by Matt Kilby
“You put any thought into how you’ll do it?”
John glanced up from the flames. “I figured I’d take this gun and point it at them, pulling the trigger until they’re dead.”
“Sounds easy,” Lester said.
“Why not? All you need is the right amount of hate and a finger that bends.”
“Sure, but it can be hard too. Not just the killing. Without a plan, things are liable to go wrong, especially if you try to take on three. The meanest of them, the one who did all the talking, he’ll probably cut you down before you’re in range.”
“Lucky for me, I’ll have you to back me up,” John smiled, but the old man didn’t open either eye.
“Lucky for you, but I’ll take a good plan over luck every time.”
“I’m all ears,” John said.
“Let me dream one up for you,” Lester said, his voice almost a snore.
John sighed and wondered again what he was doing as he watched the old man’s chest rise and fall. This was their second conversation—the first he was sober for—and he trusted him more than he should. Lester Johnson, if that was his real name, could be daddy to those brothers. He might have been with them when they killed his Mary and hung back to make sure her dumb husband didn’t follow, steering him in the wrong direction if he did. Watching him sleep, he considered putting a bullet into Lester’s skull but didn’t trust his judgment. He thought about leaving him but didn’t do that either.
In the end, he decided he was still okay if dying was at the end of his road. Rising to stretch, he took what was left of the stripped branch and two large patches of squirrel skin, spreading each to make a new target. He stood at the stump, leaving the revolver in its holster and his right thumb in his belt. He remembered how Lester told him aim wasn’t important if you fired enough shots, so he slapped the handle and pulled as fast as he could. Sure enough, the barrel caught on the holster and fired before free, the bullet carving a hole in the leather and spraying dirt on the other side. It took a second to readjust and then he squeezed off shots until the hammer clicked dry. Lester shouted and sat up blinking. When he figured out what was happening, he tilted his head to look at the four holes John put in the squirrel skins.
“Not bad,” Lester looked over and dropped his eyes to the damaged holster, “but one of them got you. I think you proved both my points in a single shot.”
“I need to holster on the other side.”
“Better yet, you need a plan. One that doesn’t rely on you drawing that thing if you can help it.”
“Any ideas?”
“I might have one,” Lester smiled.
Two days later, John walked down a cattle-tramped road to a farm on the outskirts of Augusta, Georgia. Against his better judgment, he left his horse tied to a tree in a patch of forest two miles away and trusted the old man to his part of the plan—keeping the county sheriff occupied while he set to his dark work. He wore the horse-handled revolver as Lester recommended: handle facing forward for a cleaner draw if he needed one. The rifle was strapped to his right shoulder and a decent length of rope wrapped around his left. He looked for a place to stash both when close enough to see the cattle ranch and the shape of distant figures that might be the brothers he hunted. If so, he could relax in knowing Lester had come through with getting him where he needed to be. The road crested a hill at an oak tree and led down to a fenced-in property with too many cows to count. In a corner of that fence, John found a cluster of dead bushes where he could hide the rifle and rope and sit with his face between the slats, watching the lowing animals wander past.
According to Lester, the brothers talked about their ranch that night at Riley’s bar. He couldn’t remember the exact details but seemed sure enough to take at his word. As he sat in those bushes and waited to find out if this was the place, he figured it didn’t matter. If Lester sold him wrong, he’d just add his name to the list of men to kill.
Hours passed and the day grew colder as the sun offered its place to the moon. John sat and let impatience stoke his fire enough to not mind, though considered heading up among the cows to find the brothers and shoot them there. If he did, anything that went wrong would be his fault. Lester had given him a plan, and he had to admit it was a good one. It didn’t require him to use the revolver much, which was best since an extra day of practice didn’t help. He could still hit a target more times than not if he shot quick, and Lester taught him to fan the hammer with his free hand to do that faster, but it wasted bullets and emptied the gun too fast. Lester’s way would be cleaner, so he did what he was told and tied the rope, waiting for the sun to drop and the sky to turn orange and purple with its setting.
