Comstock Cross Fire
Comstock Cross Fire
“Joe Moss announced. “But it’s probably not Dalton and Eli because this one is alone and riding a black horse without a saddle.”
Ransom Holt picked up his rifle and waited.
“Is it a Paiute?” Fiona asked, squinting into the afternoon sun.
“Nope,” Joe told her. “Paiutes ride better’n this fella and they’re usually smaller.”
“It’s Eli,” Ransom announced with disgust. “Dammit, something must have gone wrong in Placerville!”
Joe and Fiona, shackled and chained, stood and waited along with Ransom Holt. When Eli finally reined the sweating horse in and slipped off its bare back, he staggered and then collapsed, still holding the Sharps rifle but having little else on his person.
“What happened?” Ransom Holt demanded, towering over the exhausted man. “Where’s your brother and the horses you left here on?”
“We got into a terrible fix,” Eli said, shaking his head. “Ran into trouble in Placerville and—”
Holt reached down and jerked the smaller man to his feet and shook him hard.
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