He checked his Winchester and six shooter. He did not need to check his kirpan, it was always with him, ready to give good service.

The Sikh rolled away from the dying horse, pulling the Winchester from its scabbard. He looked in the direction of the sound. The assassins were up in the hills, too far away to see. The distance was too great for the Sikh’s Winchester to reach.

Dirt and rock kicked up around him. He was in the open and the assassin was aiming for his saffron-colored turban, clearly illuminated in the morning sunlight.

He dashed forward, moving a bit closer, and made it to a rise. The shooter could no longer see him and stopped firing.  Mr. Singh sat listening, the bad man not more than a hundred yards away. He could hear him speaking loudly to another person and was certain he’d have two men to kill.

He checked his Winchester and six shooter. He did not need to check his kirpan, it was always with him, ready to give good service.

He listened to the men for a while. The wind had changed and was blowing their words to him and he could tell for certain there were only two of them. They joked and laughed and he could tell that they’d likely been drinking all night. They were going to shoot him and make sport of it.

He looked the terrain over. They’d not sit around and wait for long and he thought about ambushing them when they came down. If they were on foot it would be easier, but they’d likely be mounted. This was taking too long. The men were lazy and bent on stretching this execution out. They were in no hurry to attack him. Allingham