by Jory Sherman
“Like you did those men in Lawrence,” Jed yelled.
“You bastard. You don’t know nothin’ about Lawrence.” “I know you killed four innocent men in cold blood.”
“Damn you. I’m tired of fooling with you. I’m coming to get you, Brand.”
Jed pulled his head back in just as Jellico fired another round at him. The bullet chipped off a wedge of wood on the post and sent splinters flying. Some small ones stung Jed’s face. His breath came hard again. He looked over at Simpson, who was hugging the ground as if trying to make himself even flatter than he was. Simpson was unarmed and Jed hoped Jellico would ignore him and not take his life.
He looked back through the crack in the stall. He heard movement, something that sounded like shuffling, like feet skating through loose straw. But he couldn’t see Jellico. What was the man up to? He wondered.
It was quiet for a few moments. Then he heard the sound of rapid footsteps. When he looked, he saw Jellico running to the opposite side of the barn, toward the stalls there. He was hunched over, his pistol in his right hand.
Jed knew what Jellico was going to do. He was going to try and outflank him. He braced himself for Jellico’s next move.
Jellico slipped into the farthest stall. Jed heard the door creak. It did not slam shut.
He stared straight at the stall. In the silence, all he heard was the buzzing of the horseflies he had not noticed before. They made a sound like bacon frying and some of them dove at his eyes and landed on his hat. He ignored them and watched that last stall, waiting for Jellico to make his next move.
Seconds ticked by.
Jed poked his pistol through a slat and rested it on the board. If Jellico showed himself, he was ready to tick off a shot. He aimed the muzzle directly at the stall door.
Sweat began to trickle out from under his hat brim, streak down his forehead and neck. The sweat made him itch, but he didn’t scratch. The flies came at the sweat and he could feel their sticky hairy feet walking around on his skin. The waiting seemed interminable. The silence roared.
Then he heard the slap of wood, the creak of a board, the noisy clatter of someone scrambling over the whipsawed boards that framed the stalls. He saw movement across the empty space between the rows of cubicles. It was too dark to see clearly, but he saw a shape slithering over the top of the last stall and then disappearing into the next. He knew what Jellico was doing. He was moving closer, stall by stall, so that he would end up across from him, with a direct line of fire into his stall.
The thin lumber would not stop a bullet. Jed knew that. If Jellico got into position and started shooting straight at him, it would be only a matter of time and a quantity of bullets before he was riddled with lead. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of being shot to pieces while he sat there, blind to his killer, helpless to fight back.
Again, Jed waited as the silence inside the barn swelled and became almost palpable. He heard the pounding of horses’ hooves on hard ground and then saw a group of men ride by in front of the stable, down the street, heading out of town, presumably on the trail of Colter and his men. The riders were almost processional, seemingly not in any hurry to catch up with three armed and dangerous bank robbers.
That’s when Jellico made his next move, scrambling out of one stall into the next one, coming closer to Jed.
Simpson made his move then. He got to his feet and duck-walked straight toward the stall that Jed was in. He moved fast and when he got to the door, he hurled himself inside, digging a furrow through the thick fresh straw.
“God,” Simpson said in a low whisper as he turned over and looked at Jed.
“You should have picked another stall, Wilbur. Do you see what Jellico is doing?”
“I figgered it out. He’s going to spray lead in here as soon as he gets in that opposite stall across the way.”
Simpson pulled himself into a sitting position and scooted next to Jed, behind him so that Jed’s body would block any bullets fired at him. Jed didn’t mind. He would have done the same thing.
Jellico had two more stalls to go. It grew quiet again. Jed slid down, so that he was prone, presented less of a target. He pushed the snout of his pistol through the opening just above the bottom slat, aimed it at the place where he knew Jellico to be. Behind him, Simpson lay down, too, his breathing loud as he puffed for oxygen.
“Good,” Jellico yelled across the way. “You both can damn well die in there. Simpson, you’re a dumb sonofabitch.”
