“You reckon he’s hit, or just playing possum?”
That had to be Mustache.
“Only one way to find out.”
The gunmen didn’t try to hide their approach. They’d be on him in a minute and he had no doubts about what would happen next.
He had to get hold of that rifle! If he could fire before they were on him, he might have time to get off two shots.
Keeping as flat as possible, Ry ignored the pain in his arm, grasped the rifle with both hands, and yanked for all he was worth.
But it was no good, not from this angle anyway. He pulled out his derringer and prepared for the worse. He wouldn’t make this easy for them. Sorry Belle, seems I’m not going to be there for you after all.
A moment later, two man-sized shadows blocked the sun.
“Well, looky here. Pretty Boy done got all mussed up.”
Ry twisted his neck to see the two men looming over him, their ugly grins and rifles pointed at his back. He slowly raised himself to a crouch, carefully keeping his pistol hidden. He might not live to see nightfall but at least one of these cowards was going down with him.
“That’s right.” Scarcheek made a menacing motion with his rifle. “Up where I can see your face and hands.”
Tension coiled inside Ry. His muscles bunched, ready to spring. He had to make this move count.
It would be the only one he had.
“Ayyiiieeeeee!”
The shrill war cry shattered nerves already drawn taught. Scarcheek and Mustache whirled around as a wildman swooped into the clearing, riding at breakneck speed straight toward them.
Thank you, God.
Scout made another spasmodic attempt to rise and Ry dove for the rifle. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he jerked the weapon free an eyeblink before the horse collapsed again.
The mounted banshee fired two shots that missed their marks.
Mustache returned fire and the one-man cavalry charge leaned lower in the saddle. The rider’s hat went flying and a tawny braid flapped free, whipping in the wind like the tail of a kite.
Miss Wylie!
Was the woman insane? He’d wring her neck over this fool stunt.
If they lived long enough…
Seeing the men take aim at his rescuer, Ry gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his arm and tried to simultaneously fire his rifle and position himself between the gunmen and Miss Wylie. His first shot found its mark and Mustache went down with a grunt.
But a second shot echoed his own and Ry whirled in time to see Miss Wylie’s horse go down.
It was getting more difficult to hold the gun steady, but Ry pushed harder, moving between her and Scarcheek, firing again.
He swore when he took a misstep and his shot missed the mark. From the corner of his eye he saw the horse get up.
But not Miss Wylie.
At least he’d turned Scarcheek’s attention back toward him. If only it wasn’t too late…
Ry fired again. Or at least attempted to. Either the rifle chamber was empty or it had jammed.
Tossing the useless weapon aside, he dropped to one knee, barely dodging another bullet as he jerked out his derringer and fired.
This time there was a satisfying report.
Unfortunately, Scarcheek was a split second faster.
Jo shook her head, trying to clear it, as she pushed up from the ground with both hands. The fall had knocked the wind clear out of her. Her entire left side, from shoulder to hip, felt bruised and battered. Looking up, she spotted Licorice, tail high, galloping back toward home.
Bam! Bam!
She flattened again, twisting around to see where the shots had come from. She saw Mr. Lassiter’s back first and then Otis beyond him. How had the greenhorn got himself between her and that snake in the few seconds since Licorice had stumbled?
As she watched, Mr. Lassiter went down, hitting the ground with a jarring thud.
No! Her heart stopped and then stuttered painfully back to life.
Dear God, please, let him still be alive.
It took her a moment to realize Otis had turned his attention back her way.
“Well, now,” he said nastily, “first I get to give Pretty Boy the comeuppance he deserves, and now you land in my lap too. Must be my lucky day.”
The words cleared the last of the wool from Jo’s head and she frantically looked around for her dropped rifle.
He snickered. “Don’t even try to go for it or I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
There! The rifle was just a few feet away. “Don’t know that it matters much,” she said, trying to give herself time to think. “You’re just going to shoot me anyway.”
“Maybe. Hadn’t decided yet.” He moved closer, keeping the gun pointed at her. She winced when he paused to give Mr. Lassiter’s leg a vicious kick. “I thought we might have a little fun first.” He licked his lip in a disgusting manner. “See if there’s really a woman under all those man’s clothes.”
His leering words made the decision for her. She’d rather chance getting shot than endure the fate he was planning.
She scrambled on all fours toward the weapon, hearing Otis laugh as if at a bawdy joke, knowing she’d never reach it in time, but driven to try anyway.
As she dove the last few feet to the rifle, Jo braced for the bullet, prayed he’d miss, or if not, that it would kill her clean.
She flinched when she heard the anticipated shot, but felt nothing, not even the bullet’s impact.
Had he missed?
Her hand closed reflexively on the rifle to the sound of Otis’s screams and vile oaths.
She flipped onto her back with the weapon aimed and ready, but instead of finding the brute still bearing down on her, he stood clutching his side, blood streaming through his fingers, his rifle lying useless on the ground.
She looked past him and saw Mr. Lassiter, pale and unsteady on his knees, but blessedly alive and strong enough to aim his pistol at Otis. He’d apparently managed to get a shot off, one that had saved her life.
Relief washed through her in giddy waves as she got to her knees. If Otis had been able to carry out his threat—
She fought down the sour bile rising in her throat.
Otis, still spitting out a stream of curses, reached down for his rifle.
“Don’t,” Mr. Lassiter rasped.
Otis froze, his hand less than a foot from the weapon.
“The way I see it,” her wounded hero continued, “is that no matter how good a shot you are, between Miss Wylie and me, one of us is bound to get you before you can get both of us.”
Otis looked from one to the other of them, then slowly straightened, one hand still clutching his side.
“Smart move.” Mr. Lassiter made a sideways motion with his weapon. “Now step away from the gun.”
Otis moved back several paces.
“Far enough.” Mr. Lassiter’s eyes flickered her way briefly before returning to the low-down skunk still moaning over his wound. “Are you all right, Miss Wylie?”
“I’m