What Bullets Can't Kill

By Shari Branning

His six-guns aren't going to solve this problem...

Rebel soldier turned gunslinger Nat Rider has seen more fights than he can ever hope to forget, and earned a violent reputation he can't outrun.
After barely surviving an encounter with a mysterious, bloodthirsty beast, he is unwillingly drawn into the hunt for it. But is this monster the only thing stalking the hills?
He needs to find answers fast, because this unearthly threat has decided Rider should die next, and it's not worried about his guns.

What Bullets Can't Kill is a standalone novella

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shari Branning
• Release date: Nov 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393882817

Book preview

Chapter One

Luck, Legend, and Miss Scarlett

WHEN NAT RIDER CAME into town he was on a tired, dust-colored horse, with a pack of his own personal demons riding herd on him. He didn’t inspire a second glance from most of the townsfolk he passed, except for a few who took note of the twin gun belts he wore across either hip, the holsters riding low and tied down. Aside from them, he looked like any other dusty cowpoke, carrying enough grit and grime from the trail that he could shake it loose and stake a claim on it.

His dusty Indian pony, Lady, drifted to a stop of her own will outside the saloon and stuck her face in the water trough while Rider climbed down and threw her reins over the hitching rail. He stalked—his movements too stiff to call it anything else—through the batwing doors and out of the sun’s glare. Blinking, he let his eyes adjust to the light before venturing in.

A slicked-up dandy leaning against the bar took one look at Rider and straightened to attention, dropping his elbows off the counter and curling a protective hand around his bottle of sarsaparilla.

Sarsaparilla, Rider snorted to himself. The stranger drank like he dressed. Out of habit he made note of the man’s guns—matching, pearl-handled revolvers in fancy tooled holsters on a low-slung gun belt. His black shirt looked crisp and new, his black hat adorned with silver studs. He must think himself quite the man.

Rider took note and then glanced away to size up the other occupants of the room. A couple of older gents played cards at a corner table, while at another, a group of half-drunk cowpokes harassed the barmaid. No one but the dandy paid Rider any mind.

He dropped onto one of the barstools with a sigh, raising a puff of dust from his clothes, and set his hat on the bar next to him. His hair, an indeterminate shade between blond and brown, stuck to his head and neck. Chopped off at irregular lengths from his shoulders to his ears, once it was free of the hat it immediately tried to stick to his face as well. He combed it back with his fingers and found it full of grit.

It was getting on toward dinner time, and another handful of men trooped in while Rider was ordering a bowl of chili—the only thing on the menu—and a coffee. These were a tougher, edgier crowd. All of them wore guns, and they spread out around the room like a pack of hunting wolves, swapping glances at each other. They spotted Rider and the dandy right off and measured them up, dismissing the dandy and the table of drunks just like Rider himself had. They took their time measuring him. He turned his back on them.

He’d just taken his first bite of chili when a feminine yelp drew his attention to the other side of the room. He looked up in time to watch the barmaid wallop one of the young drunks upside the head with her serving tray.

This ain’t that kind of a place, and I ain’t that kind of a girl! she snarled.

Rider’s eyebrows twitched. He hadn’t paid her much mind before, lost in his thoughts and the miles of trail behind him when she’d brought his meal. Now she looked fit to ignite in fury. The offending cowpoke toppled from his chair amid guffaws from his friends.

Ow! What’d you do that for? he protested from the sawdust floor. You said you was lookin’ for a man.

A specific man, you dog-brained son of a goat! She turned in a swirl of ruffled green skirts and marched away, only to be stopped by one of the newcomers, who grabbed her by the arm.

Rider’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he watched, and from the corner of his eye he saw that the dandy had taken an interest as well, dropping his elbows off the counter and setting down his sarsaparilla.

What specific man might you be looking for, sweetheart? the man asked.

A rancher. Tall, dark, wears a mustache and carries an antique muzzleloader long rifle. Have you seen him?