Before dark, a ranch hand called the cattle to the barn, and John listened to the voice. He couldn’t say for sure it was any of them since only one brother spoke enough to remember how he sounded. The younger had only spoken to say he saw someone fall out of the sky, and the other just giggled like an idiot at everything the officer said. He didn’t think it was the third, the one who’d beaten him, but he might sound different drunk. So he waited for the herd to thin and give him a chance at seeing the man from a distance. When he did, he almost shouted and, keeping his mouth firm, swore to find a way to pay Lester what he deserved. By the barn, the youngest of the three brothers counted the heads as they passed.
Knowing didn’t make him more patient. It pulled any heat he had left through his fingers to make them cold and stiff. As night came, he couldn’t keep from shivering as he stared at the house and imagined those murdering sons of bitches warm and eating supper. He thought again of taking the fight down onto the porch, kicking in the door and shooting until anything that moved went still. Then he thought of how little he knew about the ranch. Did the brothers own it or work there? Were any married or have children? He didn’t know and couldn’t bring himself to become like them, so he sat and rubbed his hands together to keep the blood flowing. After an hour, the front door opened to let out a warm, orange light and a shadow. He lost the shape on the porch but found it heading for the barn. With a horse’s snort, the man rode out and through the field to the fence’s gate. As he dismounted, John recognized the youngest brother again.
Reflex dropped his hand to the revolver’s handle, lingering long enough for him to make a better choice. A gunshot in that cold, quiet night would find him outnumbered fast, and just then he had the advantage. So he let the boy lead his horse through and close the gate, mounting up to click his teeth and send the animal forward at a trot. Only then did John crouch forward. He reached the shadow of the lone tree beside the road and peeked from behind, watching the boy ride toward town without a care. He crept from shadow to shadow, following until the rider stopped in front of a saloon. God bless Lester and his beautiful mind, John thought as the boy dismounted and hitched the reins to a nearby post. It was going as he said, though it couldn’t be that wild a guess to think a cowhand might drink his earnings as soon as he had them. Still, he was grateful as he stepped into the light of the streetlamps.
Now, he had to assume Lester did his part as he walked down the center of the street and veered toward the same door the boy entered. Vengeance would be short-lived if the old man didn’t lure the sheriff far enough from town to miss a gunshot or at least delay him seeking its source. To be safe, the plan was to avoid shooting the boy in town, but he would if there was no other way. As soon as the brother recognized him, John would make sure he didn’t warn the other two. There’d be no chance for second thoughts.
There was more than enough time for them as he walked into the saloon—twice the size as Riley’s but just as empty. It was another bit of fortune as John walked slow and deliberate to the bar. The boy sat in the middle, perched on a stool with his head hung low.
“You all right, Michael?” the bartender asked as he set a glass of whiskey by his hand.
“Tired is all.”
John remembered his voice. But I saw a man fall, that same slurring drawl said the las
t time he heard it, before those same hands held him for a beating. Slumped over the counter, he didn’t think Michael looked tired as much as guilty. He almost hated to take that burden off him.
“I’ll take one of those too,” he said, but only the barkeep glanced up.
“Sure thing.”
He went for the bottle and another glass. As he did, John kept his eyes on Michael, who stared into his own drink.
“What brings you to Augusta?” The barkeep set the half-empty glass in front of him.
“Passing through,” John said. “I’ve got business at a ranch here.”
“You don’t say,” the man laughed. “You hear that, Michael? This gentleman might be one of your customers. They say the world’s big, but I swear it feels smaller every day.”
Michael still didn’t look, his response a short nod as he gave in and drank, sputtering as he wiped his lips. Nervous or shy, the boy’s behavior must have been normal because the barkeep just kept smiling and shaking his head as if a cattle buyer coming into his saloon was nothing short of a miracle. John wondered how it’d feel in another minute.
