Forty Times a Killer Read Online Free

my head to let you live, since you’re a good-looking kid and could come with us, make yourself useful, like. But my mind’s pretty close to a-changing, so don’t push me.”
    Lem dismounted and then, rifle in hand, he grinned at Wes and walked toward the horses.
    â€œI told you, leave the horses be.” Wes stood very still, his face like stone.
    I swallowed hard, my brain racing. Wes, where the hell are your guns?
    â€œBoy, step aside,” Dave said. “Or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
    â€œAnd you go to hell,” Wes said.
    Dave nodded as though he’d expected that kind of reaction. “You lose, boy.” He smiled. “Sorry and all that.”
    He brought up his rifle and John Wesley shot him.
    Drawing from the waistband behind his back, Wes’s ball hit the Springfield’s trigger guard, clipped off Dave’s shooting finger, then ranged upward and crashed into the bearded man’s chin.
    His eyes wide and frantic, Dave reeled in the saddle, spitting blood, bone and teeth.
    Wes ignored him. The man was done.
    Wes and Lem fired at the same instant.
    Unnerved by the unexpected turn of events, Lem, shooting from the hip, was too slow, too wide and too low. Wes’s bullet hit him between the eyes and he fell all in a heap like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
    Never one to waste powder and ball, Wes didn’t fire again.
    But something happened that shocked me to the core.
    Despite his horrific wound, his face a nightmare of blood and bone, the man called Dave swung his horse around and kicked it into the darkness.
    Wes let out a triumphant yell and ran after him, holding his Colt high.
    They vanished into the murk and I was left alone in silence.
    In the moonlight, gun smoke laced around the clearing like a woman’s wispy dress wafting in a breeze. The man on the ground lay still in death and made no sound.
    A slow minute passed . . . then another....
    A shot! Somewhere out there in the dark.
    Uneasy, I picked up a heavy stick that lay by the fire and hefted it in my hand. Small and weak as I was, there was little enough I could do to defend myself, but the gesture made me feel better.
    â€œHello the camp!” It was John Wesley’s voice, followed by a shout of triumphant glee.
    The black shades of the night parted and he walked into the clearing, leading the dead man’s mustang.
    I say dead man, because even without asking I knew that must have been Dave’s fate.
    â€œYou should’ve seen it, Little Bit,” Wes said, his face alight. “Twenty yards in darkness through trees! One shot! I blew the man’s brains out.” He laughed and clapped his hands. “If he had any.”
    Without waiting for my response, he said, “Now we got a couple more ponies to sell and two Springfield rifles. Their Colts are shot out and one has a loose cylinder, so I’ll hold on to those.” His face split in a wide grin. “What do you reckon, Little Bit, am I destined for great things or ain’t I?”
    I didn’t answer that, at least not directly. “John Wesley, the killing has to stop.”
    He was genuinely puzzled and toed the dead man with his boot. “You talking about these two?”
    â€œNo, I guess not. I mean, the killing in general. You have to think about the Wild West show.”
    â€œThese men needed killing, right?”
    I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it was them or us.” I was still holding onto the stick and tossed it away. “Maybe you could’ve let the other one die in his own time and at a place of his choosing. I say maybe you could. I’m not pointing fingers, Wes.”
    â€œName one man I killed who didn’t need killing, Little Bit. Damn it, name just one. And don’t say Mage. He was a black man and don’t count.”
    He waited maybe a full second then said, “See, you can’t name a one.”
    â€œWes, there are some who say