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Show cursing srui-uiiy. £•& tiac carver i£ae stayed in the cab; watch him too, probably had a gun in there. "Out! Out! Get out!" the runt screamed. "We've got to get shooting!" In the din the old man thought he heard him say, "We're going to start shooting, " and, outnumbered, pressed, surrounded and them still coming, he shot from the hip. Crouched; worked the lever, shot; worked the lever, shot. Worked the lever, saw that man in the truck go for his gun (he was trying to duck), aimed closer, shot. Worked the lever, saw that killer cowboy reach for his gun (the bay had reared and he was grabbing leather), and his next shot lifted him right out of the saddle. Then back to the gang, two more shots. Only two left standing and they were running, inexplicably out onto the desert. Cardon opened his shirt pocket, took out cartridges, reloaded, this time raised the carbine to his shoulder; they went down a lot easier than jackrabbits. Then he looked around for anyone he'd missed or overlooked, that one you don't count on who blows your head off. Nobody, nothing. It was hot and quiet again, Dick Martin and his bunch wiped out to the man. Paid their price. Then he saw the campers, frowned, and remembered. Not Dick Martin, thirty years in a Tucson grave (though Cardon didn't know that), but this scrubby bunch of squatters. The man who had worn his shirt over his head, no more need for him to curse the day. That fancy cowboy now with a look of astonishment on his face, no longer blase. And the boss smiling. He had grimaced receiving his bullet, very like a smile, and with that ersatz smile he had fallen and still with it he smiled up at the*blue sky. The boy who had listened to his advice lay humbly at his feet. Cardon made certain none of them was in pain. He considered bringing them all together, with their machines and their trash, pouring gasoline over all and starting a fire, a funeral pyre. But he was too old, too tired. They had wanted to take the desert |