Blackwell Bounty

Chapter Eighteen

Everything happened so fast.

Yet, somehow, Cal felt as if the world slowed to a crawl. He couldn't summon the commands to make his body move, so he sat frozen in the saddle, one hand still holding his pistol. The metal was cold in his palm. His horse, disquieted by the storm overhead and the unsteady pounding of her rider's heart, snorted a warning to her fellow equines. She could sense that something was about to go terribly wrong.

All Cal could do was watch. 

Bill's face was consumed by an everlasting grin.

When Calvin was too young to know there was such a thing called manners he had gone through a phase that involved pinching people's arms and crossing his eyes at his sister. Finally, too aggravated to withstand the annoying assault any longer, April had said, "You're eyes will get stuck like that, Cal, and then where will you be?" 

Bill's face had gotten stuck in a derisive grin that remained cemented as a twist in his mouth, even after the bullet tore through the flesh, blood, muscle, and bone of his chest and exited through the back of his shoulder at a downward angle. He blinked once, very slowly, and then all hell broke loose. 

Bill Young's horse jumped into the air on all fours with a shrill scream that echoed over the storm. Bill, dead weight, tumbled out of the saddle and slumped sideways on the muddy ground alongside his revolver. The bullet wound in his back gushed more blackish blood with every millisecond that passed. Bill's foot was caught in the stirrup, but he was lifeless and therefore unable to pull free. The horse shot across the hills in a trice, dragging Bill's body through the soggy grass and mud. Within seconds, he was an unrecognizable shape beneath the animal's hooves, covered in muck and clay from head to toe. Then he was gone entirely, leaving the unmistakable stench of death behind. 

The rest of the gang snapped their reins against the flanks of their mounts. Retrieving Bill Young's body and horse were little worry to the outlaws who had been riding with him. He was dead and gone now, and even if the shot hadn't been fatal he wasn't their problem. They had to worry about their own hides. 

Cal's own chestnut mare had sense enough to react and skirted to the side, barely dodging one of the outlaw's panicked mares. McClain managed to hold the reins steady even as the beast fought against the bit and rolled back its eyes to the whites.

Hooves drummed against the earth as thunder crashed in the sky. Cal's mind was a mess of what do I do, what do I do, what do I do.

Simultaneously, he thought of Edith and Skinny, the only two people that mattered at all anymore.

He twisted his head to squint through the rain, hoping Skinny had stayed where Cal had left him moments ago. 

That's when he saw Wyatt Harris. 

It took Calvin several seconds to realize the sheriff was a gift. He crested over top one of the hills, completely untouched by the panic of the scrambling outlaws. Cal recalled the way the bullet had exploded through Bill's chest from somewhere to the southwest, just over Cal's shoulder. And, from that very location, Sheriff Harris descended on horseback with a rifle resting over one leg. Pure determination radiated from him.

He'd shot Bill. 

Wyatt Harris had just saved Calvin McClain's life. 

As Wyatt got closer, Cal saw something else on the lawman's face: barely controlled anger. The sheriff's patience had finally run out. He stopped his horse in front of Cal and, as quick as the lightning flashing overhead, pointed the rifle. The gun barrel was a mere inch from Calvin's nose. If Wyatt shot him at this range, with a gun that powerful, there wouldn't even be pieces of Calvin McClain left to clean up. He would only be a memory.