Don't Tamper with Horses

–Part 11

Continuing...Deveney's red-haired thug spun and snarled at Moss. "You got a death wish boy?" He dropped his hand to the big pistol on his hip.

Moss grabbed for his gun as well. A metallic sound pinged through the air and he flinched as a bullet whistled past him to thud into the wall. He stepped sideways to get out of the cloud of gunsmoke around him and saw the red-haired man on his knees, cradling his arm. The man's pistol lay behind him, at the base of the bar, with a bullet scar twisting the chamber and action. The gun would never fire again.

Deveney's men lurched to their feet and reached for their weapons, but halted at a sharp command from Deveney himself. He remained seated, one hand raised to stop his men. He was a thin man, with a distinguished air about him. His hair was dark and he had sharp, cruel blue eyes. "I like a brave man," he drawled. His voice was smooth, with a deep southern accent. "You're free to go, stranger, but don't cross me or my men again." He turned back to his table and the half-filled glass on it.

Moss glanced around the room again, watching as the outlaws holstered their guns. He saw the crying girl slip out the back door and made eye contact with the bartender, who nodded in both thanks and reassurance. Moss placed his pistol back in the holster and walked back through the batwing doors. He forced himself to walk firmly and calmly over to his horse.

"Gee, mister!" Denny stood at the hitching rail. His voice held awe and a hint of fear. "I thought you were a goner when I heard the shots. You outshot Glenn Riker and left him alive! You've got to be the best gun in the world."

Moss shook his head and untied Rocket's reins. He swung aboard and walked the horse back toward the livery stable, glancing down at the boy who walked alongside. "Not me, Den. I'm no gun. I'm just a fiddle-footed cowboy, who's maybe a little lucky." At Denny's confused look he added, "I wasn't aiming for his gun."

To be continued...