Sidewinders. William W. Johnstone

Scratch to the left.

      “Try not to bust up those rockers,” Bo called to his trail partner. “They’re pretty comfortable. Be a shame if they got broken.”

      “Yeah,” Scratch agreed. “Might upset Mrs. Sutherland, too.”

      Dave yelled, “You leave my mother out of this, saddle tramp!”

      Angus charged, swinging a malletlike fist at Bo’s head. At the same time, Culley barreled toward Scratch.

      Bo blocked Angus’s punch with the same sort of effortless ease that Scratch had demonstrated in kicking the two ruffians down the porch steps a few minutes earlier. In a continuation of the same movement, Bo’s right fist shot forward in a short, sharp blow that landed flush on Angus’s nose. Blood spurted under the impact. Angus staggered back with a howl of pain.

      He retreated only a couple of steps, though, before he caught himself and attacked again, this time windmilling punches at the black-clad stranger. Bo blocked the first few blows, but then one of Angus’s knobby fists clipped him on the jaw. Angus might be scrawny, but his punches packed plenty of power. Bo was knocked against the railing that ran along the front of the porch. With a shout of triumph, Angus crowded in on him, trying to seize and hold the advantage.

      Meanwhile, at the other end of the porch, Scratch had his hands full with Culley. The pocket-sized titan was slow, but even though Scratch was able to land several sizzling punches, Culley just shrugged them off. He appeared to be able to absorb as much punishment as Scratch wanted to deal out.

      At the same time he swung his tree-trunk-like arms in lumbering roundhouse blows that Scratch was able to avoid without much trouble. If one of those big fists ever landed, though, it would be like being hit with a piledriver. Scratch would go down hard.

      He didn’t intend to let that happen. He darted in and out, peppering Culley’s face with punches in hopes that sooner or later the fella’s brain would realize how badly it was being pummeled.

      To his horror, Scratch suddenly felt Culley’s arms snap closed around his torso like bands of steel, and he knew that he had made the mistake of getting too close. Scratch’s arms were still loose, but Culley just ignored the blows and squeezed. As those brawny arms tightened more and more, Scratch grunted and felt his ribs begin to creak.

      While Scratch was trying to deal with that bone-crushing threat, Bo thrust a foot between Angus’s ankles as the straw-haired man tried to crowd him into the railing. Angus lost his balance long enough for Bo to hook a left to his jaw and stagger him. Bo reached out, grabbed the front of Angus’s shirt, and heaved him around in a turn that sent Angus hard into the railing.

      The wooden rail was sturdy enough so that it didn’t break under the impact of Angus’s body. Instead, Angus’s momentum caused him to flip over the railing. With a startled cry at this unexpected turn of events, he fell to the ground in front of the porch.

      And landed right in those cactus roses.

      Bo winced at the sudden screeches of agony that came from Angus as his flesh was pierced by hundreds of the razor-sharp cactus needles. Angus tried to jump up, slipped and fell again, and just made his situation that much worse as he landed in the cactus again. He finally rolled clear of the spiny plants but continued shrieking in pain.

      Some of the roses had been crushed. Bo shook his head in regret at that. The blooms had been mighty pretty.

      He turned to see how Scratch was doing and was alarmed to see that Culley had Scratch trapped in a bear hug. Bo could see Scratch’s face over Culley’s shoulder. It was almost purple from the lack of air, and Scratch’s eyes were open wide in pain and desperation.

      Bo palmed out his Colt as his long legs carried him quickly to the other end of the porch. He raised the gun, reversing it as he did so, and brought the butt crashing down on Culley’s skull. Bo didn’t hold back, figuring that Culley was one hardheaded son of a gun. The blow landed with a heavy thunk!

      Culley just shook his head and kept squeezing.

      Bo hit him again, and this time Culley’s grip relaxed a little. It took a third wallop, though, before the baby bull finally let go. Scratch slipped out of the bone-crushing, suffocating embrace and slumped against the adobe wall of the building, his chest rising and falling violently as he tried to drag air back into lungs that were starved for it.

      Culley swung around ponderously toward Bo. His little piglike eyes still glittered with fury, but they glazed over as he took a step forward. The damage he had taken finally soaked all the way into his brain, and he pitched forward to land at Bo’s feet, out cold.

      Bo stepped over to Scratch and put a steadying hand on his friend’s arm. “You all right?” he asked.

      Scratch managed a shaky nod. “I…I will be…once I…catch my breath.”

      “Hey!” That was Dave Sutherland again. “You can’t do that!”

      Bo turned toward the young man, and saw that Dave seemed more sober now. Seeing his two friends being defeated like that must have gotten to him. Culley was unconscious, and Angus was curled up in a ball on the ground. He had stopped screaming, but was still whimpering pathetically.

      Furious, Dave reached for the gun holstered on his hip. Before he could even touch it, Bo’s Colt had flipped around again so that his hand was curled around the walnut grips and he had a finger on the trigger. The barrel was centered on the young man’s chest.

      “Don’t do it, Dave,” Bo said in a quiet, solemn tone. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t stand here and let you shoot me or Scratch either.”

      Dave stared at him, taken by surprise yet again. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Bo to react so swiftly. His hand hovered over the butt of his gun as he visibly struggled with the decision of what to do next.

      He was saved from having to make it by the sharp, angry voice that cut through the air. “Mr. Creel! What are you doing threatening my son?”

      CHAPTER 4

      Bo glanced to the right and saw Abigail Sutherland striding quickly along the street toward the stage line office. The old-timer, Ponderosa Pine, trailed several yards behind her, his right arm now in a sling and bandages swathing his wounded shoulder.

      Bo’s eyes flicked back to Dave, and saw that the youngster was trying to take advantage of the distraction. He had gripped the revolver on his hip and was hauling it out as fast as he could.

      The Colt in Bo’s hand roared. Dave let out a startled yelp, and clumsily dropped his gun as his hat went flying off his head. The weapon thudded to the ground at his feet.

      Abigail stopped short and gave a frightened cry before rushing forward again to get between her son and Bo. “Dave! Are you hurt?”

      Numbly, Dave shook his head. “No, I…I don’t think so.”

      Abigail spun around to glare at Bo, who had lowered his Colt but hadn’t holstered it yet. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “Why would you try to kill my son?”

      “No offense, ma’am,” Bo said, “but if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead now. I was just trying to shock a little sense into him.”

      “By shooting at him?”

      “Didn’t shoot at him,” Bo said. “I shot at his hat.”

      Abigail didn’t look like she thought there was much of a distinction there, but of course there was. She was just too mad to see it. She waved a hand at the still-whimpering Angus and said, “What happened here? What’s wrong with Angus?”

      Ponderosa had caught up by now. With a sour grin, he said, “Looks to me like that bullyin’, no-account varmint your boy calls a friend finally got his needin’s handed to him. He’s liable to be pickin’ cactus needles outta his mangy hide for a week, he’s got so many stuck in him.”

      Scratch had gotten his breath back. He