#208   Arizona Renegades

#211   Badlands Bloodbath

   The yipping and howling grew to a crescendo.
   Facing straight ahead, Fargo came to the far side of the thicket.   He was moving so fast, he didn't see a man coming the other way until they were right on top of one another.  They both halted in their tracks.
  It was hard to say which one of them was more surprised, Fargo or the Apache returning to camp, his arms laden with firewood.  But the Apache reacted first.   Dropping the branches, he swooped forward like a bird of prey....

   Fargo had risked his neck enough.   It was time to end it quickly.  He had only ten feet to cover; three long strides and he would be on Lyndon like a falling tree.  One blow to batter the shotgun aside, another to knock the man down, and it would be over.  Just like that.
   But George Lyndon wasn't the buffoon Fargo had assumed.  For as the Trailsman shot toward him, Lyndon spun, his expensive English shotgun now rock steady and fixed on Fargo's abdomen.
   "Die, you vermin!"
   Fargo couldn't dodge, and there was nowhere to seek cover.
   He was as good as dead.