pleasure. Yet Crail Street, lying just off the main entertainment area of the town, was silent and empty as the two Texans reached it.
‘I don’t like it,’ said the Kid. ‘It’s not natural for a chore to go this easy.’
‘Sure is restful, though,’ Waco replied. ‘Coming up here and—say, there’s Miss Joan now, new red dress and all.’
Ahead of them lay a small hotel, some three buildings down the street, and facing it a livery barn. A small shape in a daring red dress and wide brimmed, flower decorated hat, came from the hotel’s front door, showing in the light of the hall lamps.
Even as the two Texans started forward to meet the woman, they saw a couple of dark shapes detach themselves from the shadows by the livery barn. Flame spurted twice from the shapes, the flat crack of shots ringing out. The small shape jerked under the impact of lead and fell against the hitching rail and from there went down.
‘Take ‘em, boy!’ the Kid ordered.
One of the shapes whirled to face the two Texans. He brought up his hand, for they could tell the shape was masculine, sending a bullet from his gun at the advancing Texans.
All in one flickering blur of movement, Waco came to a halt, dipped his right hand, brought out the Army Colt from its holster at his right side and shot at the man. He shot instinctively, without using sights, although the range was greater than most folks would have cared to chance such shooting over. The man who fired at him staggered back a couple of steps; which was good, lucky—or both—shooting on Waco’s part. However, the man did not go down, nor did he drop his gun, for he fired again. Raising his Colt shoulder high, Waco shot to kill. He sent a bullet into the man’s head and dropped him to the ground.
Ignoring the yells and footsteps on the street behind him, Waco moved forwards, making for where the small shape in the red dress lay sprawled on the edge of the hotel’s porch.
The second man had turned and run instead of standing his ground. He reached the safety of the livery barn’s end and disappeared down the side alley almost before his pard died.
Leaving Waco to take care of the first man, the Ysabel Kid went after the second. Cold rage filled him as he raced along the alley at the other end of the livery barn. The Kid did not know why the man might have killed Joan Shandley, but he sure as hell did not intend to let him get away with it.
Turning the corner of the building, the Kid saw his man swinging afork a horse. The old Dragoon Cult came from the Kid’s holster even as the man reached for the reins of his pard’s horse which had been standing by the other animal ready for a quick departure.
‘Going someplace?’ the Kid asked.
His words brought the man swinging to face him. Up lifted the man’s right hand, the left coming across to strike back the Colt he held, hammer and fan off shots.
Fanning might not be the most accurate way to shoot, but it sure as hell could empty a single-action gun faster than any other method. It could also make things real interesting for the man at the wrong end of the gun.
After two bullets narrowly missed him, the shooter showing riding skill in the way he stayed afork his horse by knee-pressure alone, for fanning took both hands, the Kid decided he had had enough. Flinging himself to one side in a rolling dive, the Kid lit down in the shadows of the barn. His black clothing merged with the shadows and yet he, with an almost cat-like ability, could see enough of his man to be able to shoot straight.
The old Dragoon bellowed out like a cannon. A .44 calibre, soft lead ball weighing a third of an ounce was propelled through the seven and a half inch barrel of the Dragoon by the expanding gases of forty grains of black powder. When it struck flesh, such a bullet had a terrible disruptive effect, tearing muscle, sinews and bone. The Kid saw his man thrown bodily from the saddle as his bullet struck home, crash on to the corral
‘I don’t like it,’ said the Kid. ‘It’s not natural for a chore to go this easy.’
‘Sure is restful, though,’ Waco replied. ‘Coming up here and—say, there’s Miss Joan now, new red dress and all.’
Ahead of them lay a small hotel, some three buildings down the street, and facing it a livery barn. A small shape in a daring red dress and wide brimmed, flower decorated hat, came from the hotel’s front door, showing in the light of the hall lamps.
Even as the two Texans started forward to meet the woman, they saw a couple of dark shapes detach themselves from the shadows by the livery barn. Flame spurted twice from the shapes, the flat crack of shots ringing out. The small shape jerked under the impact of lead and fell against the hitching rail and from there went down.
‘Take ‘em, boy!’ the Kid ordered.
One of the shapes whirled to face the two Texans. He brought up his hand, for they could tell the shape was masculine, sending a bullet from his gun at the advancing Texans.
All in one flickering blur of movement, Waco came to a halt, dipped his right hand, brought out the Army Colt from its holster at his right side and shot at the man. He shot instinctively, without using sights, although the range was greater than most folks would have cared to chance such shooting over. The man who fired at him staggered back a couple of steps; which was good, lucky—or both—shooting on Waco’s part. However, the man did not go down, nor did he drop his gun, for he fired again. Raising his Colt shoulder high, Waco shot to kill. He sent a bullet into the man’s head and dropped him to the ground.
Ignoring the yells and footsteps on the street behind him, Waco moved forwards, making for where the small shape in the red dress lay sprawled on the edge of the hotel’s porch.
The second man had turned and run instead of standing his ground. He reached the safety of the livery barn’s end and disappeared down the side alley almost before his pard died.
Leaving Waco to take care of the first man, the Ysabel Kid went after the second. Cold rage filled him as he raced along the alley at the other end of the livery barn. The Kid did not know why the man might have killed Joan Shandley, but he sure as hell did not intend to let him get away with it.
Turning the corner of the building, the Kid saw his man swinging afork a horse. The old Dragoon Cult came from the Kid’s holster even as the man reached for the reins of his pard’s horse which had been standing by the other animal ready for a quick departure.
‘Going someplace?’ the Kid asked.
His words brought the man swinging to face him. Up lifted the man’s right hand, the left coming across to strike back the Colt he held, hammer and fan off shots.
Fanning might not be the most accurate way to shoot, but it sure as hell could empty a single-action gun faster than any other method. It could also make things real interesting for the man at the wrong end of the gun.
After two bullets narrowly missed him, the shooter showing riding skill in the way he stayed afork his horse by knee-pressure alone, for fanning took both hands, the Kid decided he had had enough. Flinging himself to one side in a rolling dive, the Kid lit down in the shadows of the barn. His black clothing merged with the shadows and yet he, with an almost cat-like ability, could see enough of his man to be able to shoot straight.
The old Dragoon bellowed out like a cannon. A .44 calibre, soft lead ball weighing a third of an ounce was propelled through the seven and a half inch barrel of the Dragoon by the expanding gases of forty grains of black powder. When it struck flesh, such a bullet had a terrible disruptive effect, tearing muscle, sinews and bone. The Kid saw his man thrown bodily from the saddle as his bullet struck home, crash on to the corral
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