This place is gettin’
mighty lively for a ghost town!
Suddenly Westerman ceased to be a law enforcer attempting to bring an outlaw in alive, and became a man desperately fighting for his life. Driving the waves of agony that threatened to engulf him aside, he dragged himself back behind his horse as St. John came toward him through the dust and gunsmoke on hands and knees, firing every foot. Gasping with pain, Westerman poked the gunbarrel over the dead horse’s neck, framed St. John’s chest in the sights and squeezed trigger. The gun bucked hard against his hand, a cloud of gunsmoke obliterated St. John’s body, while above the cloud, the badman’s face was a contorted mask of agony and frustration. Then he fell forward and Westerman knew that he was dead.
“You fool . . . you made me kill you . . .” Westerman gasped, staring for a long moment at the still figure with the clawing hand still tight around the gunbutt. Then the world spun and shook and the dead horse’s head came up to hit him in the face. He tasted blood in his mouth as the lights went out.