Hard Ride to Wichita by Ralph Compton, Marcus Galloway Page A

Luke realized he had the old Colt in his hand. The gun no longer felt heavy or comfortable in his grasp. His body was still too numb to feel itself.
    â€œShame this had to happen,” Scott said. “But it’s your daddy’s fault. You probably know he wasn’t a very good man.”
    Although he had some vague ideas of what line of work Kyle was in, he never much cared to hear any details. Kyle kept his business to himself, making it clear that he preferred it that way and Luke was only interested in the next time Kyle would be leaving town. That had always been the way of things, which suited Luke just fine.
    â€œI can see you’re frightened,” Scott said. “No one can blame you for that. What happened here wasn’t your fault. It’s over now, though. We can part ways here and you won’t never see me again.”
    Luke believed that as much as he believed pigs could fly. He brought his gun up and fired before he had a chance to take proper aim. To his clouded ears, the shot sounded muffled and far away. The stranger wasn’t trying to talk any longer. Also, there was something written in his features that hadn’t been there before.
    Surprise.
    Still holding his pistol the way he’d practiced when trying to knock bottles from a fence or empty cans from hitching posts, Luke pulled his trigger again and again. The Colt spat fire and smoke while sending shock waves all the way up his arm. Scott got a shot off as well, but Luke didn’t care much about that. He paused just long enough to finally look at the other man through his sights and continued sending rounds through the air.
    Scott’s arms splayed out to one side and he twisted around in a tight circle. He jerked again, folded over, and squatted in place with his weapon dangling from a shaking hand.
    Luke’s finger tightened around the trigger, but the Colt no longer bucked against his palm. He turned his hand over to inspect the gun as if something was wrong. All he could see was blurred iron and his own hand as if it had been drawn in smeared paint. Every breath was filled with acrid scents mingled with a bitter, coppery odor he could not place. Scott still squatted where he was, so Luke pointed the Colt at him and pulled its trigger again.
    The hammer slapped against another empty casing. His gun was empty. It seemed like a simple revelation, but Luke had just now figured it out. Instead of trying to reload the Colt, he held it as if he’d just forgotten what he’d learned a second ago. Unwilling to let the gun go or even lower it, Luke walked toward the stranger.
    Scott let out a grunting breath, like a piston that had expelled its last gout of steam, and collapsed. He didn’t fall like Kyle or Virginia. Instead he lowered himself to the floor and leaned back against something that allowed him to sit upright. The gun slipped from his right hand to clamp tightly against his chest. His other hand reached down to the floor to support his weight. “I guess,” he grunted, “ . . . I had that coming.”
    Staring down at him, Luke felt his muscles tighten. It was unfair that this man got to speak while his mother’s voice would never be heard again. Even Kyle deserved to say his hurtful things more than this piece of filth. As he thought that over, Luke found himself pulling his trigger again. He knew the gun was empty and felt embarrassed that he was so out of sorts.
    Scott’s next breath came out in a haggard laugh. “Don’t worry. You done . . . all you needed to do. You ever . . . fire that gun before?”
    Luke nodded. His mouth opened and the words “Yes, sir” escaped his lips before he could stop them.
    The stranger’s nod was an awkward up-and-down motion similar to a toy in need of grease. “You . . . you’ll fire it again, I reckon.”
    At that moment, every part of Luke’s body came back to life.