The Guns of Santa Sangre by Eric Red Page B

rattlesnake tensed on the ground directly ahead, the rattler a twitchy blur as it shook its upraised tail, brown and copper head raised, jaw extended, fangs bared to strike. The startled peasant’s horse pitched him from the saddle, arms and legs flailing, where he landed hard on the ground, inches in front of the rattler. The snake’s narrow head was right by his contorted face, fangs curled and deadly sharp as it struck with vital speed.
    The head of the reptile disappeared in a fine red mist, the headless red meat of its body dropping in a limp coil on the ground before the Mexican heard the gunshot explode across the desert.  
    The peasant screamed like a girl.
    Fix had got his pistol out, fanned and fired so blindingly fast his gun was back in his holster before the dead and headless snake hit the ground.  
    The viper’s rattle castaneted a final stubborn time, then fell silent and still in the settling dust.  
    The Mexican rose to his hands and knees, wiping splattered snake muck from his cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes raised to meet the cowboys in the saddles above him.
    All three of the gunfighters gaped, looking down at the peasant.
    The Mexican’s shirt had come loose in the fall, and two ripe, nude brown breasts toppled out. With a gasp, she scooped her big naked bosom back into her baggy top, eyes wide in embarrassment and fear.
    Now they all knew.  
    He was a she and a very beautiful she.
    “Hello,” Bodie said, with a slow dawning grin.
    “Howdy, ma’am,” Tucker said. He tipped his hat with a wink.
    Fix grinned. “Lady, you’d a showed us them melons before, you could have kept the damn silver.”
    The hard men laughed coarsely, and the girl flinched in shame and dread. The gunfighters had ridden their horses to surround her on all sides, blocking her escape. Sitting high in their saddles, they were threateningly silhouetted against the mid-morning sun, the white orb blinding behind the sharp outlines of their Stetsons. Pilar crawled on her hands and knees, cringing with fear, expecting the worst.  
    In his saddle, Tucker saw what a pretty woman they had been with all morning and understood he’d known her gender all along. The glimpse of her breasts had gotten him aroused. Her round, high, big brown-nippled tits bounced real pretty when she loaded them back under her shirt. No question, on all fours there on the ground, surrounded by the three cowboys, she was theirs for the taking and maybe they’d get a little bonus with the silver. Tucker’s eyes narrowed to circumspect slits as he glanced first across to Fix sitting on his horse staring with sardonic bemusement down at the cowering girl. Then his gaze slid over to Bodie in his saddle and that hungry look as the Swede’s hand passed by his crotch giving it a tug. Tucker smelt the heat of rutting in the air like blood in the water and knew that all three of them could be down on the ground taking turns if he merely gave the word. They were miles from civilization in the middle of the desert and there was nowhere to run and nobody to come to her aid if they descended on the girl and had their way with her. But as the seconds passed, pragmatically, he thought better of it. They could ravish her now, but that would set them back a few hours and the girl might lose her mind and refuse to take them to the silver. Better to get to the silver first, then they could pound that brown body as much as they wanted. If she was that good looking, there might be a lot more fruit in her town ripe for picking.  
    In his mind, Tucker had the sudden image of a pack of coyotes, the hateful filthy mangy cowardly scavenger dogs circling their prey, closing in for the kill. At night, the shootists often heard the musical chorus of yipping in the distant hills, soon replaced by the inevitable horrible high-pitched cries of some terrified dying small dog or animal the miserable scavengers would lure out into the hills and then surround to ambush and