“What are you fixin’ to do?” Mole asked.
“If he really is comin’ and he’s all that close, like you say he is, I don’t aim to let him get any closer than a rifle shot.”
“Yeah,” Mole agreed. “Yeah, now that’s the best idea you’ve had yet. We’ll just shoot the son of a bitch down, soon as he comes into range.”
The two men, with rifles in hand, climbed back up onto the largest rock that afforded them, not only a good view of the approaching trail, but also some cover and concealment. They checked the loads in their rifles, eased the hammers back to half-cock, then hunkered down on the rock and waited.
“Let ’im come up to no more’n about a hundred yards,” Cooter said. “That way, he’d more’n likely be out of pistol range.”
“What if we miss?” Mole asked. “A hunnert yards is a pretty long shot.”
“It ain’t all that long a shot, and with both of us shootin’, one of us is bound to hit him.”
“What if we don’t?” Mole asked. “What if all we do is just let the son of a bitch know that we’re here. Next thing you know, he’ll be on us like a fly on a horse turd, just like he was back at the canyon. And there won’t be nothin’ we can do about it.”
“The thing to do is not to miss,” Cooter said.
“I don’t know. I’m beginnin’ to think we shouldn’t of took this job,” Mole said.
“You ever had five hundred dollars before?” Cooter asked.
“Hell, you know damn well I ain’t never had that much before. I ain’t ever even seen that much money before,” Mole answered.
“Then shut up your yappin’ and just do what has to be done. Anyhow, we got all the advantage. He’s out in the open, and we got good cover here, what with the rocks and all. Besides which, he don’t have any idea we’re even here at all.”
“I guess you’re right,” Mole agreed.
“Damn right, I’m right.”
At that moment, a rider came into view over a distant rise.
“Son of a bitch! It’s him!” Mole said. “I told you he was close!” He raised his rifle to his shoulder.
“Hold it!” Cooter said, reaching out to pull Mole’s rifle back down. “Be patient. You shoot now and you won’t do no more’n spook him. Let him get close, like I said. Besides, you was the one sayin’ you didn’t think you could hit him at a hundred yards.”
“All right,” Mole said, nervously.
They waited as the distant rider came closer, sometimes seeming not to be riding, but rather floating as he materialized and dematerialized in the heat waves that were rising from the desert floor.
On he came: a mile—half a mile—a quarter of a mile—two hundred yards. Cooter raised his rifle and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim. “Just a little closer,” he said, quietly. “A little closer before we fire.”
Mole shifted position to get a better aim. As he did so he dislodged a loose stone, and the stone rolled down the rock, right into the largest, unbroken piece of the whiskey bottle. The stone pushed the glass out into the sun.
As Matt approached the ridgeline ahead of him, a sudden flash of light caught his attention, and he stopped, looking toward the flash.
“What the hell did he stop for?” Mole asked.
Looking down, Cooter saw the sun flashing off the broken whiskey bottle. “You dumb bastard, when you pushed that whiskey bottle down like you done, it commenced to flashin’ in the sunlight. You just gave away our position!” he said angrily. He raised up and fired his first shot.
“I didn’t do it of a pure purpose,” Mole said. “You got no call comin’ down on me like that.”
“Where is he, anyhow?” Cooter stuck his head cautiously over the rock and looked down where the target had been. “Where is he? I can’t see him.”
“I don’t know,” Mole admitted. “I seen him get behind that rock, but I ain’t seen him since.”
“There’s a dry creek bed down there. I seen it when we come through,” Cooter said.
Mole looked toward him. “A dry creek bed? Damn, he could be right on us before we even knew it.”
Cooter shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It curves away a long time before it ever gets up here.”
No sooner were the words out of Cooter’s mouth than there was a puff of smoke and the bark of a rifle from a clump of bushes not too far distant. The bullet hit the rock right in front of them, then hummed off, but not before shaving off a sliver of lead to kick up into Mole’s face.
“Ow! I been hit, I been hit!” Mole called, slapping his hand to his face. “I been shot right in the jaw!”
Cooter looked at him, then laughed.
“I’d like to know what the hell you think is so funny?” Mole complained.
“You are. You are funny,” Cooter said. “You ain’t been hit. That ain’t nothin’ but a little ole scratch.”
Two more bullets hit the rocks then and chips of stone flew past them.
“I don’t like this,” Mole said. “He’s gettin’ too damn close.” Mole fired a couple of shots toward the bush just below the puff of gun smoke.
“Hey, Mole, look down there,” Cooter said. “Ain’t that his horse comin’ back up the road?”
“Yeah,” Mole said. He giggled. “This is great! Shoot the horse! We’ll just leave the son of a bitch afoot.”
Both men started shooting at the horse, but the animal was still a couple of hundred yards away and slightly downhill. As a result, it wasn’t hit, though the bullets striking the ground nearby caused the horse to turn and run toward the shelter of a bluff, a quarter of a mile away.
“Damn it! We missed!” Mole said.
Another bullet hit the rock, very close beside them.
“Come on, Cooter, let’s get the hell out of here!” Mole shouted. He started running for his own horse.
“Mole! Mole, come back here!” Cooter called, chasing after him.
Seeing the two men start to run, Matt tracked them with his rifle, firing at the second man. That man went down, but the one in the lead made it to his horse. He kicked his horse into motion and in just a few seconds was behind a rocky ledge, out of the line of fire.
“Don’t leave me, you bastard!” the one on the ground shouted. “Don’t you leave me!”
Matt approached the man on the ground, holding his weapon pointed toward him. Seeing him, the man sat up and threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” he cried out. “I’m shot. You can see that I’m bad shot.”
Matt picked up the rifle Cooter had been using, jacked all the bullets out of it—there were only three left—then threw the rifle over the edge of the hill so that it landed more than a hundred feet below.
“Mister, that rifle cost me sixty dollars!” Cooter complained.
“Give me your pistol,” Matt said, holding out his hand. “Butt first,” he added.
“You ain’t goin’ to throw it away too, are you?” Cooter asked as he complied with Matt’s request.
Matt stuck Cooter’s pistol down into his waistband.
“Your name is Cooter?” Matt asked.
Cooter looked surprised. “Yeah, it is. How do you know my name?”
“This is the second time you’ve tried to ambush me, Cooter,” Matt said. “I remember you from before, when you were with Logan. Then, you said Logan paid you. But Logan is dead, so who is paying you now?”
“You got to get me to the doctor,” Cooter said, without answering Matt’s question. “If this wound ain’t treated, I could wind up losin’ my leg.”
“Yes, I suppose you could,” Matt said laconically. Kneeling beside Cooter, he tore the trouser leg away and saw the entry wound. The bullet was still in the leg and the wound was still bleeding.
“Take off your belt,” Matt ordered.
“What do you mean, take off my belt?”
“You want to bleed to death?”
“No.”
“Take off your belt. I’m going to use it to make a tourniquet.”
Cooter took off his belt, and Matt looped it around the leg above the entry wound, then cinched it down tight.”