Maybe, maybe not. What’s he to you? 

Have you seen him or haven’t you? Her eyes took on a gleam of attack again and her fingers whitened on the serving tray.

No man worth his salt would let his woman work in a place like this. Why don’t you forget about him and give some thought to me.

A couple of his friends chuckled. Rider set his spoon back in the bowl and reached casually to loosen his guns in their holsters. The older gents playing cards in the corner exchanged a look, then got up and shuffled out. Most of the young drunks followed, leaving one of their friends snoring with his head on the table.

The girl wrenched her arm out of the man’s grasp, or she tried to. He didn’t let go. Instead of struggling or screeching at him she went still. Her fiery brown eyes turned cold and her voice flat. Let go."

Where’s you come from, sweetheart? You look too clean and new-like to work in a place like this.

Let me go, she warned him again in that flat voice.

What if I tell you about your man? What would it earn me?

She didn’t answer him for a moment, her dark eyes flickering over his face before she decided, You might know something, but you’re not going to tell me.

He laughed. Sure I will. For the right price.

How about this? She brought the serving tray up and jabbed him in the side of the neck with its edge. He went limp as a boned fish, his hand slipping from her arm. She flipped the tray around and fetched him a blow to the back of his head that sent him face-first into his beer.

Well boys—going to shoot an unarmed woman? She stood there in the middle of the room, all five feet of her, and looked down her nose at them. Get to it then.

A couple of them looked uncomfortable, glancing from Rider to the dandy next to him. The others drew closer around the girl.

No call to be doing that to him, said one of them. You answer that question now. What’s that man to you—the one you’re looking for?

She raised one dark eyebrow into an elegant arch and jerked her chin toward the unlucky bully. What’s this one to you, that you should care?

He looked confused by the question. One of the others glanced at Rider and the dandy.

You boys should head out. We don’t want no trouble with you, but we’ve got business with this piece of calico here.

Seems like the lady doesn’t want trouble with any of you either, though, the dandy said, tilting his hat back. He had a blunt, boyish face with blue eyes and curly, near-black hair. He gave them an easy grin, flashing dimples. Rider had thought he looked like a fool kid before, but now he suddenly wondered if he’d dismissed him out of hand, as something in his manner changed.

She’s looking for trouble. She attacked our friend.

I’d say he attacked her, Ride spoke up.

You calling me a liar?

Rider sighed. What I’m saying is, you shouldn’t go bothering a lady. It could be hazardous to your health. Just ask your friend there. He nodded to the bully with a face full of beer who was stirring and trying to sit up.

The man squinted at Rider. I know you. He took a step forward, fixating on Rider instead of the girl, while the others watched. Several hands went to their guns. You’re that gunslinger. Lefty Rider. ‘Fastest gun in the west.’ He said it in a mocking tone, then added a derisive snort for good measure. I’ve been called fast myself a time or two.

Good for you. Rider slid reluctantly from the stool while his gaze flicked from the man to the girl behind him. He didn’t like the way things lined up. If he had to shoot, it might get her, even if it went through the man first.

She met his gaze and seemed to understand, for she moved to the side, out of line of both him and the dandy. None of the others seemed to notice, their attention now on him. But she had her hand in a fold of her skirt, probably a hidden pocket. He doubted she was as unarmed as she had claimed.

I don’t care for your tone, Mister.

Rider turned his attention back to the addle-head in front of him. Alright.

You should apologize. Now.

Rider eyed him distastefully. Look, hombre, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’d like to be left alone. I’d apologize if I thought it would let me get back to dinner, but I’m beginning to think the only thing that will make you happy is if I shoot you. If that’s so, then let’s get it over with.

The man went red in the face and grabbed for his gun. Rider drew before he cleared leather, his shot taking the man through the hand as he raised it, knocking the gun away. The man stared blankly for a moment at the bleeding mess attached to his wrist before horror dawned and he started to yell.

