by Rance Denton
“Let her go,” shouted Paul. The nearest horsemen jabbed a rifle into his collar. Eliza’s fingers kept dancing over the rosary. Her eyes squeezed shut. She prayed louder.
The horseman said, “You gonna fuck her, Partridge?"
“Maybe,” he said.
“I’ll find you and tear your guts out,” snarled Paul from the ground. Though his gentle hands were comforting vices around his children, I saw fury in him, ready to be unleashed. “You do anything to my wife and I swear to God, I’ll hunt you down and—“
“Knox?” said Partridge. ”If you’d please.”
The horseman named Knox promptly spun the rifle and bashed the butt of it down into the top of Paul Fulton’s head. Fulton dropped. One of the children wailed.
“Knox?” Partridge said. “You mind if I fuck the farmer’s wife?”
The rifle pointed back to me. Knox said, “Not at all, darlin’. You plug who you want to, just as long as you do me when you’re done.”
I urged every muscle into silence, kept myself reserved in the face of my friends being rounded up like cattle. When Partridge spoke, the barrel of his cap-and-ball revolver swayed in the air. “Gregdon clan’s a lot larger than you assume, Elias Faust. You killed one of our brothers, and we don’t take kindly to that. You mangled Curtis something awful. We don’t approve of that neither. Some are born Gregdons, while others—“ he motioned to Knox, to himself “—are just accepted in through other means."
“Big family you got."
“It’ll get bigger. The Magnate will see to that in his own way. We’re always growing. It’s just what we do. The Gregdon family understands that you’re just doing what you think is right, Faust, so that’s why we want to give you a chance to actually do something right. You disarm yourself, give us your guns, and we’ll let the pretty thing here go free—“ he shook Eliza, who cradled herself, “—along with the rest of her family.”
“That’s all you want? My guns?”
“And for you to come with us. Boss wants to see you.”
“The boss?”
“Magnate Gregdon. You killed his son,” Partridge said. “Least you can do is come speak to the man.”
Knox said from above me, “Hey, Part?”
“Yeah?”
“He got something in his hand.”
Partridge’s stare felt like oil on my skin. “Give it to her, Faust.”
“Gimme,” she said. I slapped the tin into her gloved palm. She opened it carefully and then let out a quick laugh. “Smokes. Our marshal comes with a gift.”
Knox took a rolled cigarette from the bunch along with a match. Partridge pushed Eliza harshly down to the ground and then caught the tin as Knox threw it. He proceeded to pass it around to his friends, who all happily took a free cigarette. Matches flared. Knox let out a choked cough and all of the other gunmen snorted or chuckled. “Shut the hell up,” she snarled.
“Good smokes,” Partridge said, savoring his, the pistol still pointed at me.
“I have good taste.”
Just about then, the cigarette that had been dangling from my mouth finally died out. With a careful, obvious motion, I took it out and flicked it, showing no threat.
“Drop the guns,” said Partridge from behind a twisting serpent of smoke. “Shotgun first. Belt second. I don't want to take you off to the Magnate with you thinking you can blast your way out of the conversation. Kill a man's son, no matter what for, no matter the reason why, you owe him a visit."
“And you're the welcoming party?”
“I wouldn't call us welcoming. We're your escorts to be sure you don't try anything we don't approve of.”
I did as he asked. I laid the loaded coach-gun on the hard ground and then unbuckled my Colts. I reckon this Partridge was right. You take the life of a man’s boy, whatever the reason, he’s probably earned a chance for you to tell him straight. Courtesies and all. Of course, it wasn’t until this moment that I’d thought of the Gregdon Twins as anything but motherless swindlers in the first place. Pretty bad when you begin forgetting that everybody’s subject to certain biological truths – like being someone’s child – no matter how heinous they are.
There’s another biological truth, too.
Without excitement or grandeur, I clapped. Twice.
I saw the damage before I heard the noise.
Knox was taking in another mouthful of smoke when she jerked in the saddle. The thunder of a distant rifle shot drew the attention of all of the gunmen away from me.
