Coyote Run

Abe dove from the shadows and into the sunlit yard, hitting the ground on his left shoulder, then rolled to his feet in a low crouch. His pistol boomed two shots so close together they sounded like a single explosion.

Red flame and black smoke reached out from the barn's loft a split second later as the sniper triggered his rifle. The bullet went high and wide as Abe's first shot smashed into the assassin's rifle, shattered the weapon's mechanism, knocked it from the man's hands.

Abe’s second shot took the shooter square in the chest. Crimson blossomed across his shirt as he crumpled forward, over the edge of the loft window, tumbled through and struck the ground at Abe’s feet.

Jared walked over and nudged the lifeless body with the toe of his boot. "Nice shot. I expect he was dead before he hit the ground. He's one of the McStrand gang. There were three others with him in the saloon. I expect the rest'll be along shortly."

As Jared spoke, three men burst into the barnyard from the alley beside the saloon. Case McStrand, gun drawn, led the way. The men were bearded, their clothes filthy and torn from the trail.

Several of the town's curious, always ready for a little excitement, followed at a distance.

Case drew up short as he spotted Abe and Jared together, their weapons drawn and aimed in his direction. Case’s face was creased from the months of continual exposure to a harsh sun and weather. That he had planned the current situation and expected a different result was evident by his open-mouthed expression.

"What the hell?" Case’s eyes scanned Jared's face. "You! What’re you doing here?"

"Settle down, McStrand, and put the gun away," Jared said, his voice level, calm.

Jared raised his tone a notch and addressed the crowd that had followed the McStrands from the saloon.

"You folks head back to your homes. Our three visitors here may have an interest in this dead man but I doubt any of you would care much one way or the other."

"Don't know nothin' 'bout any of this," Case said. "Me and my boys were just passing through, heard the shots and thought someone might need help."

"Commendable, I'm sure." Jared waved his gun at the dead man lying at his feet. "He was with you in the saloon."

"We drank with ‘em but that don't mean nothing." Case turned toward the two men behind him. "Either of you boys knows the dead gent?"

The two men shook their heads. "Talked to him in the saloon but I don't know him," the shorter of the two replied.

Abe knew the man, another of Case's younger brothers. The boy had already proved himself tough in previous gunfights, and nearly as ruthless as Case.

The older of the two was Farrell Younger, Case's well-heeled uncle from Virginia, a man of some breeding and education. He was an unusual creature, considering his backwoods Tennessee roots, where education remained something of a novelty.

Case’s eyes went toward Jared’s steady gun hand. Abe knew from experience that a stand-up fight wasn't Case’s way and that Jared could hold his own in any gun battle. The expression on Case's face suggested that he concurred with Abe's assessment.

"There'll be another time for us," he said to Abe. "You won't always have a sheriff around to fend for you."

Case eased his six-shooter into its holster and raised both hands wide to either side. "Don't want no trouble in your town, Sheriff. What's here is between me and the breed."

Jared nodded and holstered his gun, signaled Abe to do the same, then stepped up to confront Case eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose.

"I'll accept that you are, for the moment, peaceably inclined, McStrand. But remember that I was at Remington when you and your friends made your raid. I know who you are, what you're after and consider myself a personal friend of Mr. Chesterfield. Don't try anything in my town. If you do, there won’t be any trial. I’m judge and jury here. You understand?"

McStrand's face reddened with barely-contained anger. "I know you. You can't tell me..."

Jared grabbed a handful of Case’s collar, jerked the man forward. "Get out of town, McStrand. Take your friends with you. Take the stiff, too. In fifteen minutes I may change my mind and come after you myself. Do I make myself clear?"

Case snorted. "You make yourself clear, all right. Sheriff! Ha!"

Case turned on his heel and pushed his men ahead of him toward their horses. Moments later, the sound of hooves beating off into the distance echoed through the town.

Jared sighed. "That, as they say, is that."

Abe nodded toward the dead man. "They didn't take cousin Jake with them. Too bad. Case sure seemed interested in you. I thought I was the one who got him riled during the raid at Remington."

Jared placed an arm around Abe's shoulders and once more turned him toward town. "I'm sure it's nothing but bravado. And not to worry about old Jake, if that indeed is his name. We have the best undertaker in the country, the only undertaker in the area for that matter. He gets five buck for any dead man he buries, known or not. There won't be any left-over McStrands lying around for long."

"You do that job, too, do you?"

Jared shook his head and laughed as they headed up the alley toward Main Street. "No, not yet, anyway."

In a window overlooking the barnyard where the meeting had just finished, sun glinted off the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. As Abe and Jared walked off, headed for the deeper recesses of the small town, the gun withdrew and a small, feminine hand eased the curtains back into place, disappearing from view.