“Ready.”
A slow smile spread over Luther’s face. “Any last words, Marshal?”
Clay’s heart pounded in his chest Thoughts of his thirty-two years spent on this earth raced through his head, but nothing he wanted to share with these two.
He looked down at Luther. “I’ll see you in hell.”
“You can—”
Gunshots sounded, and two riders broke from the trees to the east. Horses at a dead run, they charged the campsite, bullets flying.
Deuce’s eyes widened. “What the—”
Clay’s spirit soared. He turned in the saddle. He’d tracked the Dade gang alone. No one knew where he’d gone. No one expected him to return. No one would come to his rescue, or so he’d thought Was this a last minute reprieve? Or was he caught in the cross fire of someone out for revenge against part of Scully Dade’s gang?
The riders drew nearer, their faces hidden behind red bandannas tied over their noses and mouths, and over-size hats pulled low on their foreheads.
“Gol-darn it!” Luther swore. “It’s the Schoolyard Boys!”
“Huh?” Deuce looked dumbly at Luther.
“Bunch of snot-nose kids trying to make a name for themselves! I’d like to tan their hides. Take cover!”
Luther ran to the oak, with Deuce stumbling along behind. They crouched behind its huge trunk, leaving Clay on his horse, hands bound behind him, noose around his neck.
“Whoa, fella, take it easy.” The saddle creaked beneath him as the horse pawed the ground. Clay kept his voice calm, trying to soothe the stallion as he frantically worked the ropes that bound his wrists. The riders kept coming. Luther returned fire, and punched Deuce in the shoulder until he did the same.
From the corner of his eye, Clay caught sight of another horse emerging from the pines to the north. It galloped toward the campsite, unnoticed by Deuce and Luther. The boy riding it wore the same shapeless clothing, red bandanna and oversize hat as the other two barreling in from the east.
Clay gritted his teeth. He was a sitting duck. If he didn’t get hit by one of the flying bullets, and his horse didn’t run out from under him, this outlaw would surely blow him to kingdom come with one easy shot. He held his breath, cursing himself, Deuce and Luther, and now these Schoolyard Boys.
The rider bore down on him. The horse beneath Clay stepped sideways, stretching the rope tighter around his neck.
“Whoa, fella, whoa.”
The boy pulled alongside, his horse tossing its head in protest. In a swift motion, he pulled a bowie knife from his trousers and swung it at Clay, cutting through the rope and sending tree bark flying.
Clay’s horse lunged sideways. He squeezed his knees tighter to keep his seat His head spun. Were the Schoolyard Boys trying to kill him, or rescue him?
Clay turned in the saddle for a glance at the boy who had cut him free, half expecting him to be gone, half expecting a bullet to explode in his face. The boy was beside him, knife in hand. Their gazes met for a split second. Amid the chaos of flying bullets and thundering hooves, that second lasted an eternity.
The boy nudged his horse closer, brandishing the knife. Clay felt the blade slide past his wrists and the ropes give way. Without giving Clay another look, he wheeled his horse around and crouched low as he raced back toward the pines.
“Gol-darn it!”
Luther let out a yelp and grabbed his shoulder as he dropped to his knees. “I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit by one of them dang fool boys!”
Deuce shrank back against the tree, watching blood spew from Luther’s shoulder. “Oh, God…” He turned away and threw up.
Clay pulled the noose from around his neck and swung down from his horse. He picked up Luther’s gun and disarmed Deuce, shoving the weapon into the waistband of his trousers.
The Schoolyard Boys stopped firing and turned north, toward the pines. The last rider’s horse went down. The boy flew through the air and landed hard on his belly. The other rider, not seeing what had happened, disappeared into the trees.
“Good! Serves you right!” Luther called to the fallen rider.
Clay took a length of rope and tied Luther’s wrists. Deuce sat up, his arms folded across his stomach, his face colorless. Clay thought he might cry.
He pointed his finger at him. “You stay put.” Deuce nodded quickly and shrank back against the tree trunk.
Clay mounted and rode out to the fallen boy. The horse was up and walking, seemingly uninjured by the fall. The rider hadn’t moved.
Clay slid from the saddle and knelt beside him as he lay facedown in the grass. The hat still covered his head, but the red bandanna had fallen below his chin exposing a gently curving jaw and the soft lines of a face that had never seen a razor. And never would.
Light footsteps brushed the grass behind him. Clay tensed and reached for his gun, then froze as cold metal pressed against his cheek.
“Eat dirt, lawman.”
The raspy, croaking voice sent a chill down Clay’s spine. He glanced up to find the barrel of a Winchester inches from his face. His gaze traveled upward and met with the large eyes of the rider who had cut him free, barely visible between the brim of the battered hat and the red bandanna. He’d looked bigger than life, charging into camp, wielding the bowie knife. Now Clay saw that he wasn’t much more than five feet tall; he could only guess at the slender build hidden beneath the clothing. But at the moment the Winchester added significantly to the boy’s stature.
Clay raised his hands. The third member of the Schoolyard Boys rode up, leading the horse that had gone down. The Winchester waved a silent instruction, and Clay turned his back and stretched out on the ground, facedown.
No one spoke, but he heard groans and whispers and finally horses galloping away. He turned in time to see the Schoolyard Boys disappear into the trees.
He mounted again and rode back to the campsite. Deuce was still sitting where he’d left him, while Luther moaned and cursed everything in sight.
“Gol-darn it, I can’t believe I got shot by one of them scrawny Schoolyard Boys. They’re not even dry behind the ears yet. I won’t be able to show my face in these parts again.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it” Clay climbed down from his horse. “You won’t be showing your face anywhere but in a jail cell for a long time.”
“Dang it” Luther moaned as he sat back against the tree trunk. “I hate them boys.”
“I wonder where they’re from.” Deuce gazed off at the pines.
Luther kicked him. “Shut up, will you? They’re just kids. That’s how come they got the name Schoolyard Boys. Everybody’s asking that same question. Don’t nobody know nothing about them boys except how they’ve been making a nuisance of themselves robbing the stage.”
Clay
