That’s when he felt a presence on his left, an anomaly set against the dark of the trees.
He turned.
A man had emerged from the timber.
He stood silent and still, but his cold, Nordic eyes were locked on Joe. He was tall and lean and despite his stillness seemed tightly coiled. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a light jacket that had seen some wear.
Instantly, Joe knew that this guy wasn’t a tourist. Nor was he a stranger to the mountain West. In his right fist was a large squared-off semiauto, a M1911 Colt .45. It looked like a weapon large enough to have punched the big hole in the dead man’s forehead.
Joe was grateful the gun was pointed down because he knew it could be leveled and aimed at him much faster than he could retrieve his shotgun from where it was propped against the log wall of the unfinished building. And judging by how the man stood with his feet set, one slightly behind the other, and his shoulders squared, he had no question at all who would kill whom if it came to a gunfight.
He nodded his hat brim to where Rojo had disappeared. “See what you did there.”
The man shrugged. “A game warden should have a better-trained horse.”
Now that hurt.
LEE COBURN DIDN’T LIKE IT that the uniformed man was standing there beside the guy he’d killed. He knew what it looked like, and he didn’t want to take the time to explain himself or what had happened.
The game warden, this skunk at the party, wore a red shirt with a pronghorn antelope patch on the shoulder, faded Wranglers, outfitter boots, and a stained gray Stetson. He was lean and of medium height and build, with silver staining his short sideburns. He’d seen the game warden glance toward the shotgun he’d left against the log wall, but no effort had been made to lunge for it. Nor had the guy reached for the handgun on his hip.
“I’m a Wyoming game warden. Name’s Joe Pickett. I’m afraid I need to ask you to drop your weapon and follow me into town so we can get this sorted out.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “Really?”
Pickett didn’t flinch. “Really.”
He sucked a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “This isn’t your fight. You have no idea what’s going on here and you don’t need to know. I suggest that you remove your handgun and drop it at your feet. Leave your shotgun where it is. Then I’ll let you turn around and walk right out of here.” He chinned toward the north. “I think your horse ran that way.”
Pickett slowly put his hands on his hips and squinted one eye at Coburn. “I let a guy take my weapons once. It didn’t go well.”
“Drop the pistol.”
The game warden continued to squint and seemed to be thinking, which was starting to annoy him.
Pickett said, “I’m going to lower my handgun to the ground. I’m no good with it anyway. Then I’m going to walk over there to you and place you under arrest.”
Coburn snorted and looked around as if trying to see if he was the subject of a practical joke. “You’re out of your depth here, game warden. When I give you the chance to walk away, you should take it.”
“Why?” Pickett asked, easing his handgun out of his holster with two fingers and lowering it to the ground.
“I told you,” he said, with mounting impatience. “This isn’t your fight.”
“Seems like the fight’s over.” Pickett gestured to the dead man in the cabin doorway, then stood up and took a step toward Coburn.
“You’re not really going to do this, are you?” he asked. “Try and arrest me? Did you notice I’m holding a gun?”
“Everybody in Wyoming has a gun,” Pickett said, though he didn’t seem so sure of himself now.
Coburn kept his .45 pointed down but thumbed the hammer back with a sharp click so Pickett was sure to hear it.
But the man kept advancing.
What was wrong with him?
That’s when he noticed the long thick cylinder attached to the game warden’s belt. Bear spray. Pickett wanted to get close enough to hit him with a full cloud. That stuff was ten times more effective than the pepper spray used by street cops.
He raised his weapon. “Not another step.”
Pickett hesitated, eyes locked on Coburn and the big round O of the muzzle.
That’s when the ground exploded between them, throwing fist-sized chunks of black earth straight into the air. The chatter of at least two semiautomatic rifles was delayed a half second because of the distance.
Pickett jumped back as if stung, flinging himself to his belly, shielding his head with his hands. The game warden rolled to his left as a flurry of bullets bit into the ground where he’d just been.
Coburn dropped to his haunches and raised his .45. He swept the mountainside above the trees, moving his front sights from outcropping to outcropping. He was sure the gunfire had come from up there, but he couldn’t see anyone. Behind him, bullets smacked into tree trunks. Pine needles rained down on his head and shoulders, and slivers of dislodged bark stung the back of his neck. He looked up to see Pickett on his hands and knees, launching himself toward the cover of the half-completed building.
Coburn shimmied to his left behind a two-foot-diameter tree trunk that had been recently felled. He squatted behind it for a moment, then came out over the top with his hands extended and the .45 held tight. He aimed at a suppressed muzzle flash far up the mountainside in a fissure in the outcropping and fired twice. He knew he hadn’t hit anyone, but the return fire would at least make the shooter retreat for a moment. He used the time to throw himself over the tree trunk and run toward the shelter as well.
He caught up with Pickett, who tripped over an exposed root just as his hat was shot off his head. Coburn reached down and yanked the game warden to his feet. But rather than run straight to the structure, the idiot turned and retrieved his hat from the ground, snatching it as bullets kicked up chunks of earth on both sides of him.
Coburn leaped over the corpse in the doorway and rolled across the dirt floor of the building until he was tight against the far wall. He heard Pickett behind him. Both men pressed their cheeks against the rough log wall while the shooter, or shooters, continued to fire.
He felt the impact of bullets thumping into the outside of the wall, but the logs were sturdy enough that they stopped the rounds.
That was good.
But they were pinned down, and the shooters had the high ground, able to see clearly below, which included three-quarters of the structure floor itself.
“Are you hit?” he asked Pickett over his shoulder.
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you remember to grab your pistol on the way in?”
“Wouldn’t have done any good anyway. But I got my shotgun.”
“There’s that,” Coburn said. “So we have my .45 and your shotgun against long-distance rifles and guys with hundreds of rounds of ammunition.”
“How many of them are there?”
“At least two. Maybe all three.”
“Three?”
He grunted a yes, contemplating rising to full height and aiming carefully at the muzzle flashes he’d seen earlier. Maybe he could take one of them out and improve their odds.
But the gunfire had stopped.
The shooters seemed to have realized it was a waste of ammo to fire at targets behind a log wall.
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on here?” Pickett asked.
“Later. Right now, I think they’re trying to come up with their next move.”
He spun on his heels and looked east toward the doorway and the dead man. The one direction where the mountains didn’t rise above the trees.