“Where you from?” he asked next, and John got a feeling in his stomach this would be it. His answer wouldn’t just get the boy’s attention, it would confirm what he knew the moment he found Mary dead. Four words and Michael would know his payment had come due.
“Pine Haven, North Carolina,” John said and reached for his revolver as the boy snapped his head around. Michael took a backward step off his stool, sending it clattering in his wake, and John pulled the gun. As big as Michael’s eyes were, that got them bigger.
“Now look here,” the barkeep said as if words meant anything.
“Shut up,” John said without looking at him.
“I certainly will not,” he barked with an emphasis on the last word. He was lucky John was a good man with only retribution in mind or might have earned a bullet. So he understood, John turned the gun on him, aiming into his face. The barkeep was still defiant, so he pulled the hammer back, careful to keep his finger off the trigger. The man got the message, raising his hands next to his head.
“Get down behind that bar and don’t move. I hear one more word out of you, it will be the last you say.”
The barkeep dropped fast, sitting heavy on the wooden floor. It occurred to John it might not be the best idea to let him out of sight. He could have something behind the bar to complicate the situation, but when he walked to stare down the space, the man cowered where he dropped. With a glance down the shelves, he didn’t see more than empty bottles, so he came back around and noticed the way Michael eyed the door, as if willing himself to run.
“Don’t,” he said, but the boy must not have heard because he did the opposite. Before John could weigh his options, he fired a shot at Michael’s feet. He meant to scare him, but the bullet found his ankle and drew a shriek as the pain took his balance and crashed him to the floor. Even shot, he tried to rise, and John helped him with a firm hand on his elbow and the revolver’s barrel against his ribs.
“Try that again and I’ll split you.”
He pulled the boy through the door and hoped Lester came through but figured the shot would bring the sheriff anyway. Sticking around would only risk getting killed before he saw this finished, so he dragged Michael into the street and untethered his horse before he made him climb into the saddle and mounted behind him. He snapped the reins and aimed the horse toward the ranch, leaning to speak to the boy as they rode.
“Did you think I’d let you get away with it?”
“No, sir,” the boy whined. John almost felt sorry for him until he thought of his lifeless child inside Mary. He could smell the cold dirt he shoveled under the maple and was almost sick but held it back by clenching his teeth.
“Where are your brothers?” he seethed, and the boy shook his head until he pushed the gun into his side.
“They ain’t here,” he whimpered.
“Where?” John repeated.
“Don’t hurt them,” he blubbered. “Please. Pay me back for all of it and let them go.”
“Not a chance,” John growled. “Where?”
“Donald went to Athens,” he said with defeat in his voice. “He won’t be back until morning.”
“And the officer?”
“Back with his regiment.”
“Where can I find them?”
“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I can’t read his letters, but I think they rode west.”
The boy sounded tired, and John wondered if he lost too much blood. If so, he needed to hurry. He kicked the horse’s side to make it trot faster and saw the tree ahead. He doubted the boy would fight so holstered the revolver and reached into his coat for the rope he tied by the fence. His fingers found the noose, and he draped it around the boy’s neck. Michael’s body went rigid, but John pulled tight before he could cry out. The boy’s hands went to the rope, not realizing the better fight would be to knock John off the horse. John kept the noose tight with one hand while the other steered toward the tree. Beneath it, he drove his fist under the boy’s jaw. The blow left Michael dazed as John stood in the stirrups and reached for a thick-enough branch. He tied the free end of the rope to it and finished as the boy struggled again. Realizing he should have cut some off to bind his hands, he made do by holding his arms, hands clasped at his chest as he let the horse slide from under them. When they were free, his weight helped the boy drop, the rope breaking his neck with a snap. The fight went out of him, down his legs to puddle under his swaying boots. The rope creaked so loud, John thought it might break so dropped to the ground next to the stink of urine. He stared at the boy a moment and felt numb as he skirted the tree and walked down to the fence.
