The bearded man was bellowing orders now, his voice sharp and furious. "Circle around! Pin him down!" But Cole wasn't staying put. He scrambled backward, keeping low, moving toward the rocks where the women had taken cover. Another shot cracked past him, kicking up dirt inches from his boot.
He twisted, fired blind over his shoulder, and heard a horse scream. One of the riders went down hard, thrown when his mount stumbled. Cole reached the rocks and slid in beside the women, breathing hard. The tall one, the one who'd looked at him first, was pressed against the stone, eyes wide but steady. "You got a gun?" Cole asked.
She shook her head. "Course not." He levered another round into the chamber. "Stay low. Don't move unless I say." "Why are you doing this?" she asked, voice hoarse.
"Damned if I know." He leaned out, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. The bearded man's horse reared again, and the man fought to control it, cursing a blue streak. Cole counted his shots. Three left.
Maybe four if he'd loaded full that morning, but he couldn't remember. The hunters weren't stupid. They'd pulled back, using distance and their own cover now, taking potshots to keep Cole pinned. It was a standoff, and Cole knew it wouldn't last. They had more men, more ammunition, and all the time in the world.
He had three women with no weapons and a horse that was probably halfway to the next county by now. "Listen," he said, not taking his eyes off the canyon. "When I start shooting again, you three run. Head west, follow the creek bed. There's a trading post about eight miles out."
"Tell them Cole Mercer sent you." The tall woman stared at him. "You'll die." "Maybe. Maybe not."
"That's not a plan." "It's the only one you've got." Before she could argue, Cole stood, fired twice in quick succession, and dropped back down. Return fire came immediately, chips of rock exploding near his head. He felt something sting his cheek, a fragment, hot and sharp, but ignored it.
"Go!" he shouted. The women hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then they moved, scrambling up and running low, using the rocks for cover. Cole fired again, forcing the hunters to duck, buying seconds. He could hear the women's footsteps fading, the ragged sound of their breathing as they pushed themselves past exhaustion.
The bearded man shouted something, and two of the riders broke off, spurring their horses toward the fleeing women. Cole shot one of them. The man tumbled from his saddle, hitting the ground in a rolling heap. The other rider pulled up short, suddenly reconsidering. Cole worked the lever, felt it click on empty, and cursed.
He was out. The remaining hunters realized it at the same moment he did. They came at him in a rush, closing the distance fast. Cole threw the Winchester aside and drew his revolver, a battered Colt that had seen better days, and fired three times. One shot missed, one clipped a rider's leg, and the third took a horse in the chest.
The animal went down screaming, pinning its rider beneath it. The bearded man was almost on top of him now, leaning out of his saddle with a revolver aimed at Cole's head. Cole rolled, came up on one knee, and fired his last shot. The bullet caught the man in the side, spinning him halfway around. He dropped his gun, clutched at the wound, and fell from his horse in a graceless heap.
The horse bolted, leaving the man gasping in the dirt. Silence dropped like a hammer. Cole stayed frozen, revolver aimed at nothing, ears ringing. Three men down, one pinned under his horse, screaming. The bearded man curled on his side, bleeding but breathing.
The others, wherever they were, had pulled back. No more gunfire. Cole exhaled slowly, lowered the revolver, and looked around. The women were gone, just like he'd told them. The canyon was empty except for the wounded, the dead, and him.
He stood, legs shaking harder than he wanted to admit, and reloaded the Colt with fumbling fingers. The bearded man groaned, tried to sit up, and Cole walked over, standing above him. "You should have ridden away," Cole said quietly. The man spat blood. "Go to hell."
Cole didn't answer. He turned and walked back toward the creek, leaving the man where he lay. His horse was long gone, but he found the women's tracks easily enough, heading west, just like he'd said. He considered following, making sure they made it to the trading post, but his legs felt like lead, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
So he sat down on a flat rock, pulled out his canteen, and took a long drink. It was over. He'd killed two men today, maybe three, depending on how bad that side wound was. He'd stepped into someone else's fight, risked his neck for three strangers, and come out of it alive by sheer luck and stubbornness. Stupid.
Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing he'd sworn he'd never do again. Cole stared at the horizon, where the sun was starting to dip toward the western hills, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Three days later, Cole made it to the town of Redemption Flats with a new horse, traded for his saddle and most of his ammunition, and a splitting headache that wouldn't quit.
The town wasn't much, just a collection of wood-frame buildings clustered around a main street that turned to mud when it rained. But it had a saloon, a general store, and a sheriff who mostly stayed out of people's way, which made it better than most. Cole tied his horse outside the saloon, stepped through the swinging doors, and made straight for the bar. "Whiskey," he said. The bartender, a thin man with a nervous twitch, poured him a glass without comment.