Read The Graves at Seven Devils for Free Online Page B

through.”
    The girl shot a wide-eyed mocking look at the man in the green-checked suit. “Ouch! You better do as he says, Rafe.”
    â€œI reckon I’d better.”
    Rafe glanced back at Fletcher, deviously arching a brow as he lowered his left hand beneath the table. Fletcher watched the man unsnap the keeper thong over the hammer of the .45 holstered low on his left thigh, then with two fingers slowly lift the gun from its holster.
    Fletcher held the heavy shotgun steady as he raked his gaze around the table while at the same time watching Rafe’s left thumb and index finger slowly . . . ever so slowly . . . raise the .45, barrel down.
    Rafe kept his gaze locked on Fletcher’s eyes, a queer sort of half smile turning up the corners of his thin mouth inside the shaggy black beard. He was the most hawkish-looking of the three brothers, with an especially sharp, upturned nose and cheeks so hollow that shadows lurked within them. His eyes were small, black, and set deep within cavernous sockets. His evil leer made Fletcher’s insides quiver like a nest of young rattlers, and he had to fight back the nearly overwhelming urge to drop both hammers on the hard case and watch his face disappear in a spray of blood against the far wall.
    â€œThat’s high enough,” Fletcher said, when Rafe had raised the gun a little above his shoulder, his evil, mocking smile still twisting his lips.
    The hard case stopped raising the gun and broadened his grin.
    The girl laughed suddenly, causing Fletcher to jerk the shotgun slightly.
    â€œLawdog’s nervous!” The girl laughed harder. “Look at how his hands are shakin’.”
    Fletcher returned his gaze to Rafe. He hated the quake he heard in his voice as he barked, “Set the gun on the table, goddamnit! Set it down now !”
    Running footsteps rose in the street outside the saloon, growing louder as someone approached.
    â€œColter, no!” Marie Antoinette called.
    Boots thumped on the gallery. Fletcher felt as though his chest had been struck by a war hatchet as, in the corner of his left eye, he saw a face slide over the tops of the batwing doors and two small hands grip the door’s scrolled edges.
    â€œDon’t do it, Pa! You won’t make it!” Colter shouted, his voice cracking with terror. “I just seen their pictures in your off—!”
    â€œColter, goddamnit, I told . . . !”
    Fletcher had jerked his head toward the batwings when he spied a sudden flicker of movement near the table. By the time his eyes darted back to the hard cases, Rafe’s revolver was turning over in the air. The butt dropped into the hard case’s hand with a soft smacking sound, and the barrel jerked toward Fletcher so quickly that the sheriff’s brain was slow to comprehend what was happening until the black maw sprouted flames.
    The gun’s roar filled the saloon, echoing sharply off the walls. The slug careened through Fletcher’s left shoulder—a little puff of dust from his shirt and then he felt as though he’d been slammed in the chest with a bung starter.
    He groaned and staggered backward, trying to steady the shotgun on the table. But as if of its own volition, the fore stock swung toward the rafters at the same time that Fletcher drew back on the twin triggers.
    Ka-booom!
    Both shells exploded into the ceiling before and above the table, carving two pumpkin-sized gouges in the heavy rafters and throwing slivers in every direction.
    Through the smoke and the dust raining from the rafters, and as he continued staggering backward, grunting and cursing, Fletcher saw the vague shapes of the killers bolt out of their chairs, moving as though they were made of little more than sinew and oil.
    They reached for guns and, as chairs flew back behind them and sideways and as the girl and the two brothers on the table’s left side dropped to a knee, revolvers flashed and barked, lifting an