Massacre at Whiskey Flats (Sidewinders Book 2)
William W. Johnstone
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From William W. Johnstone, bestselling author of Blood Bond, Mountain Man, and The Last Gunfighter, and J.A. Johnstone, comes Sidewinders, a double-barreled dose of action, featuring two of the unlikeliest western heroes to ever cross the American frontier.
Sidewinders Don't Look For Trouble--It Usually Finds Them
In the west, there's always work for the kind of men willing to get their hands dirty--from rounding stray cattle to stringing barbed wire. Bo Creel and Scratch Morton are just such men. Now they've been hired for the one job they've never tried: wearing badges--in a little stain of a town called Whiskey Flats.
What Bo and Scratch don't know is that a gang of outlaws is bent on burning down the town the Sidewinders have been hired to protect. With only a passing acquaintance of the law, a keen sense of self-preservation, and a range-war gathering round them, Bo and Scratch need a good plan or it's a one-way ticket to Boot Hill. They'll also need a little luck, a whole mess of bullets, and the courage to stand tall--and shoot true. . .
didn’t stop one man from snarling and jerking up his own gun in an attempt to get off a shot. Scratch’s left-hand Remington roared and bucked. He was almost as good a shot with his left hand as he was with his right, and at this range he didn’t have any trouble hitting what he shot at. The gunman was thrown back against the overturned table behind him as Scratch’s bullet shattered his upper right arm. The gun he had tried to use went flying from nerveless fingers. Another man clearly thought
Scratch came back down the slope of a wooded ridge on foot and said, “The spread’s on the other side, about five hundred yards away.” His voice held a tone of disgust as he added, “I didn’t see nothin’ movin’ around except some buzzards.” Bo nodded grimly. “About what we expected.” He pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath. “We’ll go in slow and easy, ready for trouble.” Reilly nodded. He looked a little pale but determined as he drew his own Winchester. “If you fellas are sure about this,” he
gun?” Bo asked. “I had a pocket pistol. They took it away from me when they stormed into my hotel room, the barbarians.” “So you don’t have a thing?” “The clothes on my back,” Reilly answered. “And my charm.” Scratch made a disgusted noise in his throat to indicate just how charming he thought Reilly was. Bo said, “Well, maybe you can make a fresh start in the next town we come to. You can probably get a job in a store or a livery stable or some such.” Reilly reached around and held up a
Braddock.” Scratch said, “Seems to me you meant it when you told McHale you were Braddock.” Bo nodded. “That’s the way it sounded to me, too.” “Well…” Reilly looked back and forth between them. “Who’s to say it couldn’t really be that way?” “You mean you’d just keep on pretending?” Bo asked. “It’s not exactly pretending,” Reilly argued. “The real Braddock is dead. Nobody would ever know the difference, especially if…if I could be a good marshal for these folks. And I think I can. I’m
Scratch, and Reilly watched in horror, the man on horseback ahead of them jerked his mount in a tight circle, his head whipping back and forth. Bo knew the questions that had to be going through the man’s mind: Can I outrun it? Which way should I go? He answered those questions by spurring his horse into a hard run back the way he had come, toward the Texans and Jake Reilly. Looking over Scratch’s shoulder, Reilly gasped, “He’ll never make it!” “He’s got a better chance comin’ this way than