The Battle At Three-Cross

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Lance heard the bullet thud into the tie rail at his rear. His hand stabbed toward the holster, came up in a swift, eye-defying arc. Lead started to pour from the six-shooter muzzle the instant it left the holster. A leaden slug threw up dust at Kilby’s feet. Lance’s aim lifted higher. Kilby fired again. Lance thumbed his hammer once, twice, three times.

Kilby was flung violently sideways by the impact of the heavy slugs. For a brief moment he swayed uncertainly; then his right leg buckled, and he pitched to the roadway. For a short interval he struggled to regain the weapon that had fallen from his hand, then, as Lance closed in and kicked the underarm gun out of reach, Kilby shivered and slumped in the dust.

Behind him came Chiricahua Herrick’s voice, violent with hate. “Damn you, Tolliver! You can’t do this to a friend of mine. Now, by God! We’ll see how you like the taste of hot lead!”

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