The bullet took her in the throat just under the hand she raised to finger her cigarette. Warm blood splashed on my cheek. Knox gargled around a mouthful of liquid. Curls of half-inhaled smoke wisped out of the hole in the front of her neck. She slid off of her horse and crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
“He’s got a gunman,” Partridge yelled. He fired at me. His pistol bucked and a flash lit up everything around us.
The sudden pressure of the report throbbed in my eyeballs. A round whistled off just over my shoulder. I dropped to the ground, ripping both of my Colts out of their holsters and firing simultaneously. I wasn’t as interested in Partridge as I was his goons, so the first shot was meant for one of the footmen behind him, and I guess it hit. I heard a yelp of pain and the shadow began to stagger, trying to find cover.
Another greeting from Cicero’s rifle. Just as the other horseman tried to rear his horse away, his head whipped backwards hard enough to cause something to snap under his skin. Burning sparks from his cigarette sprayed across the ground. Both of the horses ran in separate directions, spooked by the noise.
They had taken the bait. With the cigarettes, Cicero had an easy time aiming for faces in the dark.
Partridge was only two or three yards away, but the children, Paul, and Eliza were so near that I didn’t want to risk further gunfire. Just as he was about to shoot again, I threw myself forward and slammed a shoulder into his chest, knocking his revolver into the air. I heard the breath whisk out of him.
We landed in a heap on the brittle grass. With his suddenly unoccupied hand, he punched me across the jaw. He shouted, “Harman, you know what to do. Light the goddamned place up.” With the riflemen dead and one other goon wounded, the only still-mobile member of the Gregdon crew sprinted for the barn, leaping sloppily over the wooden fence.
I laid into Partridge, bashing my fist across the side of his head. He hammered one into my kidneys, but I kept trying to crush his head into the dirt. He started laughing.
“This is just like you, Faust.”
I hit him in the nose. It crushed under my knuckles. Blood ran fresh.
In the corner of my eye, Eliza was trying to usher her children away. Partridge reached for one of my Colts, but before his fingers could touch it, I smashed them under an elbow.
He let out a cry of pain. He thrust up and threw me off of him, managing to roll me over just enough so he could stagger to his feet. Instead of going for a gun, he slammed a foot into my ribs and blew the air out of me. Then the side of his boot caught me in the teeth. Stars exploded in my eyes.
My mouth closed on something hard. A tooth. I spit it out with a mouthful of blood.
“Killed plenty of lawmen in my time, Faust.”
He balled his fist up and punched me in the left eye. For a moment I went blind. My arms flailed in the darkness before I fell back on my spine. My hands patted the ground frantically, trying to find one of my guns. Partridge found his first. He stomped on my knuckles and aimed at my face.
“Billy Gregdon was your last mistake,” said Partridge.
“Thought your Magnate wanted to talk to me.”
“He did, but exceptions can be made. Harman?”
“I’m trying to light it,” shouted the last standing outlaw.
“Then do it!”
“I’m trying,” came the response from near the barn.
Partridge turned back to me. “You got rules and so do I, Faust. Always have a contingency. I was hoping I would
n't have to go through with this part, but...” he shrugged. “It’s not that simple now.”
Right after Partridge stopped talking, I heard a victorious howl from near the barn. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a flicker of fire caught my attention. Harman’s black silhouette waved a match and then dropped it.
With a bloody grin, Partridge said, “‘Hamstring the horses, and burn their chariots with fire.’ Joshua 11:6. Magnate’s taking a Promised Land back by force, Faust.”
Blue and orange fire lit up the night, streaking in a liquid beam across the grass. It rushed for the nearly completed barn, eating up a line of kerosene all the way to the stacked hay.
“No,” I heard Eliza cry.
In a great explosion of brightness, the haystack went up. The fire didn’t take long to latch to the new wood. It spread wild and unhindered across the wall, flicking toward the roof. Partridge said, “You could have just dropped your guns and come nice and easy, but that would have been too hard for a righteous man like you, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it, Marshal Faust.”
