William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

The Spur was a gilded cage, spiced by the delights of lissome, lustful Francine, free-flowing whiskey, and the fellowship of a few boon companions. Despite that, cage it still was, and Johnny Cross was born to run wild and free.

He’d had a bellyful of Staffords and their Ramrod bunch, too, but they’d won a temporary stay of execution due to the Comanche-based emergency, when all Hangtown had to put aside private quarrels to unite against a common foe. The period of grace would last only so long as the current crisis.

Johnny trusted none of the Ramrod bunch, save maybe Dan Oxblood, and the redheaded gunman was no real Stafford hand. At that, he wouldn’t be turning his back on Red, either.

All that aside, his mission was to clean up Comanches.

The bombardment in the killing field had been hellacious, each earth-shattering blast making his heart beat faster. He’d envied Sam for the magnitude of the death-dealing abilities rendered him by a scoped rifle and a field full of dynamite. It almost, but not quite, took some of the sting off him being a Yankee.

Oh well, a person can’t help where he comes from, Johnny supposed. Not everybody is lucky enough to be born a Texan. Hard luck for them!

Sam Heller could no more help being a Yankee than the Comanches could help being what they were. They were born marauders and it suited them just fine. That was what they knew and they wanted no other way of life.

Which didn’t mean Johnny wasn’t going to kill every last warrior he caught on the business end of his guns. Of which he had many—two on his hips, two under his arms, and two stuck in the top of his pants.

He spurred his horse so it jumped from the wide platform of the top step to the ground without touching any steps in between. Wind brought the smell of fire smoke and cordite to him. He rode downhill, east on Trail Street, and right into the heart of the action. Smoke, screams, shots, pounding hoofbeats, and the smell of gunpowder. It was totally wild!

Twin .44s were in his hands and the reins gripped between his teeth as a passel of Comanches came racing toward him. Johnny opened up, guns blazing, leaving them sprawled in the dirt and their riderless horses coursing by.

Holstering the gun in his left hand, he gripped the reins one-handed, slowing the horse. He had fallen into the rhythm of battle without thinking; a habit of mind that came as naturally to him as breathing. It helped make him a natural-born pistol fighter.

Farther east along the street Comanches were giving a couple fellows a hard time. Johnny urged the horse forward.

Three mounted braves had two citizens trapped on the boardwalk fronting the Alamo Bar. The townsmen had their backs to the wall

Johnny rode up to the braves and cut loose, throwing lead. No sportsmanship, no fair play, that wasn’t what it was all about.

Leaving three riderless ponies and two grateful citizens in his wake, he moved on in search of the next encounter. A cloud of smoke blew up, stinging his eyes, choking him.

The smoke thinned, revealing a handful of mounted braves coming at him. He fired, the pistol in his right hand emptying after two shots. But each shot hit its man.

Letting his empty gun fall, Johnny reached across his chest under his arms, right hand reaching left, left hand reaching right, each hand snaking a .44 out of the shoulder holsters.

No longer a leader but a follower, Red Hand regained control of his horse and raced to join the group of braves riding fast out of town.

Through the murk of smoke, the lone figure of a mounted man emerged—a Texan. Opening fire, the rider shot the two lead braves out of their saddles before his gun clicked on empty.

The others rushed him. Quick as thought, guns filled the Texan’s hands and he came at them shooting.

A Comanche warrior raised a rifle for a kill shot. Before he could bring it into play, slugs hammered into his chest, nailing him.

The clash was so quick, so sudden, the contending parties so close to each other, any advantage rifle-bearing braves might have had was nullified as they shot it out with Johnny Cross at point-blank range.

Fire lanced from Johnny’s gun muzzles, pistols milling out a wall of lead. Bullets whipped past, one creasing his left arm. Deadly .44s roaring, he swept braves from the scene, gunning them down with lightning speed

Red Hand gaped in astonishment as those before him fell torn and mauled under hammering six-guns.

A Comanche crowded within arm’s reach of Johnny, his face filling Johnny’s field of vision. A gun blast erased that face, wiping its features into an unholy mess that dropped out of sight with its bearer.

A war club wielded by another swiped viciously at Johnny’s head—a near miss, the breeze of its passing fanning his face.

Johnny didn’t miss. Space opened up around him as the foe fell away, and then suddenly he was face to face with Red Hand. Not that he knew him from Adam. All he knew was that he was being rushed by a particularly fierce-faced Comanche with a spear.

Red Hand still had his lance, the unlit Fire Lance. Somehow he’d managed to hold on to it during the rout. His right hand gripped the lance at mid-shaft, pointing it at a tilted angle at Johnny.

One of Johnny’s guns was empty; he leveled the other on Red Hand, squeezing the trigger.

Click . That gun was empty, too.

Red Hand’s grimace widened into a grin of triumph. The gods were indeed with him. His luck had not yet run out!

Red Hand thrust at Johnny, the spear blade seeking the other’s heart.

An empty pistol was still a weapon. Johnny threw it at Red Hand’s face. Red Hand ducked his head to avoid it.

Johnny turned his horse, kicking its flanks and slamming it into Red Hand’s mount. The animals crashed together with jolting impact.

Getting under and around the lunging lance, Johnny came up on Red Hand’s left side. He kicked free of the stirrups and climbed out of the saddle. Hands reaching, clawing for Red Hand, he jumped him.

The thud of flesh striking flesh sounded as Johnny tangled with Red Hand. The two pitched over the right-hand side of the Comanche’s horse, spilling into the dirt, kicking up dust.

Red Hand absorbed most of the impact of the fall. He let go of the lance, no longer an asset, but a liability.

Horse hooves hammered the ground near their heads. They grappled, throwing punches. Grunting and panting, they worked fists, elbows, and knees.

Red Hand was strong and slippery. Johnny couldn’t get a good grip on him, but he got the Comanche under him.

Red Hand drew his knife. Johnny grabbed Red Hand’s forearm, tough as a tree limb and harder to hold than a rattlesnake. The blade quivered, seeking Johnny’s throat, chest, and heart.

A reversal put Red Hand on top, Johnny on the bottom, gripping the wrist of the other’s knife hand. He brought his knees up to his chest and pushed out, flipping Red Hand up and over. His hold on the wrist of the Comanche’s knife hand was broken.

Red Hand went with the throw, tucking his head down, taking the impact on his shoulder. Going into a roll, he got his feet under him and jumped up, whirling to face his opponent. Shifting his grip on the knife for an underhand thrust, he lunged at Johnny.

Scrambling to meet the Indian’s rush, Johnny reached for a gun stuck in his waistband, drawing and firing several times. The reports came so quick they sounded like one continuous blast.

He shot Red Hand point-blank in the middle, firing from so close the other’s flesh was tattooed by gunpowder burns.

Doubled up, the Comanche kept on coming even as he was folding. Johnny sidestepped to get out of his way, and Red Hand fell facedown into the dirt.

Johnny crouched low, gun in hand, looking around for the next foe. The slaughter had peaked and was moving into a lull. Most of the surviving Comanches had already fled town.