‘He made it personal doing that.’

  ‘This might be costly, Gene. We can’t tell how this will pan out. Savage is a mighty bad hombre and so are the critters he surrounds himself with. I ain’t happy at any of you tangling with them.’

  There was a long silence and then Adams rested a hand on the youthful shoulder.

  ‘Just make sure your guns are loaded, son.’ The rancher said in a low drawl. ‘I got me a feeling we’ll need every bullet we got. Now saddle some fresh horses. We got us a score to settle.’

  Johnny Puma nodded.

  Chapter Seven

  THE SEVEN OUTLAWS were more fearful of Bart Savage than the shotgun which had already claimed the lives of four of their number. The heavily armed men reluctantly moved to the side of their leader and paused as Savage leaned into them as his eyes stared at the remaining hostages huddled together just beyond the pile of dead bodies.

  A monstrous idea had just dawned on him. It was one which only a man who valued his own life above all others could have ever conceived. A twisted grin crawled across his scarred features.

 

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