“Probably,” said someone in the dark. “But that’s Marshal Asshole to you.”
Partridge spun, his gun at the ready. A whole rifle swung over me and smashed him in the busted mouth. Teeth clattered to the ground like rain. Partridge pitched over.
Cicero set the butt of the Yellowboy on the ground and pulled me to my feet. “You owe me twofold,” he said.
I shook the confusion out of my head and pointed toward Eliza, who was huddled over Paul and the children, sobbing hysterically. “You take care of the Fultons.”
“What are you going to do, stomp on the fire?”
I picked up one of my Colts and started to run for the burning barn. “Kill someone,” I yelled.
I raised my Colt shakily as I sprinted. The man named Harman was still surveying the damage he had done, watching the flames spread.
I was twenty feet away when I started to fire.
The Colt bellowed. I worked the hammer and fired a second time. Harman spun, almost leaping, going for his own holster. My third shot went high, but it scared him. “Jesus Christ,” I heard him hiss to himself. “Oh, God.”
The muzzle of his revolver flashed. The round fell short, punching into the grass. I ran until the muscles in my legs burned.
I was five feet away from him when I recognized him.
I still think he had some of the powdered sugar from the Fat Bastard on his upper lip. He had been the other patron at the Crooked Cocoon when I had eaten breakfast with the Fultons. Realizing who he was was akin to being bucked off a horse.
He knew the Fultons were my friends.
He knew how to make the Gregdons draw me in.
I knew why burning the barn was their backup plan.
Harman dropped his gun and raised his hands.
I jabbed the barrel of the Colt into Harman’s stomach and pulled the trigger. His body quieted the blast. Even through the blood, I flicked the hammer and fired again. I kept working the hammer until my fingers were too slippery, until the gun just kept clicking when I squeezed the trigger.
He fell to the side, squealing, trying to scoop whole pieces back into himself. I sprinted for the burning barn. A crown of fire already danced on its roof. I holstered my guns and pulled a handkerchief from my back pocket before throwing myself willy-nilly into the fire.
Heat blasted into me as I shouldered through the main doors, tossing them wide. Billows of smoke already roiled restlessly within, desperately trying to find a way out. Flames licked up along the inside walls. Just like Paul had said, there were no stalls. Just bare soil on the floor, covered with some hay, and a tall ladder leading to a loft about ten feet high.
I saw a figure up there, standing at the lip. I knew exactly who it was.
“Joshua,” I shouted.
I crossed the barn floor in several great strides and threw myself onto the ladder, clambering to the top no matter how many splinters slit into my hands. The smoke fogged my vision, magnified the heat. I coughed into my handkerchief and rushed toward Joshua Fulton, who stood perched on the edge of an old chair.
“Come on, kid,” I said, reaching for him.
He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes – one sharp and blue, the other a faded green – were afraid. He didn’t have much to say around the gag pulled tight into his mouth. Carved on his forehead, the word HORSE gleamed red.
They had him tied up like a hog for slaughter. His arms were strapped behind his back with laces of hemp. A noose was around his neck, drawn just enough to touch his skin. The rope had been tied over one of the beams above. I looked at the chair, thinking I could have stood on it to pull the noose off, but no luck: Joshua was balanced on three out of the four legs because one was missing. Sick bastards.
“Joshua,” I said. “I’m going to get you down out of there. You hear me?”
He nodded, his feet wriggling on the chair to keep it steady.
The loft was just as empty as the downstairs save a pile of old books that Joshua must have brought up with him. An extinguished candle sat beside them. There was nothing to cut him down with. I had left my knife at the office. My eye caught something shining in the fire on the loft floor.
Liquid. It ran a trail from the wall of the loft to the weak chair on which Joshua was balanced. The burning haystack was just on the other side of the wall. Smoke and fire poured into the barn through the slits in the boards.
