Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition by Richard Jessup Page A

horse and sank ten inches into the wall of the cut. Liza let out a blood-curdling scream and began to moan.
    “Keep it up,” Ellis hissed.
    Liza screamed again, this time cutting it off abruptly.
    Ellis yelled hoarsely, “Liza—Liza—Liiizzzaaaaa!” He cursed viciously at the Cheyenne for killing her.
    “Stick your leg out beyond the edge of the horse. Make 'em think they got you,” Ellis whispered. “They wouldn't shoot at a dead leg.”
    Liza snaked her bad leg out. If they were going to shoot at her, might as well be the one already bunged up, she reasoned.
    Ellis began to cry. He wailed and carried on, cursing the Indians he knew were listening.
    He slipped the Colt over to Liza. “Get yourself in a position to shoot when they show themselves. And woman, you better make your braggin' come true. You gonna get just about three seconds to plug them braves before they send other arrows into our bodies for good measure.”
    “You gonna play dead?”
    Ellis nodded. “I'm gonna yell, then slump across the top of this hoss, even drop my rifle outside to make 'em think they really got me. More'n likely they'll move in with their bows strung ready to fly that safety arrow, but they'll move in to do it. That's when you gotta throw lead fast and straight.”
    “All right, I kin see the whole sump now,” Liza said, inching her way down to where she had the gun free. She checked the Colt and held it covered by the horse's broomtail that flowed out on the ground.
    Three arrows sang over the sump. Two of them dug into the pony and a third thunked into the back of the cut. Ellis let out a death-rattling groan and began to cough and curse. He slumped forward over the dead pony, fully exposed to the sump and the Cheyenne. He dropped his rifle in the dry dust.
    He remained still, his skin crawling at the thought of Cheyenne arrows sinking into his head and back. Then he heard Liza cock the colt. He fought hard against an impulse to drop back behind the pony, but he remained still. His face was dry, bone-dry, where only a few minutes before he had been soaked in sweat.
    He hard the rustle of the plains grass. Then the Colt barked three times so fast that Ellis could hardly believe the shots came from the same gun.
    He jerked up straight, threw himself over the pony and grabbed the rifle. On one knee, he pumped slugs into the three Cheyenne, the force of the bullets hurling the braves back against the crust of the wallow.
    The reverberating echoes of the shots were still rolling across the grass when Ellis, joined by Liza, examined the dead bucks.
    Liza slipped the Colt into Ellis's holster and stood looking at the Indians. “Mister,” she said slowly, “it took guts to play dead in full view of three Cheyenne with arrows strung in their bows.” 
    “I'll go get the horses,” Ellis said. He moved away quickly.
    When Ellis returned with the three ponies, Liza Reeves had stripped down to the flesh and was preparing to put on a pair of a dead Indian's breeches. As naked as the day she was born, she looked up startled to find Ellis holding the head ropes of the broomtails and grinning at her.
    “Turn your head, God damn it!” she said.
    “Woman,” Ellis said in a heavy drawl, “I just killed more Cheyenne than I ever thought I'd have to—in a fair contest. You don't scare me. And God damn it, I'm lookin'!” 
    Even from across the sump, Ellis could see Liza Reeves's face turn red beneath the deep tan. Her eyes flashed, but she didn't say another word. Ellis swung to the back of a pony and watched her dress, openly, brazenly, his eyes travelling from the long thighs to the hips, from the firm belly to the full breasts. A hell of a lot of woman, he said to himself. A regular goddam dream of a woman.
    Belted and snug in the breeches, Liza pulled on an ornamental vest and laced it up the front to cover her bare bosom. She picked up a bow and slung a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. Limping against the wound in her thigh,