the LEGEND of She-Cat

Chapter Twenty Two

A shrieking whine flew past his ear as Duncan ducked aside, his grip on the Winchester tight. Glass shattered, sending shrapnel and cheap gut rot everywhere, small slivers stinging his cheek and neck. Nash was roughly a hundred feet from where he'd taken cover, tucked neatly behind barrels of grain and stacks of hay. When the shooting started, Duncan ran for the nearest building, clearing it out with a rough shout. The men scattered, not wanting to get caught between the warring sides. All but the proprietor of the saloon, who glared.

"This is my place, buster!"

"You wanna keep it, clear out!"

"I'll see Hartman ha-"

"You side with him, I'll kill you where you stand. If you favor to keep breathin', clear out! Now!"

He'd gone, grumbling curses, and Duncan had let him, feeling devilish but staying in control. His blood was humming with the thrill of battle, the thirst for violence.

He and Nash had made it to the outskirts of Wildwood when they'd been spotted by one of Hartman's men. The alarm had been made and bullets had started flying within minutes. Neither side meant to surrender or take prisoners. So far, there had been no sign of Danny Willis. Duncan reckoned the boy had made his choice and figured to act accordingly. Bull Hartman was not yet showing himself, but Conner knew he was here, lurking, waiting for his chance.

Now they were playing the cat-and-mouse game, trying smoke each other out, and taking what shots presented themselves. Only one man had died so far, and that had been an unfortunate bystander loitering too close to the shooting. One of Hartman's men had killed him for getting in the line of sight.

Sweat running into his eyes, his healing body still stiff and slightly uncooperative, Duncan eased from behind the bar. Staying low, he moved toward a broken window, peering out to the seemingly empty street. Shifting, he managed to catch sight of Nash. Giving a low whistle, he got the man's attention.

'Where are they?' he mouthed. Nash's expression was grim, blood oozing from a cut above his brow. With his rifle barrel, he indicated the feed store door and roof, the hotel roof, the stable loft and entry, another saloon several buildings down, and the jailhouse.

Seven locations, likely more, and easily several men at each building. That could mean a dozen guns pointed their way, just waiting for them to show. It was suicide to walk out there and call Hartman out. The man would have no sense of justice now. He was out for blood.

That meant they'd have to chance picking them off one at a time or flush them into sight. Glancing back, Duncan paused, staring. Then he grinned. With another low whistle, he got Nash's attention. Making the motions simple, he pantomimed having a whiskey bottle, cloth, a match, and throwing it. Nash grinned, a wickedly eager expression on his youthful face.

'Cover me,' Duncan mouthed, then motioned the circuit he would take to each hiding place. Nash nodded, shoving fresh cartridges into his rifle.

Leaning his rifle against the inside of the doorway, Duncan hurried to the bar, pulling full bottles of whiskey off the shelf. Beneath the wooden top was a stack of rags, kept there to wipe the glasses clean after each customer. Yanking the tops off the bottles, Conner stuffed a rag down the neck of each one, leaving a good bit sticking out, acting like a wick to the strong liquor. Making sure he had matches, Duncan grinned.

"Gonna light them boys up now."

Easing to the backdoor, he peered carefully out, the bottles carefully in his arms. Checking the roofs and building doors, Duncan left the saloon, heading for the hotel. It was the closest building, then the saloon, the jail, the feed store, and finally the stable. Knowing there were horses kept there, he had no intention of firing it.