by Matt Kilby
As the world headed toward night, the shadows swallowed the alley. Between the dark and quiet, the only thing clear was Delmar didn’t bang on a plow blade back there. The deepest parts of the dark were enough to hold the three brothers and their cousins. He crept to listen, but the only sound was his mule grunting hello. His plow still balanced on the cart with two twisted blades. Delmar was lucky he wouldn’t see him until he sobered. If not for a threat nagging his mind, he would go find out what was more important than helping a friend. Drunk, he’d do that with his fists, but there were other things to worry about. Pulling the mule’s reins, he directed it from the dark to climb on its back without breaking his neck.
Halfway home, clouds he never noticed gathering broke to drive sleet over his head. The melting water leaked down his collar and trickled over his spine, forcing a shiver before reaching his pants. Soaked in seconds, he tugged his hat lower and wondered how drunk he had to be not to recognize a coming storm. The mule quit after another couple steps, and he kicked as hard as he dared in its side. It trotted sideways as if trying to both listen and escape back to town.
“You head back, you’ll spend the night in that alley,” he muttered and felt stupid as the freezing rain sobered him.
“I bet he’s tired of carrying a bigger jackass on his back,” a now-familiar voice called behind him. John turned to see the brothers from the saloon on horses spread across the road. In the center, the snake with the holstered revolver smiled.
“You don’t know when to quit,” John glared.
“And you don’t know how to apologize,” the man dismounted. “I came to fix that.”
“Take off that gun and make it fair,” John said, keeping his seat, though the mule was restless. “Then we’ll see who fixes who.”
“I don’t care much for fair,” the man stopped in the space between his brothers and John. “Winning is satisfying however it comes. But I promise you this: you’ll take your lumps here or with your wife beside you.”
John weighed his options in silence and decided he didn’t want Mary involved. If he broke for home, if the mule listened, they would ride him down. They would find out where he lived, and he couldn’t have that. So he slid off the mule’s back and trudged through the mud to where the man waited.
“Good choice. You boys get down here and hold him,” the man called to his brothers. The idiot came quick, but the other hesitated.
“I meant now,” the man looked over his shoulder, and John took that as an opportunity. He swung a fist and caught his chin, reeling him back toward the horses, though the man kept his feet. John expected him to come up with his gun drawn and for his life to end a moment after, but he stood laughing. He rubbed his jaw and turned to his youngest brother.
“Either he pays for that or you do,” he growled, and the boy went to John’s other side.
“Hold him,” the man told them again and they did, turning him so he stared down the road toward home.
The man drew his revolver. “You know where I got this?”
John thought of answers that would see him shot but didn’t say anything.
“I was in a war. Same as my brothers. Same as you, if you weren’t too chickenshit. If you fought, I’m sure you know who got to carry these.”
John did but kept his mouth shut. Everything made sense now—the man’s pride and belief he could do whatever he wanted. He was a confederate officer, though John couldn’t guess his rank. It didn’t matter. He was in charge of Southern men and came home with the belief he still had authority: that war was on hiatus until the confederacy regrouped. Until then, he fought anyone who didn’t pay the appropriate reverence.
Before the man said another word, thunder cracked and a blinding light opened the sky. At first, he thought lightning, but it lingered in the air near his farm like a floating door. On his right, the youngest brother gasped.
“What the fuck is that?” he yelled. The officer turned to look.
John didn’t. He took his second chance, this time going for the revolver. He might have gotten to it if the idiot’s hand didn’t hover over his shoulder, grabbing his shirt as soon as he moved.
“Richard,” the voice called, and the officer snapped his attention back to him. John had both hands out for the gun, but he pulled back and swung the handle down into his forehead. John staggered to sit on the wet road, and the idiot brother took hold of his shoulder. If not for the clouds, John would have thought the stars were out, some hovering over the man’s face. The boy still gawked at the sky, the officer shoving him as he stepped forward.
“Get over here and help us.”
“But I saw a man fall,” he stammered.
“You can’t hold your liquor,” the officer shook his head as he bent to crack the revolver across John’s head again. “Keep talking, you’ll end up like this dumbass.”
The idiot laughed and nodded as his brother hit John a third time, this one taking any initiative out of him. He was conscious, but his body went limp, his head falling into the mud. He stared into the rain, dazed as the water slipped down his nostrils and threatened to drown him. Though he had to turn his head, his neck wouldn’t listen, and he panicked at the thought he forgot how. He would have died in minutes, but the officer’s voice came from somewhere above.
“At least get his body out of the road. We can’t spend all night watching imaginary men drop out of the sky.”
The boy listened and came to John’s side, this time to help lift while the idiot took his other arm and Richard his legs. They walked him to the side of the road and tossed his body into the brush.
“Is he dead?” one asked, John too far gone to make out their voices.
“I don’t think so,” another answered. “But I doubt he’ll start a fight with another stranger.”
The officer laughed as he walked away. If he said anything else, John didn’t hear as a welt tightened his forehead, the alcohol surging through his blood to bring him down into dreamless sleep.