Jed turned around, touched a finger to his lips, indicating that Simpson should not give Jellico the satisfaction of an answer.
“Brand,” Jellico said, in a voice loud enough to carry across the gap between them, “you can still come out and save yourself. All I want is the reward money. Ain’t no need for you to die over a few dollars.”
Jed could not stand Jellico’s lying. He kept thinking of what the man had done in Lawrence.
“Is that what you told those men in Lawrence when you talked them out of the house, Jellico? Did you tell them they could surrender and would not be harmed?”
“Brand, you should have been there. It was war. Yeah, you should have been there. Your pa was. He was right alongside of me on that raid. Didn’t know that, did you?”
Jed twitched all over as if Jellico had rammed a knife into his belly and was twisting it. He winced as if he had been slammed in the mouth with a driving fist that came out of nowhere. His mind reeled and he felt a dizziness come over him as if he were about to faint.
His father? Was Jellico lying again? What did Jellico know about Jed’s father?
“Shut your lying mouth, Jellico. My father was never in Lawrence. He wasn’t a damned killer like you.”
But the moment he said it, Jed knew that Jellico was telling the truth. And it made him sick inside, made him want to crawl up into a ball and hide from that truth. He was sick, and he gasped for air to keep from vomiting. The air inside the barn became foul and thick and the horse flies and the bluebottles swarmed at his face and dove for his eyes and he closed them to block out the hideous words still echoing in his brain.
Anger boiled inside Jed and tears scratched at his eyes like the gas from shaved onions. His hand gripped his pistol more tightly and his index finger began to slide along the trigger. He wanted to kill. He wanted to kill Jellico to shut him up and wipe out the lie about his father.
CHAPTER
24
JELLICO CLIMBED INTO THE NEXT STALL. HE MOVED TOO fast for Jed to crack off a shot. One minute Jellico was there, slithering over the top board like a lizard, the next he was gone, dropped down into the closed stall where Jed could not see him.
“Knowed your pa well, Brand. Your ma’s name is Ellen, right? Yeah, old Jim used to talk about her a lot.”
Jellico’s words ripped into Jed’s heart like daggers. His father. James Brand. If Jellico was lying, he was doing a pretty good job of it. His words hurt. Jed fought to bring his raging emotions under control. All of the years his father had been gone dropped away and he saw his face clearly in his mind. Saw his smile, heard his gruff laugh, saw him sitting at the table, making jokes with him and Dan, making his mother laugh.
True, his father had left home just after the Civil War began, late in ’62, he thought. He might have been against the abolitionists, but Jed wasn’t sure. Even so, why would he have gone to Missouri and joined up with Quantrill? It didn’t make sense. And if he had done that, he must have had a very good reason. Was he like Colter and Jellico? Had he been that way all his life, and neither his mother, brother, nor he, had ever suspected that he had such a dark side? Jed wrestled with that notion but he only succeeded in complicating the puzzle even further.
“Don’t let Jellico get your goat, Jed,” Simpson whispered from behind him. “Don’t pay him no nevermind.”
“What if what he’s saying is true?”
“Then there’s nothing you can do about it. Lawrence was a long time ago.”
“Brand?” Jelli
co again.
Jed stiffened.
“You’re a damned liar, Jellico.”
“I just wanted to tell you something, boy. That name you got is pretty fitting. Brand. That’s what you got on you. A brand. The way you shot Robbie reminded me of your pa. Old Jim was a good shot, too. And as hard as they come when it came to killin’. Yep, you got that same brand on you, Brand. The killer brand. The outlaw brand.”
“You don’t know my father,” Jed called out. “He’s dead.”
“Oh no he ain’t. He’s alive and well, son. And, just like you, he’s ridin’ the owlhoot trail.”
Jed clenched his lips, the anger in him building into a blinding rage. He turned to Simpson.
“Don’t you have any horses boarded?”
“Nope,” Simpson said. “Only had them three what belonged to Colter and them other two, Burns and Norton.”
