James Axler – Demons of Eden

Suddenly the pirate leaped to his feet, eyes wide and filled with astonishment. The knife fell from his suddenly slack fingers, and as he turned slightly, Krysty saw a blue-rimmed hole in his temple. He swayed, sighed, sat down carefully, then fell facedown in the rocks. A red-edged, fist-sized cavity occupied the back of his head.

Weak-limbed and trembling, Krysty tried to rise. She made it to one knee and slowly turned her head in the direction of the pounding hoofbeats coming down the creek bed. Ryan cantered toward her, SIG-Sauer in hand.

He reined to a stop and swung out of the saddle. Standing over Krysty, he extended his left hand. “Why do you look so surprised, lover? You’re still alive.”

Relieved laughter rolled from Krysty’s throat. “I appreciate you telling me that.”

“Thought you might.”

Taking his hand, Krysty allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Then Ryan caught her up in a crushing embrace, and pressed his lips to her face.

Chapter Two

By the time Ryan and Krysty caught her horse and returned to the wind wag, Mildred had freed the woman and Jak had cut loose the skinned Indian and covered him with a tarp. Doc and J.B. were standing a watchful guard, blasters in hand. Doc’s weapon of choice was an old, ornately engraved Le Mat. The commemorative Civil War-era blaster had two barrels and an adjustable hammer. Like a shotgun, it fired a single .63-caliber round and, like a revolver, it had a chambered cylinder holding nine .44-caliber bullets.

A blanket was draped about the woman’s shoulders, and Mildred kneeled before her, offering her a tin cup. The contents had been poured from the earthenware jug. “This might help to steady you some.”

From what Ryan could see of the woman, she didn’t need steadying. She stared straight ahead, her blue eyes unblinking, her face expressionless. She took the cup, sipped it, then gulped the liquor in a single swallow.

Ryan gauged her age at twenty-something, though she could have been younger.

The pair of pirates lay where Ryan’s and Mildred’s shots had hammered them. Mildred had delivered a fatal head wound to one, and the other, lying on his side, had two holes in his torso. The ground around him was clotted with blood, bone fragments and bits of pink tissue Ryan identified as his lungs.

Krysty gestured to the poplar break. “One got away from me.”

Ryan clicked his horse toward the line of trees. “Let’s make sure he won’t be getting up.”

Krysty turned her bay to follow. Ryan noticed how she rubbed her rib cage and grimaced. She had taken a hard fall, perhaps even cracked a bone or two, but she wasn’t complaining. At the edge of the trees they dismounted and walked among them carefully. Krysty had reloaded her blaster and held it in a two-handed grip.

Ryan pointed the barrel of the SIG-Sauer at a narrow spattering of blood on the ground. The Winchester rifle lay nearby. “The one you back-shot.”

“His back was to me,” Krysty replied.

The trail of blood extended a few yards, then terminated at the bole of a tree. The bearded pirate sat against it, his face wet with sweat but locked in a mask of defiance and hate. He had his hands clasped over a hole in his midsection, where the .38-caliber slug had exited, and blood dribbled between his fingers. Ryan and Krysty stood and stared at the man for a long moment.

“Well?” the man challenged. “The day’s not gettin’ any younger.”

Ryan’s lips quirked in a cold half smile. He raised his blaster, finger crooking around the trigger. “Neither are you, stupe.”

The freebooter snorted contemptuously. “Once Jack and the rest of the Cadre starts howlin’ along your track, you ain’t got much to look forward to, either. You or that hell-haired gaudy slut.”

Krysty’s blaster came up in reflexive anger, and the pirate grinned at the hollow bore with red-filmed teeth.

“Where’s Hatchet Jack now?” Ryan demanded.

“Think I’d tell you?” The man’s grin twisted into a grimace. He coughed, and blood spilled out of his mouth and clung in gummy strands to his beard. “Chill me and be fucked, One-eye.”