Destined to Die by George G. Gilman Read Free Book Online Page B

ducked to throw away his cheroot at the moment the sniper squeezed his trigger, the bullet zeroed in on a fresh target - the centre of the hirsute chest of Larkin. Who, as Gold rolled over and over through the smoke, dropped his axe, clutched both big hands to the bloodied area beneath his beard, and twisted to the ground.
    ‘Gold, you lousy shithead!’ the sniper shrieked, his dismayed tone at the misplaced shot almost a perfect match for that which sounded in the dying curse of Larkin.
    Another shot cracked out and the gelding skidded to a halt on the bank of the river. It was a wild one, fired in anger, that exploded chips of bark from the side of a stump. Several yards wide of where Gold traded the insubstantial cover of the smoke for the solidness of the felled tree upon which Larkin had been working.
    His leap over the tree and into its cover was seen by the sniper, invited a third shot that came much closer to the intended target.
    ‘You ain’t gonna get away this time, Gold! Your luck’s almost run out! You wanna start countin’ your last breaths?’
    The black-clad young man heard the lever action of the repeater pumped while the sniper was issuing his threat. And had bellied several feet along the trunk before the fourth shot sounded. Exploding a bullet into the trunk at the point where he had first dived into cover.
    He was amongst the untrimmed foliage by then, and made a turn to edge away from it, aware that his movements might cause the lighter branches to tremble and reveal his position.
    He knew exactly where the sniper was positioned - in a tree, perhaps fifteen feet above the ground to the right of where the north trail ran into the timber. Thought it likely that the man’s elevated vantage point had only a narrow angle view of the clearing, confined by the foliage which served to hide him.
    ‘You were crazy to think you could ever get away with what you done, Gold! You never had a snowball’s chance in Hades, shithead! And I’ll see to it you get yours, kid! And if you run, boy, it won’t bother me none havin’ to blast a hole in your back!’
    Barnaby Gold listened impassively to the string of taunts and threats. Aware that the man was not yelling to hear himself, for although his voice acted to cover the sounds of creaking branches, it also served to tell Gold that the sniper was climbing down from the tree. Each phrase vented from a position closer to the ground.
    The yelling continued and Barnaby Gold took the chance that the sniper was paying more attention to keeping his footing than to whatever area of the clearing he could see. And he raised up on to all fours and went over three more felled trees. Then plunged into the prickly brush of the surrounding timber that Larkin would never get to cut down.
    Thorns snagged at his clothes and tore the flesh on the back of his right hand. He protected his face with a forearm, but felt the warmth of blood on his legs as they were barbed through his pants in several places, this as he pushed deeper into the timber. Far enough to be concealed by the vicious brush, but still within earshot of the smallest sounds out on the sunlit area.
    The trickling of the river, the crackling of the fire and the sounds of his gelding at the water’s edge, drinking. The sounds of his own breathing and even his heartbeats had greater volume in his ears. After the man intent upon killing him had ceased to shout.
    He was standing erect now, facing the clearing that was hidden to his expressionless green eyes. Right hand raised to his mouth, gently sucking at the blood oozing from the torn skin on its back. Left fisted around the eagle-butted Peacemaker, forefinger to the unguarded trigger and thumb on the hammer. Barrel still pointed to the ground.
    More than a full minute ticked into history during which the sniper made no sound - intentional or otherwise - to betray his continued presence.
    There was not, in Barnaby Gold’s attitude or expression, the least sign that