But he did.
Behind Fletcher a gun barked. It was a dull report.
Blood spurted from Eddie Kohl’s face. The muzzles of his guns wavered — and then Donny Fletcher’s catapulting body hit the limp figure of Eddie Kohl and carried it back to the ground. Eddie was dead before his shoulders touched.
Fletcher’s trained gun hands jerked the weapons from Eddie’s lifeless fists. He whirled and saw Ozzie Kohl with a smoking derringer in his hand. He heard Ozzie say, “Mitch’s gun—” and then the scene became a shambles.
Two or three bullets struck Ozzie Kohl simultaneously. Only Fletcher’s catlike leap toward the adobe shack, saved him from the first volley. And then the guns in his own hands were blazing and roaring.
Men tumbled and leaped helter-skelter. Guns roared.
“Inside, Ethel!” Fletcher yelled at the top of his voice. She should already be safe behind the protection of the thick dried mud walls. He was leaping backward himself now. Ozzie Kohl was down. So were two or three of the gunmen — and the others were more interested in getting to their horses, or shelter, than in quickly annihilating Donny Fletcher.
In the doorway, a bullet seared through his thigh and threw him off balance. Strong, small hands reached from the side, caught hold of him and jerked him aside.
“Donny!” said Ethel Morgan.
He flashed a look at her white face, then poked his guns through a slit in the wall, that had served the original builder of the hut for a window.
He saw no close targets. The survivors of Eddie Kohl’s outlaw band, were beating a quick retreat. Their leader was gone, there would be no spoils. They could kill Donny Fletcher, all right, no question of that. But they knew his skill with guns — and there was no percentage in following through. Several more of them would lose their lives before they downed him — and there was no chance of any gain.
Donny Fletcher turned and looked at Ethel Morgan again. “Ozzie Kohl killed Eddie,” he said dully.
Ethel nodded slowly. “I — saw it. I guess — I guess he tried to make up.” She swallowed hard, then said, “Father—?”
“He’s wounded, but he’ll be all right. I guess — everything will be all right now.”
Except for himself. His work here was finished. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay. He’d ride again — the long, lonely trail. The trial that had no end. From Texas to Montana, then back again.
The thought of it made his lips taut. He moved, forgetful that a bullet had gone through his thigh. The leg gave under him and he lurched against Ethel Morgan.
She threw her arms about him and cried, “You’re wounded!”
Something in her voice caused him to jerk up his head. He looked into her eyes, only inches away — and saw something there. His mouth fell open in a gasp.
“Ethel!” he said.
Her nostrils flared a little, but her eyes did not waver. And suddenly Donny Fletcher knew that he didn’t have to ride on that long trail again.