Without a sound, flame crawled along the line of kerosene, racing for Joshua’s chair.
The kid could either hang from above or burn from below, and given enough time, one or the other was going to happen.
The heat and smoke and fire grew worse, spreading fast. I had enough light to see by, at least, but it only revealed that there wasn’t anything to use.
Unless…
I ran at the wall burning from the haystack outside and began to kick the boards. Suffocating sparks sprayed each time. If I could get one loose I might have a chance. After a few kicks, the smoldering wood broke.
I needed to be quick. The place was all structure and no contents. The only thing to burn was the barn itself, and that wouldn’t take but a few more minutes.
After breaking the wood, I grabbed one of the adjacent boards and tried to pull it free. My fingers burned, searing fast. I hissed but kept pulling even when the fire began to crawl into the new hole and spread up the inside wall.
When the board came loose, I staggered and fell on my ass. After getting to my feet, I dragged the edge of the board through the line of burning kerosene and wielded it like a torch. Joshua’s stare was wide and frightened.
“Duck your head,” I said, pressing the burning board up against the rope from which he was hanging. Joshua’s feet kept dancing on the chair, trying to avoid the spreading fire. It started to lick at his pantlegs.
The ceiling of the barn was a wild storm of smoke and orange-and-black flames. The moaning of the fiery barn was as loud as a steam-engine. Tongues of fire peeked up through the floor of the loft. The smoke rolled over us. Little strips of braided rope began to snap free as my makeshift torch started burning them. As each fiber broke loose, Joshua jerked.
He was almost loose when the burning chair gave in.
It crumpled beneath him into ash and embers, sending him into a spinning swing. I heard him gag. His cheeks bulged and his eyes looked like they were going to burst from their sockets. His feet kicked like broken clock-hands.
Joshua’s tongue whipped out. Spittle dripped to the floor, his legs jittering left and right.
Then he went slack.
I couldn't see anything, not anymore. The world was all distorted. I thought I heard a crack of thunder through it all, but rather than rumbling, it bellowed, the roar of wood and structure finally giving into its own weakness.
A black beam fell down to the loft just beside me, its one end giving way. It smashed into the wooden platform and sent up a searing geyser of fire. Joshua fell right beside it. Th
e rope had been tied to it. His eyes snapped wide open, his mouth spasming for breath.
Even through the gag, I heard him scream. His face contorted in pain. The beam lay across him, and I couldn’t see his legs underneath its edge. From his left hand, something tiny and forgettable fell. It clattered to the loft’s floor, found a gap between two boards a little too small for it to fall between, and began to roll away from us.
Gleaming. Perfectly round. Like a musket-ball, polished to a mirrored silver.
I tried to lift the beam. Lightning shot up through my shoulders and back as I tried to push it off. My hands cooked, but I didn’t care. If I could move it just enough, I could drag him out from under it...
I heard the floor under us belch, crack. It started to fold inward.
The loft gave way.
It shattered with a deafening crack and dropped us down, sucking us into a hole made out of burning wood and hot, hot hell. I think I screamed. I only wished Joshua could have done the same. As we tumbled, I kept reaching out for him. I found nothing but handfuls of scorching cinder.
The burning debris collapsed on us, covering our bodies. Hot sparks seared my lungs and boiled in my eyes.
I read somewhere one time that death was supposed to be dark, but I guess the genius who wrote that had never been caught in a collapsing barn. White hot relief followed the burning pain. Beside me, Joshua’s tiny artifact fell into scorching ash. I closed my hand over it.
Darkness.
15
Mouthful of ash. Flickers of consciousness. A flood of relentless pain. Dragging, dragging, scraping, being dragged…
“Ma’am, please talk to me. What’s your name?” a man said above me.
A weak little voice said, “Eliza. Mrs. Eliza Fulton.”
"Mrs. Fulton, I know you feel like what you’re doing is the right thing, but I can assure you—“
“Shut up,” she said.
“I understand what you want to do, but I don’t believe—“
