Page 80 of Backtrack

Fully loaded, a Smith & Wesson model 27 revolver weighs a little over three pounds, every ounce of which Cutter applied to the side of Ricky Pink’s head with tremendous force.

The giant crumpled as if he’d been poleaxed. A blow like that carried a significant chance of brain damage. Couldn’t be helped. That was the life of an outlaw.

The entire fight had lasted less than two minutes.

Swaying on his feet, Cutter glanced up long enough to see Allen Duvall still limping across the open field—now almost two hundred yards away, almost to the tree line. Cutter cursed and yanked the cuffs from his belt with bloody hands. It took everything he could to roll Ricky Pink onto his belly. The kid groaned, pulling his arms inward like he might start to fight again.

“Enough,” Cutter snapped. “Next step’s a bullet if you want to go there!”

Shoulders heaving with sobs, Pink relaxed long enough for Cutter to get one hand cuffed.

“Hey, Cutter!”

Lafayette Johnson ran up the road, panting and blowing from what must have been an all-out sprint from his totaled patrol car.

“Throw me your cuffs,” Cutter yelled.

Pink’s shoulders were wide enough to necessitate two sets of handcuffs linked together.

Johnson ran up next to him and cuffed Pink’s free arm, pulling it around so Cutter could connect the two pairs.

“You got him?” Cutter asked as soon as he heard the zip of the cuff’s ratchet.

“Got him,” Johnson said.

Cutter used his knees to push himself to his feet, stifling a low groan through gritted teeth. Blood from a gash in his forehead curtained his face. His ribs were on fire, forcing short shallow breaths. He hobbled to his patrol car, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his forearm to retrieve the Model 94 Winchester out of his trunk. The gun was older than he was.

Johnson looked up from where he stooped beside a handcuffed Ricky Pink. “What are you doing?”

Cutter worked the lever, chambering a .30-30 round, then grabbed the fender of his patrol car to keep from falling over.

“Stopping Duvall.”

CHAPTER 33

Cutter leaned over the trunk, using the hot metal as a rest. It took some maneuvering, but he was able to situate himself so the pain in his ribs went from agonizing to bearable. The scalding metal felt almost therapeutic against his wounds. Brushing blood and debris from his eyes, he controlled his breathing. The open buckhorn sights on the .30-30 were less than optimum for a long-distance shot, but that was all he had. He thought of his father’s advice when he’d had to hunt with the .410 single shot and slugs.Better to use the gun in your hand than wish for something better while the target runs away.

Cutter blinked, resting his cheek against the warm walnut stock. He took a deep breath, released half, and then held it, squeezing the trigger.

Cutter had no idea what his bullet hit. But it wasn’t Duvall. At that distance, the fleeing outlaw was a blurry orb, completely eclipsed by the rifle’s front sight. Duvall stumbled and then picked up his pace. That was a good sign. The bullet had impacted the ground close enough to startle him.

Cutter worked the lever again, vaguely aware of spent brass tinkling on the gravel beside him as he chambered a fresh round. He sent another shot, then lifted his head a hair for a better look. Another miss. He cursed. Twenty more yards and Duvall would vanish into the tree line.

“No. You. Don’t,” Cutter whispered.

Behind him on the ground, Pink spat and cursed and rattled his cuffs, apoplectic.

“He’s running away, asshole!” he screamed. “You can’t just gun him down!”

Johnson put a knee on the kid’s leg and held him in place.

Cutter ignored the writhing Man Cub and adjusted his aim, blinking again to clear the blood and grit from his eyes. At that range, the Winchester lobbed .30 caliber rounds like a mortar, falling over two feet in elevation. Cutter lined up the front post in the center of the buckhorn rear sight and aimed as best he could at the back of Allen Duvall’s head before dropping the hammer.

The bullet left the barrel traveling around 2200 feet per second but dumped half its speed and energy by the time it reached the outlaw half a breath later. Cutter levered another round into the chamber, but when he blinked again, the man fell.

Sirens wailed and tires screeched as county deputies, Texas Highway Patrol, and Weatherford city officers swarmed the scene. Knees wobbly from pain and adrenaline, Cutter turned with his back to the Caprice and slid to the gravel, rifle across his lap. Two sheriff’s deputies trotted across the field to the lump that was the fleeing outlaw. Four more surrounded Ricky Lee Pink, patting him down for other weapons and then helping him to his feet.

DPS Trooper Teague squatted down beside Cutter and took the Winchester. “I’ll take care of this before you’re tempted to use it as a cane.”