“Well, Jellico has two more empty stalls to go to before he gets where he can see us plain through the open door of this one.”
“Yep. But, you can do the same as him. How many cartridges you got on your belt?”
“I don’t know. Sixteen. Eighteen, maybe.”
“Just start making it hot for him in that stall where he is. Maybe you can draw him out in the open. Just don’t waste all your bullets.”
“That’s an idea,” Jed admitted.
It was something to do. It was better than sitting there in that empty stall waiting for Jellico to get into position where he could pick him and Simpson off like turtles on a log.
“If I shoot at him, I’ll draw his fire,” Jed told Simpson. “You might catch a bullet.”
“Might anyways.”
“I like your attitude, Wilbur,” Jed said with a wry grin. He felt the tension easing in him. Action was better than inaction, he reasoned. It would keep his mind off other things, and Wilbur could be right. If he fired into the stall where Jellico was, he might draw the man out. He could certainly make him think a minute before climbing over the wall into the next empty stall.
Jed drew a breath and slid his finger along the edge of the trigger. He looked for movement where Jellico was. It was so dark, he could see nothing. He tried to figure out where he might be inside that stall. In the center? Near the wall he planned to climb over? He didn’t want to waste ammunition, but he wanted to try and shoot Jellico even if he had to do it blind.
Jed aimed the barrel just to the right of the center of the stall. He pulled the gun back from between the boards so the barrel wouldn’t poke out. He would be shooting through boards. Maybe he could kill Jellico with a splinter, or at least, draw blood.
He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. The Colt bucked in his hand as the powder exploded. White smoke burst from the muzzle of his pistol, obscuring his view. He knew that if Jellico was watching he would see the muzzle flash and have a target for his return fire. But Jed held his position and quickly cocked the revolver again. He slid the barrel over to the right a fraction of an inch more and fired once again. He heard the bullets smash into the wood and fracture the boards, splintering them as they passed through. He listened for a yell from Jellico, a sound that would tell him he had struck him.
“You hear anything, Wilbur?”
“Nope. You missed him.”
“Maybe I hit him in the head and he’s lyin’ in there dead.”
“Yeah, and maybe pigs got wings.”
As if in reply to their wonderment, a shot rang out. Both Jed and Wilbur ducked. A bullet crashed into the stall, about a foot over their heads, tearing through the outer boards, showering them both with splinters. The bullet lodged in the back wall with a resounding thwack.
Jed raised his head slightly to look at the other stall where Jellico was. The door eased open as if Jellico had nudged it open with his foot. Then he appeared just inside the door, gun in hand.
“There he is,” Jed breathed.
Jellico stood there, staring straight at him. Then he took a step and stood there, framed in the doorway.
“He’s comin’ out,” Simpson whispered.
“He’s hurt.”
“Maybe.”
Jed got to his feet. He stepped out of the stall, his pistol cocked and ready.
“You got lucky, Brand,” Jellico rasped. His left arm dangled at his side, the sleeve drenched with blood. “I’m still goin’ to kill you.”
As Jed watched, Jellico began to lift his right arm to point his pistol at Jed. It seemed to take a great effort. Jellico’s arm rose very slowly and Jed thought his hand might be shaking.
Just for a split second, Jed thought about what he was going to do. He had already killed one man, but it hadn’t sunk in yet. Now, he was about to kill another. He knew he could get off a shot before Jellico ever got his revolver level. Something his father had told him and Dan flashed through his mind in that split second.
“Don’t never hesitate if you got to shoot a man who’s tryin’ to kill you,” his father had said. “Don’t even think about it. Just shoot. And shoot to kill.”
No sooner had Jed thought of that when Jellico’s manner changed, as if he had been transformed, brought back to life from the dead. Jellico went into a fighting crouch and his right arm came up like lightning. He seemed to lunge forward without moving and his pistol barked in his hand, spewing fire and smoke like a miniature dragon, the roar of it as loud as a cannon inside the barn.
Jed was already reacting when Jellico made that remarkable transformation.