When he woke, the rain had stopped, but the clouds remained to choke out the moonlight. His skull ached, half from the knot in his brow and the rest from a hangover. Half-frozen, he crawled out of the ditch and knew better than to expect his mule stayed but still cussed to discover it didn’t. Alone, he sat up and tried to stand when the nausea eased. It was hard to keep his feet under him as he staggered home, angling his steps to look straight. At that pace, half a mile felt like twenty, but he reached his field and then the barn. The door stood open.
He tried to take comfort in the quiet, telling himself Mary would call for him if three roughnecks held her against her will. He didn’t latch the door after he wheeled out the cart and the wind blew it open. None of those assurances got rid of the weight that told him something bad happened. The closer he got, the harder it was to ignore. Close enough for the barn’s shadows to recede, he took a breath as if it would stave off the inevitable.
His mule stood next to Mary’s still body. She was on her stomach with blood around her, most at her head. He slipped into the dirt, choking on sharp breaths through his open mouth. It took a minute to gather enough air to release the moan building inside him. He crawled toward his murdered wife, on his elbows until he could touch her hair. Then, he lay beside her and wept.
He lost track of how long he stared into Mary’s lifeless face. All he could tell from the outside world was it was still dark when he pulled himself to his feet, deciding what to do next. The first thing was to bury her, so he went for his shovel. There was no question where she should rest, his feet turned toward the hill before he decided to point them that way. Their life together started there so should end there, in the shade of the maple where he might still sit with her when he rested.
Alone.
The word stuck as he dug a grave for her and their dead child. He thought of all the potential the future had that morning, even a sorry one where they lost their land and tried for better opportunities out west. He thought about how it started with that roc
k in the furrow and considered going for his rifle to shoot the damned old mule in the head, but it was his own dumb fault for not seeing it. It didn’t seem fair to think about killing the mule but begging off when the blame was on him, so he thought of that same walk, this time with the intent of blowing his own head off. In the field where the day went sour or the barn where he found her. Maybe with his back to that tree, hoping his soul mingled with hers on the way out. When the hole reached his shoulders, he leaned on the shovel, deciding against suicide. Even if it was his mistake, there were three men who deserved retribution more. Before he put another thought toward dying, he intended to see they got it.
He carried Mary out of the barn like they were just married. He lowered her into the ground as if she would ever feel discomfort again. One hand eased her head to rest, and there he found the crater in her skull and sticky damp of blood in her hair. The wound couldn’t have been caused by the same gun waved in his face last night. From what the war taught him about bullet wounds, her face would have been in worse shape if they shot her, but how didn’t matter, only what was done. In the dark of her final resting place, he kissed her temple and the tight bulge in her middle that would have been his son or daughter and then covered her.
Morning’s first light peeked over the horizon by the time the work was done. Though exhausted, he didn’t stop, even to sit a few minutes by her fresh grave. He stumbled toward the barn again, so hard he might have still been drunk. He gathered a saw, chisel, and hammer and lit a lantern by his work table, going past to the wall to find a place where the wood was sturdy. He sawed out a square, the winter wind whistling through the new window. At the table, he put the chisel to the square and tapped with the hammer—light at first but then as hard as necessary to carve a thick line. He worked another hour and stopped when his arms were too limp to listen anymore. With his hands pressed on either side of the marker, he read what he wrote.
“My Mary, Fore I lay beside you, I’ll get my revenge. John.”
He wasn’t sure about the spelling, but she wouldn’t care. Though it was a piece of their barn with crooked letters, she would have told him it was the most precious thing in the world. His breath caught with the realization she would never tell him anything again, but his eyes kept dry as he carried the marker to plant near her head. With nothing left in him, he walked to the house and inside to bed. He wanted to leave then, but his eyes were closing and sleep tugging him down.
In his dreams, he chose a different path. Instead of following the brothers to Georgia, he went west and found the promised land everyone talked about—Eden restored with virgin fields and clean streams so full of fish they jumped into a fisherman’s net. Though the first years were tough, thinking about how better life would be if Mary and their baby were with him, he moved on. Before he got too old, he met a new wife who bore him five healthy sons and two perfect daughters. Their farm grew to rival even Oscar Hovington’s, though that name and Pine Haven were distant memories. So were the hill and its maple and the woman buried beneath. As the dream ended, his eyes snapped open into the bright afternoon. He rolled over to sit on the edge of the dirt-soiled bed with his face in his hands, unable to stomach any future where he moved on. Even if she would have wanted that for him, he demanded more.
He stood and felt stronger with a few hours of sleep. His head didn’t ache so bad, and the swelling only bothered him as he washed his face and pressed the rag too hard. His clothes were stained with blood and dirt, so he changed them and inspected himself in Mary’s mirror. He didn’t think anyone would take notice of him, which was important if he wanted to disappear before people realized what had happened. He didn’t think anyone would doubt his story, but the time to tell it would only put distance between him and the men he wanted to kill. There was just one stop to make before he left, so he saddled the mule with his Hawken rifle strapped behind him and rode into Pine Haven.
