by Jory Sherman
Amos took two steps toward me, then collapsed. Blood soaked the ground beneath him as he gasped for breath.
The outhouse collapsed, what was left of it, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
I walked over to Amos and kicked the rifle out of his hand, away from his reach.
He looked up at me, his eyes rheumy with pain.
“Who—who are you?” he gasped.
“For you, Pettigrew,” I said, “it’s Sundown.”
“Sundown,” he said with his last breath, as if the word was a puzzle he would never figure out.
I walked down to the river where Kate was filling the wooden pails.
“Kate, it’s over,” I said. “You don’t need to fill another bucket for those folks.”
She turned and looked at me in bewilderment. She looked like a frightened fawn. Her eyes were wide and her lips quivered in fear.
“Jared?”
“Yes. Come, Kate. We’ll ride up to Becky’s and start all over.”
“I—I’m not a prisoner anymore?”
“No. Never again.”
I took my sister in my arms and held her tightly until her trembling stopped. We did not go near the house. I didn’t want her to see what I had done. On the ride to Becky’s, she came out of her stupor and began to talk.
“I was scared they might kill you if you came after me, Jared. I wanted to run away with you.”
“I know. It’s over now.”
“Do you like Rebecca? She was the only one who was nice to me.”
“Yes. She’s a nice woman.”
“She’s pretty too.”
“Yes. She is pretty. Very pretty.”
“Did you—did you kill her father and her brother?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“I think she already knows, Kate.”
“You like her, don’t you, Jared?”
“Yes. I like Becky a lot.”
She squeezed me with her arms. I patted her hand.
“Good,” she said with a sigh.
The sun cleared the foothills and showered us with golden warmth. There was a fresh scent to the pines that had been laden with dew. It felt good to have my little sister sitting behind me on horseback, free, finally. We had been on a long journey, she and I, and now we were heading for a place that looked like home.
And maybe, I thought, it would be our home.
Someday.
