33
T
HE BULLET TOOK JIM Brent in the shoulder, chipping his clavicle on the way through. Searing pain lanced through him, and he reeled back off his horse to plunge into powdery snow. Brent landed on the broken shoulder, and the impact stole his breath. William McCammon was a demon with a six-gun to make that shot. Brent had suffered the Easterner’s ire since McCammon first rode into Morrow set on claim jumping. The horse hadn’t run, frozen in place on the mountainside. Thrusting up his good hand, Brent snatched the long-barreled Winchester from the saddle as a second shot struck the horn, and the horse lit off down the slope into a stand of birch fifty yards behind Brent. The blood dripping from the wool sleeve of his black coat had him wondering if his horse might have an eternal wait for him in the trees. Brent fumbled with the rifle. He couldn’t shoot straight with one hand, but he got one off just to give McCammon something to think about. As the sound echoed with a deep rumble around the cliffs bordering the snow-covered slope, McCammon threw him-
self down, scraping his left forearm on a hidden rock. He was a right-hand shot. He wouldn’t need the left. To finish Brent, he had to get closer, which was why he’d left his horse to continue on foot. Brent lay flat out, the rifle across his chest. Teeth clenched against the throbbing agony in his shoulder, he plunged the wound into the snow to slow the bleeding. He welcomed the damp chill against the back of his head. Gulping air, he set his mind against the pain and considered his options. Brent couldn’t hear McCammon, but knew he was coming. The trees down range were too far away to be of any use. The sun flashed blinding brightness off the snow. If he tried for the trees, his dark coat would provide a perfect target against the clear blue sky before he reached the rocks bordering the slope. Shock weighted his eyelids, and they settled down over his eyes with the finality of the grave. The cold devoured him inch by inch. He had to move. If only the unexpected warm spell had held rather than the typical biting cold of January. Talking with Janet about the old Conway spread just outside town,
