Double Mountain Crossing Read Online Free Page A

had shown courage and he was satisfied. With a howl he stepped from the trees. The Remington flowed smoothly to his shoulder with all the decisiveness needed to fell a running buck, and as the white man swung the twin gaping mouths of the shotgun towards him, he squeezed the trigger.
    The hammer fell on the dud cartridge with a dull click.
    Comes-Walking’s eyes widened as the blast from the shotgun literally picked him up, a hundred needles of red hot screaming pain burning into his chest. He cart wheeled, a bloody blur in the closing of day. By the time his blood spattered cheek rested on the cool mountain grass he was dead.
    In the timber, Short-Lance mouthed a silent scream of horror at what had been a man, and with hot tears of rage coursing down his cheeks, he began to pluck arrows from his quiver and fit them to the bowstring. In his anguish, he loaded and sighted and fired in perfect co-ordination, his speed almost rivalling that of an experienced rifleman working the action of a Henry Repeater.
    His scattergun empty, Morgan checked the Kiowa brave was down then turned for the trees. He scooped a handful of cartridges from the grass and as he straightened up pain exploded in his arm. He tried to move to dodge the hail of arrows that bit into the air all around him but found he was skewered to the pine tree. He glanced down at his arm and saw that an arrow had passed clean through it and was lodged in the coarse bark of the tree trunk behind him.
    As best he could, he reloaded and fired across the glade into the thicket, spacing his shots apart. One centre, one to the left. Reload. One to the right, one to the centre. Reload. One to the left, one to the right.
    The hail of arrows ceased.
    There was silence, only the breaking of the scattergun audible as Morgan reloaded, scarcely bothering to glance at his hands in the gloom. His eyes were too busy squinting through the haze of black powder smoke that hung in a pall over the clearing. The ten gauge fastened shut with a solid reassuring click and he held it ready for use, expecting the unexpected.
    The pine tree looked like a porcupine, arrow shafts replacing the quills, but miraculously he had only been hit by the one arrow. As the smoke cleared a little, he narrowed his eyes and peered into the growing dusk. He ignored the pain from his arm and concentrated on trying to penetrate the pools of inky shadow on either side of the clearing. The lineback dun snickered softly, drawing his attention. The gelding was blowing softly, occasionally turning his head towards the dead Indian, the alien scent not bothering him as much as that of the live ones had. Maybe the attack had been called off.
    There was a sound of breaking twigs in the thicket and Morgan swung up the barrels of the scattergun.
    The lower branches parted, then the dark muzzle of the bay, packhorse poked through tentatively. After a moment’s deliberation, the horse pushed its way through into the glade and plodded over to a clump of fresh grass, shaking his mane to free it of twigs before he dipped his head to graze.
    Morgan snorted back a laugh of relief. The attack was over.
    At least for the present.

    ***

    Short-Lance’s tears of rage had nearly emptied his quiver. With shaking hands he notched his last arrow to his bowstring. When that was gone, what use would a knife be against the double barrelled big killing gun? He had never seen any weapon that could make such a mess of a man as had the last blast which had killed Comes-Walking. And he never wanted to see it again. The impatience that had prodded him eagerly into battle had now deserted him and he felt frightened and vulnerable. Clenching his jaw against the trembles he drew the string taut and sighted along the arrow flight.
    Then the pain hit him even before he saw the orange muzzle flash or heard the reverberating crash of the big killing gun. He was thrown sideways, off balance, and his last arrow arced gracefully into the sky to