The man's grin widened. "And one of them put a knife in my brother's leg before they ran. So you see, friend, this ain't a conversation. This is us taking back what's ours." "Your brother still breathing?"
The man's grin faltered. "What?" "Your brother. He alive?" "Yeah, he's alive. What's that got to do with—"
"Then you got no reason to kill them." The easy air vanished. The man's hand drifted toward the revolver on his hip. "You're stepping into something that ain't your concern, mister." Cole shifted his weight, thumbing back the rifle's hammer with a quiet click.
"I'm making it my concern." For a long moment, nobody moved. The wind kicked up dust between them, and Cole could feel the women's eyes on his back, waiting to see if he'd actually follow through or if this was just talk. The hunters were weighing odds, trying to decide if one man with a rifle was worth the trouble.
The bearded man spat into the dirt. "You're a damn fool." "Been called worse." The tension broke with the sudden crack of a gunshot. Not from Cole, from one of the other riders, a wiry man with a scar splitting his eyebrow.
The bullet whined past Cole's shoulder, close enough to feel the heat. Cole didn't flinch. He swung the Winchester up and fired in one smooth motion, and the wiry man jerked backward, clutching his arm as his horse reared. Then everything went to hell. The other three riders scattered, yanking their mounts sideways and reaching for their weapons.
Cole worked the lever, ejected the spent shell, and fired again. This time taking the hat clean off the bearded man's head. The man cursed, hauling his horse around, and Cole knew he had maybe three seconds before they got organized and came at him from different angles. "Get down!" he shouted over his shoulder.
The women didn't need telling twice. They hit the dirt, flattening themselves behind a low outcrop of rock. Cole dropped to one knee, using the creek bed's edge for cover, and fired twice more in rapid succession. One shot went wide. The other punched through the shoulder of a rider trying to flank left, and the man let out a howl, dropping his rifle.
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."