Brutal Vengeance by J. A. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

cheek against the smooth wood of the Winchester’s stock and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, and one of the bushwhackers jerked in the saddle and started to slide off his horse. The man managed to grab his saddle horn and stay mounted, but he slumped far over in obvious pain as he turned his horse and galloped farther away.
    Several of the posse men let out exultant whoops.
    “We got one of the buzzards!” a man shouted.
    Culhane looked knowingly at The Kid. The Ranger was well aware who had winged that outlaw. “Hold your fire and listen to me!” he shouted. When he had the men’s attention, he went on, “This fella with me is Morgan! He’s not one of Latch’s men after all. He’s throwin’ in with us!”
    The members of the posse didn’t celebrate that news, but some of them nodded in acknowledgment of it. The Kid felt more confident that at least they wouldn’t turn on him at the first opportunity.
    “Now pepper those damned bushwhackers, and pepper ’em good!” Culhane ordered.
    The shooting resumed. The Kid squeezed off another shot and saw a man’s arm jerk. A round from Culhane’s rifle made another man’s hat fly from his head.
    “Turnabout’s fair play!” the Ranger said with satisfaction.
    He and The Kid seemed to be the only ones scoring any hits, but after a few minutes that was enough. The riders stopped shooting, turned their horses, and spurred away, putting ground between themselves and the posse as fast as they could.
    Seeing that, some of the posse members started to stand up, no doubt figuring they were safe.
    “Blast it, stay down!” Culhane bellowed at them. “There may be some sharpshooter out there with a long-range rifle just waitin’ for you woolly sheep to stand up and take a bullet through the head!”
    The men dropped back into cover along the ragged edge of the escarpment as The Kid’s estimation of Culhane’s abilities grew. Obviously, this wasn’t the Ranger’s first dance.
    “That was some good shootin’ you done,” Culhane said to him. “You can handle a Winchester. How are you with that short gun on your hip?”
    “I get the job done,” The Kid said.
    In truth, he was one of the fastest and deadliest pistoleers left on the frontier, his skill with a Colt probably exceeded only by his father, Frank Morgan.
    “I’ll just bet you do,” Culhane said with a nod. “And I’m glad you’re with us now, instead of against us, Morgan.”
    The men crouched and knelt there, sweating in the heat, for a good ten minutes longer before Culhane said, “All right, I reckon it’s safe to move around again. Some of you hombres start roundin’ up those horses.”
    The Kid saw a number of saddle horses scattered across the plains along the edge of the escarpment. It was easy enough to figure out what had happened.
    The posse had been dismounted, watching the confrontation at the bottom of the slope instead of paying attention to what was behind them. The outlaws jumped them, stampeding the horses and forcing the men to scramble for cover.
    Culhane waved one of the men over to him. “Marchman, what in blazes happened up here?” he demanded.
    “It’s not our fault, Ranger,” the man replied in a surly voice. “They hit us from behind, when we weren’t looking.”
    “Of course they did! They figured a bunch of greenhorns like you wouldn’t have enough sense to keep an eye on your back trail ... and they were right!”
    Marchman glared. He was a short, thick-bodied man in town clothes. He wore a narrow-brimmed hat that he took off in order to wipe sweat from his flushed face and mostly bald head with a bandanna. “This isn’t a troop of Rangers you’re talking to, Culhane.”
    “Don’t forget that we’re volunteers.”
    Culhane grunted disgustedly. “I ain’t likely to forget you fellas ain’t Rangers. Rangers wouldn’t have got took by surprise and bushwhacked that way.”
    Marchman’s broad face flushed with anger. “I’m gonna go see to the