The Bells of El Diablo by Frank Leslie Page A

someday.”
    “If you run into any extra jingle, you can buy me a woman.” Crosseye raked in a breath and brushed a fist across his chin. “Ain’t had me one now in weeks and my rocks is gettin’ heavy!”
    “Shut up, you old hound dog!”
    Keeping his head down, James stared west of the escarpment, where the three riders had fallen. He couldn’t see them amongst the widely scattered shrubs and rocks, but he could hear one groaning softly. “Looks like I mighta left one alive. Stay here and cover me.”
    “Hell, my old eyes can’t see shit out there!”
    “Give it a try!”
    James dropped to the gravelly ground. Holding his new rifle straight out from his right hip, and keeping the darkness of the scarp behind him, he beganwalking out in the direction his quarry had fallen. He found the first man about forty yards out—the would-be killer’s neck twisted awkwardly, obviously broken, glassy eyes staring at his bloody hand flung out beside him.
    On one knee, James looked around. The groaning he’d heard from atop the scarp had fallen silent. He hoped the wounded man hadn’t died. He wanted one alive to tell him what the hell was going on with Stenck and the McAllisters. Doubtless, Stenck wasn’t one of the three out here. He was likely still tucked safely away in the saloon with his whiskey bottle. He’d leave the fighting to his inferiors.
    Raking his tongue across dry lips, James continued forward, swinging his head from left to right and back again, scouring the dark ground with his eyes. There was a raspy sigh to his left. He swung his head that way, saw starlight glint on steel. He threw himself to his right. The pistol flashed. The bullet screeched through the air where James had been standing a moment before, and
spanged
off a rock, echoing. James rolled onto his elbows and fired the Henry three times quickly.
    He heard two slugs kicking up gravel. A third made the telltale
whomping
sound. He’d found flesh.
    Slowly, looking around for the third rider, James gained his feet.
    Crosseye’s voice cut the night: “Behind ya, Jimmy!”
    James wheeled. A figure lurched out from the shadow of a giant boulder. James tried to get the barrel of the Henry up too late. A knife flashed starlight as it careened in a downward arc toward his throat.

Chapter 9
    James dropped the Henry, then reached up to grab the wrist wielding the knife, stopping the blade eight inches from his neck. He glanced past the blade, saw the face of the man who’d gotten his ear burned in the roadhouse. James threw himself backward, hitting the ground hard, then, still holding the knife wrist, kicked his legs up.
    The cutthroat flew over his head, ripping his knife hand out of James’s own grasp.
    Both men gained their feet instantly. The man with the knife lunged for James again. He was heavy and slow. Again, James grabbed his wrist, wheeled him around until the man’s back was grinding into the side of the giant boulder he’d hidden behind. The knife was between them. James had hold of the man’s wrist with both his hands. He stared into the man’s dark eyes as, grunting, he got the knife turned. The upturned tip slid through the man’s calico shirt.
    The man’s mouth widened. His eyes turned to brass in the darkness.
    James gave another hard, grunting thrust and shovedthe blade into the man’s chest, just beneath his breastbone. Out of long-practiced habit, he lowered the blade and twisted. All the air seemed to leave the man’s lungs at once as the blood washed out over James’s hands—hot as tar. James stared into the man’s dark eyes.
    Willie stared back at him, gasping.
    James stepped back with a start and turned quickly away from the dying man, burying his face in his forearm as though to rub the memory away. When he turned again to the cutthroat, the man’s chin dropped to his chest, and his knees buckled. He groaned and dropped to the dirt like a fifty-pound sack of cracked corn.
    The ground heaved around James. He