Delmar’s door stood open as he walked up and inside, shutting it behind him and turning the lock. The blacksmith glanced up at the sound and smiled at John but must have seen something in his eyes. His expression fell as he came around the counter, and John met him halfway. With his forearm under his chin, he drove him backward to the wall.
“John?” Delmar squeaked.
“You were supposed to fix it yesterday.”
“I told you the money had to come first,” Delmar said. “Hovington sent someone for me, and I had to go. What’s happened?”
“Too much,” John dropped his eyes. Whatever hate he had for his friend drained when he did. “I got into a mess. Some men attacked me on the road and then they killed Mary.”
“What?” Delmar’s eyes widened. He took John’s elbows to hold him steady.
“I buried her under our maple with a marker at her head. Promise me you won’t let them take it down.”
If Delmar had any idea what he asked, he shook it off quick. “You need to see Sheriff Otley, John. Put him after the men who did this.”
“No. I’m going myself.”
“John,” Delmar said. “You were never much of a soldier. You head off to a fight, we’ll bury you next.”
“That might be best, but I don’t aim to die until they do first.”
“Tell me how to talk you out of it,” Delmar begged.
“You can’t, but I do need your help.”
“No,” he shook his head again.
“I need supplies,” John continued as if he didn’t hear. “I’ll trade my mule for your horse, and you can take everything else I own for all the gunpowder and shot you can spare.”
“What I have isn’t worth all that.”
“It is to me,” John said.
Delmar stared at his feet, thinking. He glanced up with a nod.
“If you’re set on this, I can give you something better. But it’s at my house.”
“I can’t go,” John said. “Mable will ask about Mary, and I won’t lie about her.”
“That’s fine,” Delmar said. “Wait here.”
“They’re getting away.”
“They been doing that all day, so what’s another hour?”
He had a point, so John let him leave. It didn’t take the whole hour for him to return, but forty-five minutes was enough to wear out the floor pacing. Then Delmar clomped up to the door. He came in with a bundle of leather, carrying it to the counter.
“I never told you what I found on my way home from the war,” he beamed. “I don’t know why I kept it from you. I guess I thought you’d tell me to give it back.”
“Give what back?” John squinted.
Delmar unfolded a long duster coat. A holstered revolver with a horse’s head carved in the grip sat on the cloth with a large box of bullets.
“I found it in some bushes without a soul around to claim it.”
“Somebody hid it for a reason,” John eyed him.
“Somebody did, but they either forgot or were killed before they got it back.”
“Or came an hour after you and wondered who the hell robbed them.”
“If you’d rather look for them than find the men who killed Mary, be my guest. You might survive that trip. Otherwise, just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” John echoed. “The coat?”
“Mable made it for me, but I never had reason to wear it. I think it suits you better. When you get back, you can tell me how it saved your life.”
“I don’t think I’m coming back,” John said.
Delmar nodded and chewed his lip. “I hope this makes up for the plow. If I’d known—”
“No,” John put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “If blame was that easy, it’d be my fault before yours. I’m serious about the farm. The deed is in the chest at the foot of the bed. Maybe you’ll get more out of it than I could.”
“Be careful, John,” Delmar said.
John strapped the holster around his waist and put the duster on his back. He didn’t say another word or look back as he walked out to the horse Delma
r left hitched to the post. He didn’t look around at the town or say goodbye in his mind as he put the bullets into his saddle bag and moved the rifle from the mule. He climbed into the saddle and started south toward Georgia, kicking it to gallop past the courthouse.
2
Footsteps outside interrupted the cowboy, and he looked at the door, his brow creased and focus firmed on the wood. He stared as if he saw the other side and snatched the revolver at Carly’s feet, heading for the peephole in a blur.
Carly watched and tried to decide who was crazier—him pretending to be John Valance or her for starting to believe. It couldn’t be possible, despite the sober way he told his story and the undeniable fact any withdrawal pain faded when he touched her. Something in his voice kept the sickness back too, though there were rational explanations. He could have hypnotized her when he walked into her living room in South Carolina, doing the same to Snead so he couldn’t see him. Though far-fetched, she found it easier to swallow than the other option. That only left why, and as she worked on it, she stared at the gun in his hand.
“So you got that from your blacksmith friend?”
“Yes,” he answered without taking his eye from the peephole.
“Your coat too?”
“Yes.”
“And in a hundred and fifty years never thought about updating them?”
“No.”
It frustrated her to be back to short answers after everything he told her, but whatever was outside distracted him. She doubted he’d tell her what that was either.
“So some assholes murdered your wife, and you went and murdered them back. Do you realize how obsessed Pine Haven got wondering about that? We spent a whole day on it in sophomore history.”
“I knew Delmar would never tell,” he said, and at least it was more than yes or no.
“No shit,” she huffed, though even the small laugh made her stomach hurt. “I could have used him in high school.”
“What does that mean?” he asked and turned his head.
