A Texas Hill Country Christmas by William W. Johnstone Page A

snarl. The slug caught the raider under the chin and angled on up into his brain. He toppled as blood fountained from the wound.
    Matt surged to his feet and glanced at the man he had struck with the rifle. The renegade was dead with blood leaking out of his ears. In a matter of moments, Matt had killed five of the Comanche, cutting their force almost in half.
    But there were still more than half a dozen of them on the loose, so he wasn’t out of the woods yet—literally.
    More crashing in the brush made him lift the Winchester. He saw movement and almost fired, but he held off on the trigger at the last second.
    The boy who had been taken prisoner by the Indians burst into view, stopped short, and stared at Matt over the barrel of the rifle. His face was pale to start with and dusted with freckles, but it got even more washed out as he must have realized how close he had just come to dying.
    â€œGosh, mister!” he said. “Don’t shoot!”
    Matt started to lower the Winchester, then whipped it up again and squeezed the trigger. The boy yelped in terror, then looked over his shoulder as he realized that Matt had targeted something behind him.
    Another of the renegades lay there, staring sightlessly at the live oak branches above them. Matt’s bullet had left a neat hole between his eyes.
    More of the raiders were on their way, though. Matt heard them coming. He glanced around, spotted a deadfall several yards away, and grabbed the boy’s arm.
    â€œCome on, kid,” he said. “We’ve got to hunt cover.”
    They ran for the log and vaulted over it. As they did so, shots rang out and slugs exploded splinters from the rotten wood. Matt pushed the boy down on the ground and thrust the rifle barrel over the log.
    The odds were against them, but he would make a fight of it. He saw shapes flitting through the trees and said under his breath, “Here they come.”

C HAPTER E IGHT
    Matt opened fire as several of the renegades burst into sight. He didn’t have time to see if any of his shots hit their targets because the enemy sent a volley of hot lead screaming back at him. He had to duck as the slugs struck the log and showered him with bits of rotten wood.
    An Indian vaulted over the log and fired his rifle at close range. The shot pounded Matt’s ears like a fist. He felt the fiery lick of the bullet as it passed close to his cheek and dug into the ground next to his head. Holding his Winchester one-handed, he shoved the muzzle under the renegade’s chin and pulled the trigger. The man’s head blew apart in large chunks. A sticky mix of blood and brains showered down on Matt.
    He rolled and threw himself on top of the boy to shield the slender form with his own body. Dropping the Winchester, he snatched his Colt from its holster. The revolver was better for close work like this. It boomed and bucked in his hand as he triggered a couple of shots and saw another of the attackers spin away with blood flying from his wounds.
    Then another volley roared nearby. Bullets scythed through the trees, cutting down several of the renegades. A familiar voice shouted, “Come on, men!”
    Major Macmillan and the rest of the patrol had arrived and not a moment too soon.
    The renegades who were still on their feet turned to flee. Matt pushed himself up on his left hand and fired the Colt in his right. His slugs drove into the back of one raider, made the man cry out and stumble, then pitch forward onto his face.
    Normally Matt preferred his fights face to face, but after seeing what these savages had done in earlier raids, he knew he wouldn’t lose one second of sleep over shooting the man in the back like that. Any of the renegades who got away meant that the settlers in this region were still in danger.
    The fight didn’t last long once the troopers rushed down the ridge and plunged into the thick of the melee. The Comanche were outnumbered now, and in a matter of