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“We can lose Anderson in that sand storm, Benjamin,” Buck growled.
The gang leader just shook his head, his eyes on the blond lady in her pristine white gown. A plan put itself together. “We have cover here, a hostage, and our horses need the rest anyway. When that baby hits, there’s no way we can see more than an arm length ahead of us. I say we ambush that sorry little posse here, and last time I checked, I was still the leader of our little outfit.”
“Could use some whisky to get that nasty taste o’ sand out of me throat,” another agreed.
“As long as you don’t get drunk,” Benjamin said. “Spread out, in the houses, on the rooftops, where-ever you have cover and escape options. It’s them or us now.”
He approached the fine looking lady standing near the stage coach, halting next to her. She noticed him, the smooth shaven strong jaw, steely blue eyes, perfectly cut coat that screamed its cost, and smiled at him. He answered with a bow. “I’m sorry madam, but I’m unfortunately forced by the circumstances to limit your freedom. It’s strictly temporary, and if the men behind us see sense and turn around, I’m sure no harm will come to you.”
Her smile disappeared.
Sheriff Bill Anderson watched the five descend into town. They had ridden like madmen, day and night, to stop Benjamin Stuart and his partners in crime before they crossed the border. Some things are unforgiveable, and one such thing was disrupting the peace under Anderson’s nose. The sandstorm had given the opportunity to finally catch up and settle things. He looked at the ragtag group of deputies and enthusiasts behind him. Not so enthusiastic now, he mused, but either they settled things, or this whole chase was for naught.
“They’re down there, Stuart and his men. They’re probably trying to set an ambush. We wait till that storm hits, then we go into town, from all sides. That sand in the air is as good a cover as a sturdy wooden wall. Can’t hit what you can’t see, after all.”
Moments later, the storm swept around them, and the sheriff and his men dismounted and spread out, quickly losing sight of one another.
On the veranda to the Three Eyed Skull Saloon, a solitary figure sat down, harmonica held by one hand, the other on the ivory grip of his shootin’ iron. Ermenegildo Ernandez, bounty hunter known for his cold nerves and steady hand, had decided that this was the place to collect the bounty. Stuart and four others, six bullets in his gun. It was a margin he wouldn’t need, normally, and he would happily shoot that pretty little bird as well to get to those four thousand dollars. That posse was going to complicate things. There was no way Anderson would let him have the bounty. He would be thanked, and the law would take care of the aftermath and the bounty.
Better to let them bloody one another, and he would then clean up the survivors, leaving no eye witnesses. He set the harmonica against his lips. A death dirge would probably work on their nerves, make them shoot. He smiled, then blew gently. The harmonica spat its shrill, sad sound through the street, and eleven gunmen and one bride-to-be felt the sweat bead on their foreheads and wet on the palms of their hands in answer.
This post has been edited by Path-Shaper: 15 April 2009 - 10:57 AM
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