A Texas Hill Country Christmas by William W. Johnstone

jerk it. The shutter thumped back into place.
    A second later, guns roared from inside the house as the defenders opened fire again. None of their bullets came close to the renegade with the hostage, however. They couldn’t shoot at him without risking the boy’s life.
    That might not have made any difference, because the Comanche let out a shrill war cry and raised the knife. Matt knew he was about to either plunge it into the boy’s chest or cut his throat.
    Matt brought the rifle up, socketed the butt firmly against his shoulder, and took half a second to aim. That was all the time he had.
    He pressed the trigger.
    The boom of the shot was pretty well lost in the racket from all the other gunfire, but the results were obvious. The bullet took the renegade in the side of the head just as the knife started to fall, bored through his brain, and exploded out the other side of his skull in a pink spray of blood and bone. He dropped like a stone, letting go of both the boy and the knife.
    It was a near-miraculous shot, and Matt knew he might not have been able to make it again.
    But he had made it this time and that was what counted.
    The results were instant. As soon as the renegade let go of him and collapsed, the boy took off running. He had the presence of mind not to try to make it to the cabin. He never would have survived a dash across that open ground. The Indians would have shot him in the back if he’d attempted it.
    Instead he turned and sprinted back into the trees, which were a lot closer. Matt lost sight of him right away.
    At the same time, a couple of the renegades must have realized where the fatal shot had come from, because they turned and started up the ridge toward Matt’s position.
    He didn’t give them a chance to reach him. The Winchester’s lever flashed down and then back up as he worked it. The rifle cracked as it bucked against his shoulder. The slug tore through one renegade’s torso and knocked him off his feet. He started tumbling back down the hill.
    Almost before that man hit the ground, Matt had worked the rifle’s lever again and shifted his aim. Once more the Winchester barked its deadly message. This time the target stumbled from the slug’s impact but stayed on his feet until Matt drilled him a second time. That put the renegade down for good.
    By now the rest of the raiders were beginning to realize they were caught in a crossfire. They went to the ground, hunting better cover, and within a matter of seconds Matt couldn’t see them anymore.
    He knew they were still there, though, because bullets began to crackle through the brush and trees around him. He ducked behind a tree as a slug whined past his ear.
    Now it was a question of whether the renegades would break off their attack on the ranch to come after him. He hoped they would, even though that would increase his personal danger. He wanted to draw them away from the cabin and give those settlers a better chance to survive.
    He continued throwing lead at the raiders, although he had to aim by sound now that he could no longer see them. The longer he could keep them occupied and concentrating on him, the better.
    A faint whisper of sound in the brush to his left was all the warning he had. As instinct made him turn in that direction, one of the Comanche lunged into the open and flew at him in a diving tackle.
    Matt swung the Winchester and clipped the renegade on the jaw with the barrel, but the man’s momentum carried him into Matt anyway. The collision’s impact knocked Matt over backward.
    He rolled and threw the attacker off him. Matt was up instantly on one knee and drove the rifle’s butt down at the man’s head. It landed in the middle of the renegade’s face with a crunch of gristle and bone.
    Another branch crackled, this time to Matt’s right. He twisted in that direction and fired the Winchester from the hip as he caught sight of a face twisted in a hate-filled