William Johnstone - Snake River Slaughter

“I don’t like that man,” Matt said after Marcus Kincaid left.

“I feel sorry for him,” Kitty said. “He was so certain that he would inherit everything, and then I came along. I’m sure it was quite a blow to him when Tommy left Coventry to me.”

“Mrs. Wellington, I don’t mean to be talkin’ out of turn,” Tyrone said. “I mean, bein’ as this is sort of family and all. But I’ve known Marcus Kincaid a lot longer than you. I’ve known him since he was a sprout. Sir Thomas had a heart that was just too big, so he either couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t see it, but the fac’ is, even as a boy Marcus Kincaid wasn’t no good. He wasn’t no good then, and he ain’t no good now.”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning

Cooter climbed up onto a rock from which he could see for nearly two miles back across the desert. A small rise hid everything beyond that point.

“See anything?” Mole asked.

“Nothin’ but sand and rock,” Cooter answered.

Mole, a short, hairy man with gray eyes and a pug nose, took the last swallow from a whiskey bottle, then tossed it against a nearby rock. The bottle broke into two pieces.

“Damn, I shouldn’t of broke that,” Mole said. “I wasn’t thinkin’, I guess. I could of got myself a penny for it back in town.”

“A penny,” Cooter snorted. “A penny ain’t no money. Not compared to what we’re goin’ to be gettin’ for this job.”

“Yeah, well, if you remember, we tried to kill this feller once before and it didn’t work out all that well,”

Mole said. “What happened is Logan got hisself kilt. That’s what happened.”

“That’s ’cause we didn’t know who we was messin’ with then. Logan didn’t tell us nothin’ about him, so we wasn’t ready for him when he snuck up on us like he done.”

“I don’t intend to let ’im sneak up on us this time,” Mole said. “You might not of seen nothin’ yet, but he’s close. I know it.”

“How do you know it?” Cooter asked.

“’Cause I can feel it in my gut, that’s how I know it. He is out there, and he’s close.”

Cooter climbed down from the rock and walked over to his horse. He slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.

“What are you fixin’ to do?” Mole asked.

“If he really is comin’ and he’s all that close, like you say he is, I don’t aim to let him get any closer than a rifle shot.”

“Yeah,” Mole agreed. “Yeah, now that’s the best idea you’ve had yet. We’ll just shoot the son of a bitch down, soon as he comes into range.”

The two men, with rifles in hand, climbed back up onto the largest rock that afforded them, not only a good view of the approaching trail, but also some cover and concealment. They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.

“Let ’im come up to no more’n about a hundred yards,” Cooter said. “That way, he’d more’n likely be out of pistol range.”

“What if we miss?” Mole asked. “A hunnert yards is a pretty long shot.”

“It ain’t all that long a shot, and with both of us shootin’, one of us is bound to hit him.”

“What if we don’t?” Mole asked. “What if all we do is just let the son of a bitch know that we’re here. Next thing you know, he’ll be on us like a fly on a horse turd, just like he was back at the canyon. And there won’t be nothin’ we can do about it.”

“The thing to do is not to miss,” Cooter said.

“I don’t know. I’m beginnin’ to think we shouldn’t of took this job,” Mole said.

“You ever had five hundred dollars before?” Cooter asked.

“Hell, you know damn well I ain’t never had that much before. I ain’t ever even seen that much money before,” Mole answered.

“Then shut up your yappin’ and just do what has to be done. Anyhow, we got all the advantage. He’s out in the open, and we got good cover here, what with the rocks and all. Besides which, he don’t have any idea we’re even here at all.”

“I guess you’re right,” Mole agreed.

“Damn right, I’m right.”

At that moment, a rider came into view over a distant rise.

“Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Mole said. “I told you he was close!” He raised his rifle to his shoulder.

“Hold it!” Cooter said, reaching out to pull Mole’s rifle back down. “Be patient. You shoot now and you won’t do no more’n spook him. Let him get close, like I said. Besides, you was the one sayin’ you didn’t think you could hit him at a hundred yards.”

“All right,” Mole said, nervously.

They waited as the distant rider came closer, sometimes seeming not to be riding, but rather floating as he materialized and dematerialized in the heat waves that were rising from the desert floor.

On he came: a mile—half a mile—a quarter of a mile—two hundred yards. Cooter raised his rifle and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim. “Just a little closer,” he said, quietly. “A little closer before we fire.”

Mole shifted position to get a better aim. As he did so he dislodged a loose stone, and the stone rolled down the rock, right into the largest, unbroken piece of the whiskey bottle. The stone pushed the glass out into the sun.

As Matt approached the ridgeline ahead of him, a sudden flash of light caught his attention, and he stopped, looking toward the flash.

“What the hell did he stop for?” Mole asked.

Looking down, Cooter saw the sun flashing off the broken whiskey bottle. “You dumb bastard, when you pushed that whiskey bottle down like you done, it commenced to flashin’ in the sunlight. You just gave away our position!” he said angrily. He raised up and fired his first shot.

“I didn’t do it of a pure purpose,” Mole said. “You got no call comin’ down on me like that.”

“Where is he, anyhow?” Cooter stuck his head cautiously over the rock and looked down where the target had been. “Where is he? I can’t see him.”

“I don’t know,” Mole admitted. “I seen him get behind that rock, but I ain’t seen him since.”

“There’s a dry creek bed down there. I seen it when we come through,” Cooter said.

Mole looked toward him. “A dry creek bed? Damn, he could be right on us before we even knew it.”

Cooter shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It curves away a long time before it ever gets up here.”

No sooner were the words out of Cooter’s mouth than there was a puff of smoke and the bark of a rifle from a clump of bushes not too far distant. The bullet hit the rock right in front of them, then hummed off, but not before shaving off a sliver of lead to kick up into Mole’s face.

“Ow! I been hit, I been hit!” Mole called, slapping his hand to his face. “I been shot right in the jaw!”

Cooter looked at him, then laughed.

“I’d like to know what the hell you think is so funny?” Mole complained.

“You are. You are funny,” Cooter said. “You ain’t been hit. That ain’t nothin’ but a little ole scratch.”

Two more bullets hit the rocks then and chips of stone flew past them.

“I don’t like this,” Mole said. “He’s gettin’ too damn close.” Mole fired a couple of shots toward the bush just below the puff of gun smoke.

“Hey, Mole, look down there,” Cooter said. “Ain’t that his horse comin’ back up the road?”

“Yeah,” Mole said. He giggled. “This is great! Shoot the horse! We’ll just leave the son of a bitch afoot.”

Both men started shooting at the horse, but the animal was still a couple of hundred yards away and slightly downhill. As a result, it wasn’t hit, though the bullets striking the ground nearby caused the horse to turn and run toward the shelter of a bluff, a quarter of a mile away.