You don't cross Clint Savage if you want to go on living.
Savage's Colts roared, and he got three or four shots away before the return fire lashed back at him, sending him into a headlong dive that skinned his elbows and made him drop one gun.
Sprawled on his belly, he listened to the rattle of gunfire and the whine of the ricochets as lead zipped overhead.
The gunfire faded, and as quickly as it had come, the formidable procession swept away between the buttes.
With his chin resting on his fist, Savage watched the dust climb and slowly fade in the heated air.
He began thinking of death.
Not his.
Theirs.