.45-Caliber Widow Maker
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Cuno Massey is determined to start a new, peaceful life. But when he comes across a prison wagon under attack, he can't just ride on. A gang of outlaws is hell-bent on granting four hardened convicts an early release, and with the only lawman down, the marshal is badly outnumbered. Dispensing frontier justice from the barrel of his Colt .45, Cuno does his best to even the odds and keep the murderous animals where they belong.
down on his bedroll. “Cuno Massey. Remember?” Landers stared up at him, squinting, as though he were trying to remember not only who Cuno was but where they were and what had got them here. “I pulled into a canyon to tend your shoulder. Think I got the bleeding stopped.” A deep pang of frustration racked him as he voiced what he’d feared all along. “Looks like you might need another day or two of rest before we hit the trail for Crow Feather. Wouldn’t want you opening up that shoulder again.”
freighter felt a hitch in his chest. The girl’s heart-shaped, blue-eyed face glistened with perspiration, and her red lips spread a bemused, welcoming, faintly curious smile. In her false eyelashes, lightly applied rouge, and eye-liner, all of which served to accentuate the exoticness of her features rather than to obscure them, she appeared like some wraithlike conjuring from an imaginative young man’s erotic dream. Polished silver rings danced beneath her ears, half concealed by curls of her
Fortunately, the gang seemed to be sticking to draws and coulees, zigzagging relentlessly westward. Cuno flexed his left foot again and winced. That calf was tighter than the other. What he wouldn’t give to happen upon a horse or even a mule. Hell, a prospector’s burro would do. But, while he’d seen a few cattle—mostly white-faced stock crossed with longhorns—he had yet to stumble across a ranch. He’d spied one dilapidated cabin with a sagging, moss-encrusted roof hunkered in a hollow and a few
dwindling gradually beneath the thunder of the buckskin’s hammering hooves. He didn’t like running a horse in the dark. The dangers were obvious. Besides, he needed the Oldenberg bunch to lead him to Colorado Bob, Blackburn, Simms, Fuego, and the girl. He also needed a gun. After a half a mile, he checked the buckskin down, and turned him back the way he’d come, listening and staring into the inky darkness. He was out of sight of the fire, and he could neither see nor hear anything of the gang.
believe I’m really gonna die. Me . . . of all people!” “You earned it,” Cuno said, staring straight ahead as the Main Street business establishments of Crow Feather—sunbaked mud and whipsawed structures, and a few tents and log cabins—pushed up on both sides of the trail. “I wasn’t talkin’ to you, you son of a bitch!” Simms barked, his voice cracking shrilly. “I’m all through talkin’ to you!” “Pardon me,” Cuno said, feeling a smile lift his mouth corners for the first time in what felt like