But as he started to pluck a fresh load from his bandolier, a man came screaming out of one of the stalls with a pitchfork and rushed forward, thrusting the weapon at Conn’s chest.
There was no time to reload or draw his Remington.
Conn reacted instinctively, stepping to the left and batting the pitchfork aside with the barrel of his shotgun.
Still hollering, the man started to bring the pitchfork back around, but Conn was faster. He whipped his left hand forward and struck the man’s forehead with his palm.
It was an awkward but powerful blow that sent the man reeling backward and gave Conn time to drop the scattergun and draw his Remington, which he pointed at the man.
“Drop the fork,” Conn bellowed, aware of a gun battle raging out by the house.
“You killed my brother!” the man with the pitchfork shouted.
“And he killed my brother,” Conn said, stepping backward in case the man rushed him. “Now, don’t make me kill you, too.”
The man licked his lips and lowered the pitchfork a little, and for a second, it seemed like he had come to his senses. Then he lunged forward, aiming the tines at Conn’s heart.
Conn shot him in the chest and barely managed to evade the pitchfork, pivoting away and firing again, putting a bullet into the man’s side.
Ben Blake’s brother dropped the fork and spilled forward onto the floor of the barn. He thrashed briefly and died.
Conn reloaded his Remington, holstered it, and picked up the H&R. He broke open the barrels, cleared them, jammed two fresh shells in place, snapped it shut, and drew back the hammers.
Then he made his way cautiously to the front of the barn. Outside, the battle had fallen silent.
Sheffield stood holding his rifle beside a fallen man. McKay rode past the house, scanning for threats.
Seeing Conn, Sheffield said, “You get him?”
“Yeah, I got him,” Conn said. “Got his brother, too. Man gave me no choice. Came at me with a pitchfork.”
“This one here was running for the barn, fixing to shoot you,” Sheffield said, “but I gave him a taste of his own medicine. He was a scrapper, I’ll give him that. He put up a fight. Didn’t amount to nothing, but he put up a fight.”
The man on the ground groaned with pain.
With one glance, Conn could tell he’d never survive.
Fixing his eyes on Conn, the man growled, “You kill that Henry Toole. He’s the one. Led Ben astray and got us all killed.”
“You got yourself killed. Your brother was no good. You shouldn’t have joined the fight.”
The man grimaced, clutching his wounds. “That’s what brothers do. Don’t matter if they’re good or not. You stick up for them.”
“I wouldn’t know, because my brother was good. And your brother killed him.”
“He was there, but he didn’t do the killing. That was Toole and Duncan. Ben told us all about it. He didn’t seem none too pleased with the affair. Then Toole double-crossed them by some old cabin. Ben and some others—Rafe and Danny and Toby was their names—didn’t want to ride with Toole no more, and Toole shot one and tried to shoot Ben, but Ben and the other fellas was too quick.”
“Did Ben say where Toole was heading?” Conn asked.
The man nodded, then groaned, and for a second, Conn was afraid that was it.
But the man’s eyes reopened, burning with rage. “Toole’s heading for Poncha Springs. Gonna hideout in an old mine down there, the Sierra Perdida. Kill him, you gotta kill him!”
“I will,” Conn said. “That’s a promise.”
Satisfied, the man nodded and let go, settling back into death.
“Well, that’s that,” Sheffield said.