One of the others went for a gun, and suddenly the dandy, whose hands had been empty a split second ago was holding both of his pearl-handled revolvers. One of them cracked, and someone else yelled. The group looked downright jumpy now, glancing between themselves, then at Rider and the dandy.

That’s enough, said a voice behind them. Rider felt the unmistakable prod of a double-barreled shotgun poking him in the back. Apparently the barkeep had decided to put in an appearance at last.

The dandy swung one of his guns to cover the barkeep, flashing a dimpled grin. I just love me a good standoff.

The whole room seemed to take a breath and hold onto it for an expectant moment as gun smoke and alcohol fumes hung in the air. Then the girl stepped around the crowd of hard men, picking her way along the wall to the front of the room. When she drew up in front of the bar she pulled her hand from her hidden pocket and with it a little snub-nosed pistol which she aimed at the barkeep’s head.

Oliver, I can’t say I’m surprised that you’d side with these ruffians. Still, I’ll take my leave now. Kindly get me my wages.

Oliver hesitated.

Better do it, the dandy drawled, keeping one eye and one gun on the barkeep and the other on the ruffians, as the little lady had called them.

The shotgun left Rider’s back, clinking softly as Oliver set it down on the bar. I’d’a fired you anyway, he said. You’s too prudish for this job.

You said it was a respectable job and that I wouldn’t be manhandled, she shot back. Stepping up to the bar to take the money the barkeep held out brought her right up next to Rider, whose eyes hadn’t left the group in the middle of the room. She pocketed her money then gave his arm a quick squeeze. Thank you.

He nodded.

Better get going, ma’am, the dandy said. We’ll be right behind you.

She put her little revolver away and went to the door. Rider and the dandy backed out after her, shoulder to shoulder, with their guns covering the room. Out on the boardwalk they all hustled away from the doors and a direct line of fire, should anyone inside decide to start shooting.

Guess we better light a shuck, the dandy said. Something’s telling me we just used up our welcome in there.

Rider had to agree, though he sighed inwardly and thought of the bowl of chili he’d barely touched. Will you be alright ma’am? You have somewhere to go? he asked the girl.

She glanced out at the street and then back to him. I was going to leave on the next stage west.

That won’t be for a while, the dandy said. I just come in with the stage, but it’s headed back east tomorrow. Next west-bound one won’t be for another week.

I shall have to buy a horse then. She touched the pocket where she’d hidden her money.

Rider and the dandy exchanged a worried look. Inside the saloon, someone’s voice raised enough that they could hear him say, Get Tommy and Jones to the doc if you want, but I’m riding after them two-bit gunslingers, and don’t forget we have our orders about the little whore.

Time to git, the dandy said. Two steps took him the hitching rail, where he leapt onto the back of a big appaloosa. Rider was half a step behind him in mounting his own tired animal. The girl hesitated on the boardwalk, looking with concern back toward the saloon until the dandy held out a hand to her. Ma’am?

She took his hand and he hoisted her on behind his saddle, where she perched awkwardly on top of his bedroll.

They wheeled the horses and took off up the street just as the batwing doors slapped open. A gun spoke, the bullet tugging on Rider’s sleeve. Poor Lady, who’d already made a full day’s hard ride, forgot about the miles behind them and lit out like she had a string of firecrackers tied to her tail. They galloped side by side with the appaloosa till they’d left town behind, lost to a few miles of scrub brush and boulders, then slowed to a walk. Rider turned off the trail to pick his way through a stand of trees alongside a shallow creek, and the others followed. They stopped and let the horses drink.

I’m very sorry about all this, the girl said as she slid down from the horse, untangling her skirts from the bedroll and saddlebags. I’ve dragged you both into my troubles, and I don’t even know your names. She turned her big brown eyes on Rider. The man back there called you a gunfighter. Lefty...

Rider, he said. Nat Rider. Call me Nat, if you’d