• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“No,” Brennan said. “We’ll finish this. When Chink comes we’ll finish it once and for all.”

“But you don’t know! How can you be sure you’ll—”

“Listen, I’m not sure of anything, but I know what I have to do.” She was silent and he said quietly, “Move back and stay close to the ground.”

And as he looked across the clearing his eyes caught the dark speck of movement beyond the trees, out on the open slope. There he was. It had to be him. Brennan could feel the sharp knot in his stomach again as he watched, as the figure grew larger.

Now he was sure. Chink was on foot leading his horse, not coming straight across, but angling higher up on the slope. He’ll come in where the trees are thicker, Brennan thought. He’ll come out beyond the lean-to and you won’t see him until he turns the corner of the hut. That’s it. He can’t climb the slope back of the hut, so he’ll have to come around the front way.

He estimated the distance from where he was lying to the front of the hut—seventy or eighty feet—and his thumb eased back the hammer of the revolver in front of him.

There was a dead silence for perhaps ten minutes before he heard, coming from beyond the hut, “Frank?” Silence again. Then, “Where the hell are you?”

Brennan waited, feeling the smooth, heavy, hickory grip of the Colt in his hand, his finger lightly caressing the trigger. It was in his mind to fire as soon as Chink turned the corner. He was ready. But it came and it went.

It went as he saw Chink suddenly, unexpectedly, slip around the corner of the hut and flatten himself against the wall, his gun pointed toward the door. Brennan’s front sight was dead on Chink’s belt, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not like this. He watched Chink edge slowly toward the door.

“Throw it down, boy!”

Chink moved and Brennan squeezed the trigger a split second late. He fired again, hearing the bullet thump solidly into the door frame, but it was too late. Chink was inside.

Brennan let his breath out slowly, relaxing somewhat. Well, that’s what you get. You wait, and all you do is make it harder for yourself. He could picture Chink now looking at Usher and Billy-Jack. That’ll give him something to think about. Look at them good. Then look at the door you’ve got to come out of sooner or later.

I’m glad he’s seeing them like that. And he thought then: How long could you stand something like that? He can cover up Billy-Jack and stand it a little longer. But when dark comes…. If he holds out tilldark he’s got a chance. And now he was sorry he had not pulled the trigger before. You got to make him come out, that’s all.

“Chink!”

There was no answer.

“Chink, come on out!”

Suddenly gunfire came from the doorway and Brennan, hugging the ground, could hear the swishing of the bullets through the foliage above him.

Don’t throw it away, he thought, looking up again. He backed up and moved over a few yards to take up a new position. He’d be on the left side of the doorway as you look at it, Brennan thought, to shoot on an angle like that.

He sighted on the inside edge of the door frame and called, “Chink, come out and get it!” He saw the powder flash, and he fired on top of it, cocked and fired again. Then silence.

Now you don’t know, Brennan thought. He reloaded and called out, “Chink!” but there was no answer, and he thought: You just keep digging your hole deeper.

Maybe you did hit him. No, that’s what he wants you to think. Walk in the door and you’ll find out. He’ll wait now. He’ll take it slow and start adding up his chances. Wait till night? That’s his best bet—but he can’t count on his horse being there then. I could have worked around and run it off. And he knows he wouldn’t be worth a damn on foot, even if he did get away. So the longer he waits, the less he can count on his horse.

All right, what would you do? Immediately he thought: I’d count shots. So you hear five shots go off in a row and you make a break out the door, and while you’re doing it the one shooting picks up another gun. But even picking up another gun