LANCE WENT AROUND the bend at a dead run, drew up sharply and hit the ground. Winchester in hand, running all out. Flattening himself behind a hummock of sand and sagebrush, he peered through. He moved, trying to see better and a bullet kicked sand into his eyes. He slid back into the wash.
“Spotted me, damn him!”
He sprang to the saddle and circled farther, then again tried the bank. Now he could see the nest of rock from which the killer had first fired.
Nobody was in sight. Then he caught a flicker of movement higher on the hill.
The killer was stalking him!
Crouching low, Lance watched a gap in the rocks. When he caught a shadow there, only a blob of darkness from where he huddled, he fired.
It was only a snap shot, quick, offhand, and it clipped the boulder, ricocheting off into the fading light, whining wickedly.
Then it began, a deadly game of chess, with each man holding a rifle, each maneuvering for a killing shot.…