Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] by Nightrose Read Free Book Online

in the middle of the road and talked together while looking over the town. After a few minutes of discussion, one of the men went east and another west; the man leading the dead man’s horse stayed in the middle of the road.
    The damn cow! Rowe thought. They would know there were women in town because no miner or cowman would waste time and effort on a milch cow. After looking behind the buildings on both sides of the street, the other two came back, re-joining the third rider. The three proceeded up the street, walking their horses slowly. They stopped in front of the saloon. The open doors had provided the temptation to lure them to him, just as Rowe expected. After ordering Modo to stay, he stepped out onto the porch and faced them.
    “Ride on. There’s nothing for you here.” Rowe’s voice rang loud with authority.
    “Who said so?”
    “I did.”
    “We’re a patrol out of Fort Kearny and in need of a drink of whiskey. Hell! We need a bottle each.” The man who spoke had a wide face and a scar on his cheekbone.
    “A patrol?” The sneer in Rowe’s voice told that he knew of the lie. “You must be lost.”
    The man didn’t bother to deny it. “Yeah, we’re lost,” he said and laughed. “Are you the marshal here? Haw! Haw! Haw!”
    “You might say that. Ride on and avoid trouble.”
    “I don’t see anybody backin’ his hand, Arch. I’m thinkin’ he’s here all by his own self.”
    “He ain’t by his own self. He’s got a woman ’round here somewheres. That’s a fresh cow out back. A fresh cow means women. I ain’t had me no white woman in quite a spell ’n’ I’m hankerin’ to get me one.”
    “May be she ain’t white.”
    “I ain’t a carin’. Red, white, or blue, it’s all the same once ya’ve got yore pecker up.” The man called Arch made to step down from his horse.
    The rifle in Rowe’s hand came up. “Don’t.”
    “You goin’ to hold us all off?” Arch asked and settled back into the saddle.
    Rowe didn’t bother to answer. It would be anytime now. The one doing the talking wasn’t the one to watch. He was the diversion for the other two. The man on the left was trying to ease his horse into position so when he drew his gun, he would have an easy target. The other slouched in the saddle, but had kicked his feet free of the stirrups.
    One second the tired horse Arch was riding stood with his head down; the next second he had reared and plunged. It was a practiced tactic that they had probably used before. Rowe shot to kill the man on the left, but because of the moving horses, the bullet struck the rider on the hip, knocking him sideways out of the saddle. The two bullets shot at Rowe were equally off target. One grazed the side of his head and hit the doorjamb; the other ripped splinters from the porch at his feet. A third bullet tore into his thigh as he dived inside the building. As he went down, the rifle flew from his hand.
    Rowe blinked rapidly against the pain, then pushed himself erect as he heard boot heels hit the porch of the saloon. With a weaving, drunken gait, he took the necessary steps, getting himself in position to meet the men who were bent on killing him as they charged through the doorway and dived to the floor, rolling toward the protection of the bar.
    “Attack!” he yelled. Modo sprang on the man nearest the door.
    Rowe opened up a blinding roar of gunfire with the Smith & Wesson. His bullets struck the man kneeling on the floor. The intruder reared back, then sprawled, arms outstretched. Surprised and off balance by the big dog’s attack, Arch fanned his gun. The range was close, and Rowe felt the searing impact of the bullet that passed through his upper arm. The gun in his hand felt like a hundred-pound weight, but he lifted it and aimed point-blank at Arch’s head. The shot entered above the ear and the man slumped to the floor.
    “Modo,” he called. The dog released his hold on the dead man’s arm and padded obediently to his