The night ahead was harder than the day. Back in the bushes, he leaned on the corner post and felt sleep calling him down. Despite the cold air and adrenaline racing through his blood, he could close his eyes a full day if he wanted.
That was the last thing he needed. Going to sleep risked missing the morning, maybe waking to the click of the sheriff’s sidearm when he found him snoring there. Or not even that. If the middle brother, the grinning idiot who hadn’t spoken a single word that night, came home as expected and found Michael swinging, his eyes might drift down the slope to the trespassing stranger. He might put it together fast, but as stupid as he seemed, he might need to walk down and see John close to understand. That understanding might make him pull a weapon or simply reach through the bush’s dead branches to pick up the rifle half-hidden under it. John might never wake at all as the pull of his own trigger sent him to find Mary. Waiting in the cold night, the creaking rope asked if he truly thought he would follow her up.
Hour after hour, he stared at the swinging silhouette, waiting to see if the next part of the plan went as smooth as the first. He wondered about the barkeep and whether he went to find the sheriff—why it was taking so long for one or the other to come. Of course, it was the last thing he wanted, forcing the hard decision of whether to take innocent blood along with the guilty. It was still strange and made him wonder what Lester did to occupy the sheriff. He reminded himself he didn’t know the old man. For all he did, he could have led him to some distant spot and killed him to keep him out of the way. The next question was whether he wanted to know, though curiosity would force him to ask as soon as they were together, even if the answer haunted his conscience the rest of his life.
But even haunting took time, and as he dwelled on the dangling bait a couple hundred feet away, hours slipped by. Black night became gray dawn and then orange fingers announced the rising sun. East was over the slope, so his view of the hanged boy was clearer. Another hour passed before hoof steps drew his eyes up the road.
The rider came with eyes down as if asleep and almost passed the tree before he looked up. Level with Michael’s corpse, he stopped his horse but didn’t react, staring at the dead boy as if deciding if he recognized him. Eventually he did, the shock lighting his fa
ce enough for John to know this was his man. With a wail, he slid from the horse and ran to his brother, embracing his legs and lifting him as if to save his life. John rose onto his knee and hoped he only needed one shot because he might not get a chance to load another. Pushing the thought away, he stared down the rifle’s sight to where the brother stood sobbing. Before he fired, the front door of the ranch house squealed open and a woman called out.
“Is that you, Donald?” she said and calm, which meant she couldn’t see the tree. “What are you doing making all that noise?”
He didn’t give Donald time to answer, firing with a blast that made the woman suck her next breath. The man stared down the hill and took a single step before his hand went to his chest. He pitched forward and didn’t move anymore, but even that didn’t bother the woman at the house.
“Donald?” she called instead, without any panic around the word. “Donald?”
Pulling the rifle’s strap around his shoulder, John stood to look at her. She had one arm around a porch beam and leaned into the open air—more curious than concerned. He kept track of her with short glances as he walked to where Donald lay with his face in the dead grass. He squatted and turned him over to find where he hit him, though the wound didn’t look like one to kill so quick. However it happened, he was almost finished. He just needed to find where the damned officer was stationed.
He rose again and stared past the pasture to the house, standing between the brother he hanged and the one he shot. If it bothered the woman, she didn’t show it. Instead, she stared back with her mouth half-open as if debating whether to talk or scream. When she didn’t do either, he understood.
“Donald! You answer me now!”
She had to be blind to stay so clueless of the two men lying dead up the hill—men she knew. Maybe they worked for her, but as he climbed over the fence, he swore the way her mouth curved into a constant pout was a mirror image of Michael. She was young enough to be his twin. John kept slow and quiet as far as he could but near the house scraped a boot on a half-buried stone. Her face jerked in his direction, and he met her clouded eyes, a beautiful gray despite being otherwise useless. She must have felt something on the wind that told her he wasn’t who she expected.