As if some strange form of electric energy had ripped through him, Jed felt his fear vanish. His anger leaped to the fore in his brain, and he saw Jellico as the enemy, as a killer etched out of the background and standing stark and vivid before him. Jed charged straight for the gunfighter and the move probably saved his life.
As Jellico fired, Jed was running at full burst straight at his attacker, pistol held close to his side just above hip level. He seemed to startle Jellico, who struggled to cock his hammer a second time. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, so he thumbed the hammer back with the thumb of his right hand.
Too late.
Jed ran up to him and fired point-blank into Jellico’s gut. Then he fanned the hammer back with his left hand and, as Jellico stiffened in pain and tottered on the brink of eternity, Jed put his pistol inches away from the center of Jellico’s forehead.
He squeezed the trigger and felt the kick of the .44 as it exploded in his hand. The bullet smashed through Jellico’s forehead and ripped through his brain, turning it to mush. A rosy spray spewed from the back of Jellico’s head as half of the back of his skull flew away like a china saucer. Brain matter exploded like balls of bloody cotton from the gaping wound in the back of the gunman’s head. His eyes darkened to black agate and his face collapsed like melting wax.
Jellico’s legs turned to rubber and he crumpled into a heap, his pistol still gripped in his hand as the muscles in his arm and wrist contracted. The acrid smell of smoke drifted up to Jed’s nostrils, stinging the inner membrane. Without thinking he cocked the pistol again, the rage on his face like a red battle flag, flaring crimson as he stood over the dead man. Stood over him, ready to kill Jellico again.
And again.
Forever.
Even into eternity.
CHAPTER
25
JED STOOD THERE, STARING DOWN AT JELLICO ’S LIFEless body at the crumpled heap that had once been a living man.
The impact of what he had done was not yet clear and resident in his mind. It was as if someone else were standing there, an empty observer, caught for a moment in a timeless universe, suspended outside of the living world, a shapeless, thoughtless wraith floating on the edge of death, a place devoid of movement, of senses, of feelings. He felt hollow, drained, as if Jellico had taken some part of him into that netherworld of darkness where he had gone a few moments before.
What part of my life have you taken with you in death? What essence of my life have you stolen from me with your dying?
He looked at the small black hole in Jellico’s forehead, the blown apart back of his head that was oozing brain matter like so much cornmeal mush.
Shoot to kill, his father had said.
Easy words to say, but when you blew a man’s brains out, you blew away his breath, his body, his life, leaving nothing but a pile of rags covering an empty shell. The sightless eyes of the dead Jellico had grayed over and were fixed on some point of nothingness half a foot away, in the dirt and straw of the barn floor.
Jed felt a sinking sensation as if the bottom of the earth had dropped out from under him and left his stomach suspended in airless space and his thoughts spun around in his brain like a waterspout twisting across a foam-crested ocean. And then he felt as if he were standing on a vast empty plain, a place devoid of all life, deserted, abandoned under a black sky with a black sun hovering over a silent nothingness. In his ears, then, the soft roaring like the sound in a seashell, like a miniature wind sprung up from the spiraled ear of a hollow conch.
Simpson appeared by Jed’s side. A hand touched his arm at the elbow as if to lead him back into reality.
“Jed,” Simpson said.
Jed shook his head as if to shake out the desolate images inside, as if to bring himself back into a world where time existed, where things moved, where life flourished in the wake of a floodtide that had once roared across the land, sweeping all into its maw and leaving only silence and desolation behind.
“Huh?”
“You killed Jellico. I never seen anything like it. You run up on him and just blew his goddamned brains out.”
“Shut up, Wilbur.”
“What?”
Jed turned away from the dead man and headed for his horse like a man sleepwalking in the dead of night. He saw the money pouch lying on the ground and stopped. He slipped his pistol back into its holder, then bent over and picked up the pouch. There was printing on the side of the canvas bag.
Junction City Bank.
He shook the bag, heard it rustle with paper, and he knew that the paper inside was money. Stolen money.
