Red Moon by Ralph Cotton

chest.
It’ll have to do,
he told himself, knowing his body heat would serve to warm it a little.
    He turned and walked a few yards along the muddy edge, noting that the roan also turned at the edge of flattened grass and walked along with him. When he stopped, the horse stopped; it stood once again pawing the wet ground with its head lowered against the rain.
    Sam looked all around among the strewn articles of clothing and spotted a man’s pair of leather braided gallows linked at the middle and a short dress boot lying sole up in the mud. He picked up the gallows on his rifle barrel and stuck them down in his coat pocket. He turned the boot over with his rifle barrel, picked it up and slung mud and water from it. Shoving it under his arm, he turned and walked back to the roan. There he put the wet boot on and cut the link holding the gallows together. He tied the two gallows end to end, then tied one end to the roan’s broken rein. Rain blew harder, whipping the swallow-tailed coat around his thighs.
    â€œLet’s get out of this mud,” he said. “Go shoot this rifle one more time.”
    But almost before he got the words out of his mouth, a shotgun blast resounded from farther down the stream of runoff water. The roan pricked its ears; the Ranger froze for a second, staring in the direction of the shot.
    Maynard Dawson, the shotgun rider?
Sam thought.
    â€œCome on,” he said to the roan, grabbing the saddle and throwing it up onto his shoulder. He led the horse away from the mud and onto the gravelly apron below a short stretch of low hills. Not wanting to spare another bullet, especially now that he knew someone had heard his shot, he walked to the high end of the gravel apron, where he could see beyond a low rise to another lower land break.
    â€œAnd there you are . . . ,” he said, seeing Maynard Dawson struggling forward, his short-barreled shotgun hanging from his hand, Dan Long draped over his shoulder. Footprints led snaking back out of sight along the path of last night’s flood runoff.
    Sam whistled loud and long through the blowing rain, but was unable to make himself heard from so far away.
    â€œAll right,” he said, as if giving in. “One more bullet.”
    Before firing his rifle in the air, he looked all around and walked to a place where he knew he was free from shadows, provided Dawson could see him at all through the harsh weather.
    Waiting until the wind and rain lulled for a moment, Sam raised the rifle, fired it and began waving it back and forth slowly over his head. He saw Dawson stop at the sound of the shot and look all around in the right direction.
    â€œNow see me up here,” Sam said, still waving the broken rifle. Beside him the roan watched curiously.
    The Ranger had all but given up when suddenly he saw the shotgun rider lift his shotgun above his head and wave it back and forth slowly in reply.
    Sam stopped waving the rifle and pumped his arm up and down in the rain. Before losing sight of the man in the rain, Sam saw him lower Long from his shoulder, look up and pump his shotgun up and down, mimicking Sam’s movements.
    â€œGood for you, Dawson,” he said as if the shotgun rider could hear him. Wind and rain lashed harder than it had all morning, washing the shotgun rider from sight, but Sam had seen enough to know they had spotted each other. That was good enough for now, he thought.
    â€œStay where you’re at, Dawson,” he said aloud to himself, causing the roan to prick its ears again and stare at him quizzically. “We’ll come down to you as quick as we can.”
    Thunder rumbled again, this time louder, moving closer. The roan tensed and chuffed and tried to toss its head. But Sam held the makeshift rein firmly. Once again rain slammed in sidelong, sharply, like a handful of darts. Overhead the sky blackened.

Chapter 6

    By the time the Ranger reached the shotgun rider on the lower terrace,