Don't Poke the Bear!

Chapter 16

THE FIRST TWO are easy.

I start with the guy on the horse, who's got the rope tied to his saddle horn. I fire a quick shot that hits the side of his head, then quickly squeeze off a second round that catches another guy in the neck. Unfortunately, the sound of the first shot has caught the ear of the third guy, who suddenly realizes his two friends have been shot. The first guy's dead, the second moans loudly while bleedin' out. But before I can shoot the third one, he lies down and pulls Shrug on top of him. He works his gun out of his holster and puts it to Shrug's head. He's lookin' in my direction, knows the shots came from this general area because of the smoke from my rifle barrel, but can't see me.

I keep my rifle trained on him and wait a few minutes and realize we're at a standstill. I slide back down and walk to my horse and remove the bundle from my saddlebag, open it, and eat one of the sandwiches. It's unbelievably good! So good that if anyone but Shrug was down there, I'd eat the other one, too. I open the canteen and drink a few swallows, then resume my position on the hill and wait for an opening. After ten minutes, I notice the man's left foot has moved about a foot away from Shrug's body.

I squeeze off a shot and hear him cry out in pain. He slides his gun down his body, props it against Shrug's hip, and shoots a couple of poorly-aimed shots in my direction. But I'm out of range for a handgun. Even Bad Vlad couldn't hit me from there.

I stand to my full height and wave my arms and call him names, tryin' to get him to shoot at me to use up his bullets. But he realizes what I'm up to, and resumes puttin' the gun against Shrug's head.

"I'll kill him, so help me!" the man yells.

"Do it, then," I holler back. "What do I care?"

"You care," he yells, "or you wouldn't a' got involved."

"I'm not involved. I just like killin' cowboys and sellin' their horses and guns."

Shrug knows my voice. I can't tell if he's unconscious or not, but he's not movin'. If he's conscious, he'll wait till the time is right, and then make his move. When he does, I'll get a clear shot.

"Where are you men from?" I holler.

"None a' your business!"

I go back to my horse and get my canteen and sit on the side of the hill in plain sight. The man under Shrug's body can't stand the fact I'm sittin' right out in the open like that, sippin' from my canteen. He takes careful aim and squeezes off a shot that lands ten feet shy of my feet. I'm surprised how close he got, but know he won't try again, since he's down to three bullets. We both know he can't reload, because if he tries, he'll lose his grip on Shrug, and if Shrug moves as much as a foot away, I'll kill the guy.

He yells, "Your friend is bleedin' to death."

"He ain't my friend. Shoot him if you like."

"You don't mean that."

"Try me."

I'm not worried about Shrug bleedin' to death. He's been livin' with Rose at least part of the last few months, and Rose always makes us drink a birch bark tea that heals us faster and keeps our wounds from gettin' infected. If Shrug had been gut shot, or hit in the center of the back, I'd be on this bastard like a hog on sassafras. But I can tell Shrug's wound ain't a mortal one.

The guy's friend stops moanin'.

"You killed my friends," he yells.

"Don't fret. You'll be with 'em soon."

"Turn around and leave, and I'll spare your weird-lookin' friend's life."

"He ain't my friend. What I'll do is have your horses."