Bullets Over Bedlam
Page 18
Behind Miller, crabbing along the rocks toward the ridge, another person appeared. Saradee Jones approached and stopped about twenty yards down the ridge, extending both pistols toward Miller.
Laughing, Hawk gave no indication he’d seen the girl, but kept his eyes riveted on Miller, watching Saradee in his vision’s periphery.
Slowly, Saradee lowered her matched Colts, a strange, haunted look in her eyes as she slid her gaze to Hawk. He cast a casual, fleeting glance at her, and could tell by her expression that she wasn’t going to shoot Miller.
She was waiting for Miller to shoot.
Hawk didn’t blame her. She knew that, sooner or later, when the exhilaration of the cat-and-mouse game ended, and the thrill of their bizarre couplings diminished, it was going to come down to either him or her.
This way, she didn’t have to kill him herself.
Hawk felt nothing. No emotion whatever save a hilarious irony and a vague relief that it was all over. He wished he’d been able to kill Miller for Juliana and the hypocritical law Miller represented. Shit, Flagg and this tinhorn would probably return to Denver heros.
But Hawk had known going in that taking them all down was a long shot.
Hawk laughed at the vast mirth of it all.
A muscle in Miller’s cheek twitched. He squeezed the Colt’s trigger. The hammer clicked against the firing pin.
Hawk’s laughter ceased, the echoes continuing to chase themselves around the canyon as Miller stared, horrified, at the empty pistol in his hand. He thumbed back the hammer, pulled the trigger.
Click.
He tried again, gritting his teeth.
Click.
Hawk chuckled.
Finally, Miller tossed the revolver away and charged, bellowing like an enraged bull buffalo and swinging his right fist back behind him. As he neared Hawk, he brought the fist forward, spittle spraying from his gritted teeth.
At the last second, Hawk bent forward. Miller’s fist whistled over his head. Hawk shoved his right shoulder into the man’s belly, wrapping his arms around Miller’s waist. He straightened, pivoting back toward the ridge, flinging Miller over the lip, the deputy’s boots kicking stones and brush.
“Noooo!”
Miller’s shrill cry joined the screech of a golden eagle as the deputy sailed into the vast emptiness over the canyon. Falling, arms and legs spread wide, he stared at Hawk with terrified eyes, his mouth forming a dark, horrific circle. He grew smaller and smaller until, only a brown speck, his body was engulfed by the canyon’s murky shadows.
Stitched deep in the growing evening breeze, Hawk heard the soft, crunching thud of Miller’s body.
He stared into the yawning chasm for a moment, then slowly turned around.
Saradee stood where she’d been standing when she’d lowered her pistols. They were still in her hands. She stood with one hip cocked, regarding Hawk with a half sneer on her lips.
Hawk opened his hands. “Since you went to all the trouble of climbing up here, you might as well have shot him.”
“Intended to,” she said, her blond hair wisping about her face and toying with the brim of her man’s hat pulled low. “But when I saw him with his gun on you, I thought, why not let him solve my problem for me? I’d have killed him right after.”
Hawk spread his arms. “I’m unarmed. It’s not too late.”
“I’m tired of fogging your trail,” she said, dropping her chin and pursing her lips. He thought he detected a slight sheen over her eyes. “I’m tired of trailing you around like a damn lovesick girl in pigtails, not knowing whether to fuck you or gut you with a pigsticker.”
Hawk spat to one side and squinted at her. He’d gotten used to the idea of his death, and felt a vague disappointment that he was still here with his memories and his rage. “If you don’t kill me now, eventually, I’ll have to kill you. You’re no better than any of the others I hunt.”
Saradee smiled proudly, and raised her Colts. Aiming them both at Hawk’s head, she thumbed the hammers back and slitted her eyes while her wide, rich lips formed a pantherlike smile. “That’s a bonded fact, Gideon Hawk. Don’t you forget it. Only problem is I’m prettier, and a hell of a lot better in bed.”
She moved toward him, lowered the pistols, but kept them pointed at Hawk. She stabbed his belly with both barrels, leaned forward, and kissed him.
She sucked at his tongue, nibbled his lips. He didn’t return the kiss, but, as she rubbed against him, groaning softly, keeping the Colts pressed to either side of his navel, he could not deny the animal pull of her.
His cheeks burned; his pulse throbbed. Part of him wanted to step forward and rip her blouse off her shoulders, exposing those magnificent breasts, then throw her down and set her to writhing beneath him once more.
Another part of him wanted to smash her with his fists, to blow her brains out with his .44s.
Chuckling knowingly, she kissed him once more, tenderly, then pulled away. She kept the guns snugged against his belly. “Until next time, lover.”
She depressed the hammers, gave the guns a twirl, dropped them into their holsters, wheeled, and headed back down the ridge.
Hawk stared after her, until the southern canyon’s shadows had swallowed her, and he was left alone with the wind and the gathering darkness.
Peter Brandvold was born and raised in North Dakota. Under his own name and under his pen name, Frank Leslie, he’s written over forty action-packed westerns. Visit his website at www.peterbrandvold.com. Send him an e-mail at pgbrandvold@msn.com.