And now, from the direction of the Prescott Ranch, he could hear the sound of approaching horses.
Swearing, he redoubled his frantic search for the shotgun shells. He’d looked every place he could think of. What was he missing? If there were any shells left, they’d be kept somewhere close, where they could be reached in a hurry, like . . .
Bull cursed his own ove
rsight. Lunging for the bed, he lowered the quilt and groped in the pockets of Cletus McAdoo’s vest. One pocket held two shotgun shells. He’d hoped to find more, but they would have to do. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t afford to waste them.
The shotgun lay on the table, still open to expose the breech. Willing himself to stay calm and think clearly, he dropped the shells into place, snapped the weapon closed, and released the safety catch.
The riders were getting close now. Crouching below the window, he raised the shutter just far enough to see out. There were three men. This time Ham wasn’t with them. Bull watched as they reined their horses on the far side of the creek and dismounted. Pistols drawn, they walked toward the flowing water that marked the property line. The current was swift but shallow. They’d have no trouble wading across.
The air inside the cabin was stifling. Sweat trickled down Bull’s face as the men approached the creek, weapons drawn. His hands were sweating, too. After raising the heavy shotgun to his shoulder, he rested the barrels on the window frame. There were two triggers, one for each barrel, placed side by side and slightly offset. His finger rested on the nearest one. He would shoot one barrel, then wait to fire again when he knew where the blast would do the most damage.
He could only hope for a swift resolution to the fight. After the second shot, he’d have nothing left but six bullets in his pistol. Once they were gone, he’d be lucky to get out of this mess alive.
The man in the middle was closest, a stocky fellow Bull recognized as one of the hired thugs who’d pulled down his windmill. Bull gave him time for a few more steps. He had one chance to stop the bastard. He couldn’t afford to miss.
Bull aimed the shotgun at the man’s chest. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he felt an unexpected resistance. He increased the pressure, squeezing harder. Sweat blurred his vision as he forced the gun to fire.
The shotgun blast roared in his head like dynamite going off in a cave. The recoil slammed his shoulder hard enough to knock him onto his back. Only as he struggled upright again did he realize what had happened. Somehow he had pulled both triggers. The two barrels had fired at the same time.
Still dazed, he cocked the pistol and raised the shutter far enough to see out. The two men who’d brought up the rear were backing off, dragging their comrade’s body by the legs. The massive force of the shotgun blast had destroyed the man’s torso. The rocks along the creek bank were spattered with his blood.
Gripping the pistol, Bull waited. Would the two remaining men take a chance and try to rush him, or had they seen enough? One of them carried a Colt .45 and wore a belt full of cartridges. The other held a high-powered hunting rifle. If they came for the shack, he would be hopelessly outgunned. His only advantage was the fact that they didn’t know what they were facing. With luck they’d believe that the old man was alive and had an arsenal of shells for the massive gun.
He held his breath, clenching the pistol so tightly that his hand began to cramp. His shoulder throbbed from the pain of the recoil.
From back in the trees on the far side of the creek, the men stood watching and talking, maybe arguing. Then, decision made, they kicked some dirt and leaves over the dead man’s body, mounted up, and rode off, trailing the empty horse.
They’d be back—most likely after Ham had torn a strip off their hides. That gave Bull maybe half an hour to find the deed and clear out. He’d be on foot, but he knew how to keep out of sight. With luck, Jasper might even get word from Rose and show up in the truck.
If he could find the deed and clear out fast, Prescott’s thugs would never know anyone else, including the girl, had been in the shack. To make sure, he pulled the body off the bunk, onto the floor so that, if they came back, they’d think McAdoo had fallen after firing the shotgun and died alone.
Now where was the damned deed?
He’d torn the place apart, with no sign of the paper or the wooden box that held it. There was no place else to look.
Unless the deed wasn’t in the house.
Gun in hand, he opened the front door, glanced around, then stepped cautiously outside. On the far end of the shack was an overhang with a tie post and a feeder that appeared to have sheltered a horse. But the droppings were old and dry, the hay gone. Bull checked for the box, kicking at the loose earth, finding nothing.
The coop was little more than chicken wire strung between posts and covered on top with loose boards. Inside were three friendly, speckled hens and a small rooster. They looked well cared for, likely by Rose. There were three nest boxes. Bull ducked inside the coop and checked each one. He found straw and a couple of eggs but nothing else.
That left the outhouse, the last place anybody would think to look. Was he wasting time? Opening the door wide to let in air and light, he stepped inside—and found the box. Wrapped in an old newspaper it was tucked into a dark corner, guarded by spider webs. Unwrapped, the box proved to be the kind that might have held note cards or a set of colored pencils. A rubber band held it closed. Bull’s pulse raced as he opened it and unfolded the paper inside. It was the deed to the property, signed for transfer as the old man had said. He’d even had it notarized. No doubt he’d meant for the land to go to Rose. But Rose didn’t need it. Bull did. This creased, yellowed piece of paper could be the key to survival for the Rimrock. He had killed a man for it, and he would use it as he saw fit. If it was authentic, all he’d have to do was add his name and have the deed recorded in the county office.
Closing the box, he secured it with the rubber band and slid it inside his shirt. He had no way to catch the chickens he’d promised to rescue, and no way to carry them. Maybe he could come back later in the truck, get the damn fool birds, and, if time and safety allowed, bury the old man. But right now he just needed to get the hell out of here.
He set off at a sprint. The impact of each pounding step on the rough ground sent a jolt of pain to his bruised shoulder, but he couldn’t slow down. He had to get out of sight before Ham’s hired goons came back.
By the time he reached a stand of thick mesquite, his sides were heaving. He paused to catch his breath, then continued at a quick stride. After another quarter mile, he saw the pickup coming over the horizon from the direction of the Rimrock. He groaned with relief. It was Jasper.
Minutes later the old truck pulled up beside him. Jasper was alone.
“It’s about time you showed up,” Bull joked feebly as he settled into the passenger seat. “Where’s Rose?”
“I turned her loose in the kitchen to fix what she could find to eat. The little mite was half starved. Did you find anything that would help us?”
Wincing from the strain on his shoulder, Bull pulled the box out of his shirt and showed Jasper the deed. “Do you think this is any good?”