My horse shuddered nervously as I guided her into the narrow passageway between the boulders. “Easy girl,” I whispered, stroking her mane gently. “We’re okay.” I was lying, of course. Whisper knew my vocal tones as well as the flies that followed us knew the reach of her tail.

I knew the canyon that lay ahead of us was a deathtrap, plain and simple. Between the bloodthirsty savages still calling the territory home, and the murderous train robbers I was trailing, and were almost certainly lying in wait for me in the narrow expanse ahead, I’d be lucky to make it out alive.

I’d never been one to be frightened off by a little danger, and I had the scars to prove it. As lawmen went, my quarry knew there were three possible outcomes once Packard Campbell, known in lawful circles as Marshal Blood, and by lowlife varmints as the Bloodhound, was on their scent. One, you ended up in jail, two, you ended up dead, or three, I ended up dead. It was usually number two. Seeing as I was still kicking up dust and bringing ne'er-do-wells to justice, option three had never played out. I'd been close, but close didn't offer up very favorable odds to those on the wrong side of the law.

“Woah girl.” I drew back on the reins, though Whisper had already stopped. She knew my body language, after all. She snorted nervously, clearing her sinuses, and took a whiff of the scent on the wind.

Gun oil. Fresh. I smelled it too. It traveled the breeze accompanied by the faint aromas of gunpowder, chewin’ tobacco, and sweat.

~

I dismounted and tied the reins to a loose branch of scrub brush jutting out from the wall next to us. I crept away from Whisper, who remained as silent as the eye of a storm, and ducked into a crevasse large enough to shield me from three of four sides. Digging a small, cracked mirror from my vest pocket, I scanned the narrow passage around me.

The Lubbock Gang consisted of six men: three brothers, two lifelong friends, and a well-paid hired gun. The odds of them scattering like exposed cellar rats at the first sign of danger were slim to none.

I spotted the first two men quickly. The hired gun, a former Confederate soldier turned mercenary known only as Bly, perched about twenty feet ahead and thirty feet up, at the top of the canyon wall. Bly carried a Marlin 1893 lever-action 30-30 and wore his pistol slung low on his right thigh. The butt of the gun faced forward so that he could cross-draw with his left hand. He was at close enough range to put a hole in me the size and relative messiness of a whorehouse spittoon. Bly crouched behind a sizable boulder, perfectly shielding him from the canyon’s point of entry, though from my vantage point, he was nothing more than a sitting duck in an old, tan leather duster.

Closest to Bly was Garrett Long; one dangerous third of the murderous Long brothers. The Long brothers were inseparable and had a strict fraternal code of honor that bound them more tightly than blood-brothers, making them some of the most feared and unpredictable outlaws to ever ride the range. Garrett was stretched out on his belly roughly ten feet from Bly, and resembled a huge rattlesnake, sunning itself casually in the desert heat. He was armed with a rifle, bolt-action, though I couldn’t determine the make from his hidden position. I like to know as much as possible about my quarry before heading into a firefight, including what kind of guns they’re packing. In the right hands, a firearm is nothing less than a physical extension of the wielder. Just like a boxer needs to know if their opponent is a right-hander or a southpaw, I need to know what manner of gun a man is holding.

It took another minute...