The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

      “You said it was Apaches,” Pardo jacked a cartridge into the Evans.

      “It was Apaches.”

      “That’s a damned lie. Apaches been no trouble of late.”

      “They jumped the reservation.”

      “Why?”

      “Ever been to San Carlos?”

      Pardo shook his head.

      “I have.”

      “Then you know Apaches, Mac. Problem is, I know them, some. And I can read sign. Whoever waylaid you, they was on shod horses. Injuns don’t ride shod ponies.”

      “Apaches ride what they can steal.”

      “Them dead marshals wasn’t scalped.”

      Reilly tried to match Pardo’s grin. “You know Apaches. You know they don’t take scalps.”

      “But they wouldn’t have left you alive, Mac. Not no Apache. They would have had their fun on you, my friend.”

      Now, Reilly chuckled. “I don’t speak Apache,” he said, “but from what I heard, those Apaches seemed to think they were having some fun. Leaving me in that can to bake.”

      Lying had always come pretty easy to Reilly. It helped him win more than he lost when he sat down to play poker, and it had gotten him a deputy’s job when he had told Marshal Tidball that he had never spent time in jail.

      “Nice story, Mac.” Pardo raised the rifle to his shoulder. “But Major Ritcher would have told me if Apaches was on the prod.”

      Reilly dived off the horse just before a shot left his ears ringing. He hit the ground, rolled, hearing another shot, and another, hearing the sickening wail of a dying horse, then Pardo’s cursing. More gunfire. Even a man with an Evans couldn’t shoot that fast. Horses running, wild yips like those of coyotes, only…Reilly looked up and found Pardo’s leg pinned underneath the dead roan. Bullets kicked up dust around Pardo, the horse. Another tore off Reilly’s hat. The sorrel was galloping due south, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

      Across the desert floor charged a half-dozen Apache riders.