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comfortable rest, but then the first thing he knew, he had his arm back in the same spot again. If he lost the feeling in his fingers, it would be a hell of a note.
    A glint of metal in the moonlight caught his eye, and he swung the nose of his rifle to the right, sighting in on the spot and lightly touching his finger to the trigger. Patience . The best marksman in the world could pull a shot if he became too eager, and in a battle, there were seldom second chances. He peered at the spot where he’d seen metal flash, his eyes aching with the strain as he took a deep breath, exhaled, and went absolutely still.
    After several seconds, his patience was rewarded by another mirrorlike flash. Slow and smooth, easy does it . He pulled the trigger, and the bark of his Henry exploded into the night. A man cried out in startlement and pain. Silence followed—a silence so thick that Race felt as if he could damned near sink his teeth into it.
    That’s four . And he’d gotten them all because their guns flashed in the moonlight. Race blackened the metalon his own weapons. Reflective gun barrels had been the death of too many men. Granted, a nickel-plated Colt .45 in a silver-studded, hand-tooled holster was an attention getter, and a rifle with a carved, high-gloss stock and butt looked real fancy. But fancy wasn’t what separated a man from the boys. What counted was who walked away when the smoke cleared.
    He would have bet his last gold eagle that those fellows on the hillside went in for fancy weapons. Lots of flash and short on brains. Looking mean was the only edge some men had.
    Just as that thought went through his mind, Race heard the snick of a gun hammer behind him and slightly to the right. With the lightning-fast reflexes of a man who’d been slapping leather most of his life, he dove sideways and brought his Henry around. Damn . Just as he had feared, they had circled around behind him. All hell was gonna break loose in short order, with bullets coming at him from both directions. If he wasn’t Johnny-on-the-spot with a slug every time a man showed himself, he and the girl would be eating lead for supper.
    Race jacked another cartridge into the chamber. Then, never taking his gaze off the wagons, he shoved forward on his belly to slap Dusty on the rump. “Hee-yaw!” he yelled.
    To save the girl’s life, Race would have sacrificed the animal without a qualm. But with men firing at them from a standing position at such close range, the angle was all wrong for the horse to provide protection. That being the case, Race saw no reason to let the loyal buckskin be caught in the crossfire.
    With a plaintive nicker, Dusty finally managed to lurch to his feet. Race sent the buckskin on his way with another slap on the rump, then sank back to the ground and drew the butt of the Henry snugly to his shoulder.
    For the next few minutes, the explosive sound of gunfire became Race’s only reality, the reports of his weapons imploding against his eardrums. The enemy had come in behind him with a vengeance, and they were deliberately drawing his fire. At one point, Race felt sure he wastedthree bullets on a jacket and hat they draped over a tree limb. The bastards . There were so many of them, he had to react instantaneously to movement, and in the darkness, it was impossible to tell if his target was a man or a decoy. He emptied his Henry and one of his Colts, knowing as he began using the second handgun that time for him and the girl was about to run out. The thought made him feel sick, not so much for himself but for her.
    From out of the darkness came a sudden burst of orange flame, and a bullet whizzed past Race’s shoulder, hitting the trunk behind him. He returned the fire, cracking off two shots in quick succession at the indistinct outline of a man’s torso. He never heard the first bullet hit. The second struck wood, making a solid kerthunk that echoed in the darkness. Damn . At this distance, how could he possibly