Dragons Teeth Crichton 2017 (WWT)

Johnson and Miss Emily ducked down. Bullets whined all around them, and the coach rocked as
the men moved above them. Johnson peeked over the sill and saw Wyatt Earp running, splashing
through the river toward the far shore.
“He’s leaving! Wyatt’s leaving us!” Johnson cried, and then a fusillade sent him diving for cover
again.
“He wouldn’t abandon us,” Emily said.
“He just did!” Johnson shouted. He was completely panicked. Suddenly the coach door swung
open and Johnson screamed as Tiny threw himself in, landing on top of them.
Tiny was gasping and white-faced; he pulled the door shut as a half dozen bullets splintered the
wood.
“What’s happening?” Johnson asked.
“Ain’t no place for me out there,” Tiny said.
“But what’s happening?”
“We’re stuck in the middle of the damn river, that’s what’s happening,” Tiny said. “They killed one
of the team, so we ain’t going nowhere, and the Earp boys are shooting away like blazes. Wyatt took
off.”
“They have a plan?”
“I surely hope so,” Tiny said. “’Cause I don’t.” As the gunfire continued, he clasped his hands
together and closed his eyes. His lips twitched.
“What’re you doing?”
“Praying,” Tiny said. “You better, too. ’Cause if Black Dick takes this stage, he’ll just naturally kill
us all.”
In the reddish afternoon light, the stagecoach sat immobile in the middle of Spring Creek. On top of
the stage, Morgan Earp lay flat and fired into the trees on the opposite shore. Wyatt made it safely to
the far bank, and plunged into the pinewoods opposite.
Almost immediately, the shooting from the far side diminished: the Curry gang had something new
to worry about now.
Then from the far shore there was a shotgun blast and a loud scream, agonizing. It trailed away into
silence. After a moment, another shotgun blast, and a strangled cry.
The Curry gang stopped firing at the coach.
Then a voice cried, “Don’t shoot, Wyatt, please don’t—” and another blast.
Suddenly half a dozen voices on the far shore were shouting to each other, and then they heard
horses galloping off.
And then nothing.
Morgan Earp knocked on the roof of the coach. “It’s finished,” he said. “They’re gone. You can
breathe now.”
The passengers inside struggled to their feet, brushed themselves off. Johnson looked out and saw
Wyatt Earp standing on the far bank, grinning. His sawed-off shotgun hung loosely in his hand.
He walked slowly back through the stream toward them. “First rule of a bushwhacking,” he said.
“Always run toward the direction of fire, not away.”
“How many’d you kill?” Johnson asked. “All of them?”
Earp grinned again. “None of them.”
“None of them?”