Page 19 of Brian and Cora
Elsie leaned forward to speak to Brian. “Constance and I will take good care of Sassy Girl.”
Brian stood, Hank only a few seconds slower. He made eye contact with his friend, exchanging a thousand messages in a single glance. Then he took a deep breath into his tight lungs and faced Sheriff Granger. “We’re going.”
CHAPTER 7
One Week Later
Get out there and live. Right. As Brian crouched, Colt .45 in hand, behind the secret back gate of the McCurdy stockade, awaiting the signal to dash inside, he couldn’t help cursing Hank’s words that spurred him into attending the Harvest Festival. He’d wanted a story’s worth of experience, and he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for. He’d thrust himself smack in the middle of a soon-to-be action and adventure novel titled, The Capture of the McCurdy Gang.
With a mixture of terror and excitement, quite different from the calm, cool hero he was supposed to portray, at least in his own mind, Brian couldn’t help cursing the stupidity that made him eagerly volunteer to join the posse heading out after the outlaws.
Then, because he was a fast runner, or so he’d been as a boy and hopefully still was, Brian volunteered again to race around the perimeter of the stockade and open the front gate to let in the rest of the posse, led by Sheriff Granger.
What do I know about being a real hero? I’m only an inkstain-fingered scribe.
Still, the writer in him couldn’t help cataloguing everything around him. The gray dawn sky showing hints of orange and pink. Harsh breathing—his and the eight men behind him—the scuff of boot soles when someone shifted, how his heart thundered so loudly Brian thought the others could hear him, the silence on the other side of the stockade.
He reached up to touch the wide, white band around the crown of his Stetson. The last thing he needed was to be shot by one of his compadres. All the posse wore the bands to distinguish them from the bad guys.
Above them on a steep cliff overlooking the stockade, Chogan Redwolf began the assault, shooting silent fire arrows into the haystacks to cause confusion inside the stockade and create a smokescreen for the attackers.
Brian glanced up to see several trails of smoke rising into the sky. He holstered his pistol, pulled up the neckerchief he’d wet earlier to cover his mouth and nose, and then cracked open the gate to see the stacks wildly burning. Smoke drifted toward him.
A hand clasped his shoulder, and he flinched.
Hank leaned close, worry in his brown eyes. “Run like the wind, Brother,” he said in a harsh whisper before releasing his hold.
With a deep breath, Brian pushed wide the gate and sprinted along the log wall, keeping behind the outbuildings as much as possible. As he sprinted, he hunched enough to make a smaller target, but not so much the position would slow his pace.
Shots rang out, followed by shouts and screams. But he didn’t stop. His job wasn’t to fight, not until he had to. His job was to run.
Brian’s legs began to burn, and his eyes stung from the smoke. His breath came in gasps. He cursed himself forspending too many hours bent over a desk and not enough being active.
Just as he cleared the chicken coop, a bullet thudded into his thigh like a hot stab. With a gasp, he clutched his leg and went down, hitting the ground hard. Fiery pain shot up his leg, and he groaned.
Still, he tried to crawl to his feet. The effort to move his leg almost made him pass out. Helpless, he sank down again and closed his eyes, fighting to muster the inner strength to fight the agony and move.
“Bly, it’s me.” Seth Flanigan’s voice sounded inches away.
The neighboring farmer to the McCurdys, a father of four, wasn’t supposed to participate in their battle. Brian opened his eyes, glared, and made a go-away motion.
Seth grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him behind the flimsy shelter of the chicken coop.
Brian couldn’t help guttural moans from escaping. He gasped for breath, and then he pulled down his neckerchief to be understood. “Go, go! Get the gate. I’ll cover you.” Somehow.
Seth took off in a crouched run.
God, keep him safe. Brian pulled the neckerchief to cover his nose from the smoke and rolled to his side, gritting his teeth until the dizzying pain ebbed enough for him to see. He drew his Colt, used his good leg to push his body enough to see around the structure, and then, grimacing, had to ride out another wave of agony. He squinted through the smoke.
An outlaw clad only in long underwear and boots and carrying a pistol, staggered from the house. Foolishly, he stumbled across the porch and into the yard, searching for the attackers.
Even as his hands shook, Brian sent the last dregs of his energy into his arms to hold the Colt steady, braced his right wrist with his left hand, and shot.
The man screamed and clutched his side. But he managed to raise his gun and send two bullets smacking into the chicken coop…luckily, way too high.
Brian shot again, hitting the man’s chest.
The outlaw jerked back a step, and then he crumpled to the ground, arms splayed. He lay unmoving. Blood stained his long underwear.
