Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(38)

Falcon was used to that. A glance back showed his wife keeping up with no trouble. Where had that shot come from? Falcon had seen movement. Late, far too late, but he’d thrown himself off the horse and sprinted for Cheyenne even as the gun fired. And he had one moment to fear the most important person in the world to him might have died.

Then he had her, alive and unhurt. And Rachel hit the ground, bleeding. Now he sorted through all those rapid-fire thoughts and knew right where he’d go to find this evil dry-gulcher.

Forging on, each step chosen carefully, his eyes never resting, Falcon kept trees between him and any gunman who might be coming or waiting.

He reached a point where he thought the gunman, should he still be in place, might be visible. Falcon doubted the killer was still there. It was the way of people who fired from cover to run after the deed was done. But he might think the trail was covered from where he sat. He might be content to watch and wait and kill again given a chance.

Reaching from behind, Cheyenne’s hand came into his. He looked back and tipped his head toward the massive oak tree right in front of him.

Cheyenne nodded and stayed still. Falcon eased forward, considered. Saw himself peeking around the trunk of this tree and getting his head blown off. Nothing to like in this situation. Instead, he looked overhead and saw a heavy branch within grabbing distance. He had to launch himself upward, but that was no problem.

Catching hold, he swung himself up, hooked his knees around the branch, then swung around to sit. He climbed to his feet. The branches were thicker, closer together up here, and stout enough they didn’t shake under a man’s weight. Hopefully, even if the shooter was still out there, he wouldn’t be looking for trouble coming from the treetop. Falcon fetched his rifle around and, with his hand on the trigger, pointed it up so the muzzle wouldn’t be visible, then leaned enough to get one eye around the tree.

Studying the area with eyes as strong as a flock of hawks, he searched back and forth, up and down.

There! Maybe fifty paces up the mountain slope.

Falcon fought down the surge of triumph and rage. Calm. Steady. He didn’t want this man dead. There were too many questions. But he wanted him stopped, and stopped hard.

The man was on the ground, behind a waist-high boulder, his rifle resting on the rock. He was sheltered and all but hidden from the trail, but from where Falcon was, his whole left side was exposed.

Falcon faltered as he realized who the man was. What could he have to do with the Pinkerton investigation of Oliver Hawkins? His thoughts chasing themselves around did no good, not right now. Right now, he had a would-be murderer to catch.

An inch at a time, Falcon brought his rifle down. Movement drew the eye, and he didn’t want the man’s intent focus on the trail diverted.

Falcon aimed, considering where to hit him to stop him.

His finger pressed on the trigger, as far as he dared. He breathed in deep and let the breath out halfway. Waiting for a second, going completely still, he fired. A bright bloom of scarlet exploded on the dry-gulcher’s shoulder. Very close to the spot where he’d hit Wyatt.

The man slammed backward onto the ground. His rifle flew over his head. The killer shouted and crawled toward the long gun. Falcon fired again and hit him in the leg, then again and blew the rifle to pieces. The man clawed at his pistol. Falcon smashed a bullet into the holster and the six-shooter snapped in two. The man’s fingers were stained with blood.

“Go.” He hissed down at Cheyenne.

She tore up the hill toward the man. Falcon was on the ground and after her, his rifle again slung over his shoulder.

“Knife!” Cheyenne hollered.

The man slashed at her, the knife held awkwardly in his left hand. She leapt away and landed on her backside.

Falcon, pushing hard, felt every second like an hour as the man came at his wife with a knife. He remembered his ma calling him a berserker and knew that was in him right now. He roared as the man staggered to his feet.

Jerking his head up at the sound as if he feared an approaching grizzly, the killer’s gunshot leg went out from under him.

Cheyenne, flat on her back, kicked the blade aside. He lost his grip, and fumbled at his right sleeve. Cheyenne twisted with the grace of a hunting wildcat, regained her feet, and stomped on the wrist he was trying for.

Then Falcon was there. He pounded a fist into the man’s face. Falcon grabbed his left arm as Cheyenne dragged a derringer out of his sleeve. Falcon slugged him again, and the man slumped to the ground.

“Don’t trust him,” Cheyenne said. “He acts like he’s passed out, but I don’t believe it.”

She held up the tiny, two-shot firearm. “Nice gun. Maybe I can keep it.”

Cheyenne pulled a length of leather off her belt.

“I must say I admire a woman who is always prepared to tie up a prisoner.”

She grinned at Falcon, but it didn’t last. “You really think this man might’ve shot Wyatt?”

Falcon studied him. “We’d just be guessing unless we can get a confession out of him. But he sure as certain shot Rachel and fired at us. And came at you with a knife. Attempted murder on two women oughta be enough to hang him. If they do, or if they just lock him up, we’ll count it for Wyatt, too.”

“Who in the world is he?” Cheyenne threw him onto his stomach and pulled his hands together behind his back.

“I know him.”