What’s a-comin’ yonder? Horsebackers. A dozen er more. Posse men. Time fer a drink. A big’n this time. No nibble. Bin holdin’ off. Waitin’.
“Here’s lookin’ at you boys!” Sam Graybull’s hoarse voice carried a note of triumph. “Here’s lookin’ at you acrost gun sights!” And he left the fiery stuff gurgle down his throat.
A rifle bullet whined past Sam Graybull’s head. He taunted the marksman with a yell of derision and, tossing aside the jug, jerked his carbine and rode at a run straight for the men.
A hail of bullets met his rush. Sam Graybull’s horse somersaulted, shot between the eyes. Sam tried to kick his feet from the stirrups. Too late. Horse and man crashed together. A dull pain shot through the killer’s leg. That leg was pinned under the dead weight of the horse. Bullets spatted and droned. Sam Graybull emptied his carbine. Two of the posse felt the searing sting of the outlaw’s bullets. Sam pulled his six-gun—the .45 that had taken deadly toll of human life. His thumb fanned the hammer.
“Come an’ git it! Come on, you red necks!”
Black lips bared from tobacco stained teeth. Slit eyes swollen almost shut. It took guts.
Something white hot stabbed Sam Graybull’s chest. He hardly felt it. Above the flat spat of rifles in the dawn, sounded the mirthless laugh of Sam Graybull. A laugh that sounded like the death rattle. Tumbing the hammer of an empty gun. Then the weary head dropped back into the snow. Sam Graybull, killer, was dead.
The last of the whisky gurgled out of the uncorked jug into the trail.
“He must have got drunk, blind drunk, and lost his way.”