Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Burke’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I know you. You’re the one they call Emerson.”

  “We’ve met before,” Christian said. “I was waiting up with the dying man when you came in to pray.”

  Burke nodded. “I thought we might run into each other at some point,” he said. “You carry a great deal of darkness with you, Mr. Emerson. It’s plain to see.”

  “Charlie Sheldon and his men are planning to raze the Dusty Traveler to the ground,” Christian said.

  Burke raised an eyebrow.

  “There aren’t enough men defending it. They’ll be overrun, and they’ll likely be killed.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Emerson?”

  “Finley expects me to join the fray, but I don’t know what to do,” Christian confessed. “My whole life I’ve tried to do the right thing. It’s caused me nothing but pain.”

  “What are your intentions?”

  “I plan to ride out and leave them to it,” Christian said. The words felt dirty, like they were coming from someone else. Had the West really hardened him that much?

  “And you’re looking to me to talk you out of it,” Burke finished, shaking his head. “Charlie Sheldon will have to answer to a higher power for his crimes one day, Mr. Emerson, same as you and me. I can’t make up your mind for you. That’s between you and your conscience.” Burke set his broom against the wall and walked over to him.

  Christian frowned. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “I expect you’re not the first man to request that his cup be taken from him.”

  The two men stared up at the cross, and there was a slight lull in the conversation.

  “I’ve been running since the war. For seven long years, I’ve never had a moment’s peace. I’ve given all I have to give.”

  “You don’t have to keep running, Mr. Emerson. At some point, every man has to face his demons.”

  Christian looked away. “I’m tired of fighting,” he said.

  Sunlight streamed through the opening in the doors. Burke glanced toward the entrance, and Christian followed his gaze.

  “If you’re looking for absolution, I can’t offer it to you,” Burke said. “When you walk out of those doors, you’re going to have to decide for yourself what kind of man you are. You’re the one who has to live with that.”

  This was a waste of time, he thought with a scowl. It was a mistake to come here. Christian gave Burke a cold look and walked out of the church, disappointed.

  “Let’s go, Galahad,” he said to the horse. “We’re leaving.”

  He kicked the animal’s sides and headed east, trying not to dwell on the preacher’s words. Noon was fast approaching. If Charlie Sheldon’s boys hadn’t yet begun their assault, they soon would.

  As the river grew increasingly distant, pastures gave way to bare patches of cracked earth. The horse galloped over hilly terrain, and Casper loomed in the distance. When the town was almost out of sight, Christian came to a halt on a tall hill.

  From his height, he could see almost everything. The mountains lay to the south, where Big Jim Markham’s ranch rested secure from prying eyes. Casper stood just ahead, dwarfed by distance. The town seemed so small, so fragile. Its people hadn’t asked for Charlie Sheldon to come riding through any more than Christian had asked for his own fate.

  He tried to turn Galahad around, but the horse stood frozen, looking out over the town. Christian thought of all the times he had tried to do what was right, and all the ways his life had fallen apart as a result. If he had it to do over again, would he do it any differently? He thought of Emily, and of his father, whom he was never likely to see again.

  Maybe it was time to stop running. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty desert. This was it. Either way, there was no going back. Christian closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Then he gripped the reins and thundered down the hill.

  * * * * *

  “Hand me that board, boy,” Mark Forrester said. Finley hoisted the wooden plank into the air and positioned it against the window. Forrester held a nail against the board and drove it in with a hammer.

  The men stood on the roof of the saloon under the heat of the midday sun. A strong breeze kept them cool, kicking up dust from the dirt road.

  “Just one left,” Forrester said. The two men returned to the room to board the last window. The goal was to keep any torches or flaming bottles out of the saloon. “I’ll finish up here,” Forrester added. “Go check on Matthew and see what he needs.”

  The bartender stood behind the bar, a tall drink in front of him. The counter was littered with bullets and shells. Matthew looked pale. When he spotted Finley, he downed the drink and loaded the revolver on the counter.

  “Are you ready?” he asked the young man, his voice faltering ever so slightly. The bartender’s nervousness surprised Finley. He wouldn’t have expected it from a man of Matthew’s size.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Finley answered.

  Truth be told, the young man was starting to feel a little nervous himself. The quiet confidence in the rightness of his cause was replaced with doubt the closer the hour grew to the showdown. Both men looked over at the grandfather clock. The hands ticked away, oblivious to the world around them. It was almost noon. Finley sighed. He had really believed Emerson would show up. The man’s seemingly abrupt personality change had caught him off guard. Finley didn’t know what ghosts from the past haunted Emerson, but he always believed Emerson was a good man. In the end, Finley still held onto the hope that his friend would appear. He glanced again at the clock.

  Mark Forrester’s boots thudded down the staircase. “Get a move on it, you two,” the man said gruffly. “We don’t have all day.” He pushed the saloon doors open, and the other two followed him into the sun.

  The street was largely abandoned. Word traveled fast through Casper that Charlie and his boys were riding in. Most people were hiding indoors, praying for the danger to pass over as quickly as possible.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Forrester said. “I’m the best shot with the rifle, so I’ll be shooting from the storage barn.” He pointed to the tall building behind and to the left of the saloon. “I’ll cover you from the loft.”

  “What about me?” Matthew asked. “Can I shoot from the loft?”

  Forrester surveyed the bartender with a skeptical look. “I don’t reckon you’d hit anything from there with that revolver,” he said sternly. “Show some grit, for God’s sake. This boy is half your size, and he’s got twice your gumption.”

  Matthew scowled, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Forrester pointed to the alleyway to the right of the saloon. “I’ve barricaded the alley with a stack of flour sacks and put two barrels in the way for good measure. That should provide some cover for you, Matthew.” He turned to Finley. “As for you, you can shoot from the saloon. It’s well boarded, so you should have the most protection.”

  Two wagons also sat in front of the saloon, providing a small measure of cover. Forrester and Matthew had driven them there before Finley returned from Morgan’s ranch.

  “What about Mr. Griffith?”

  Forrester chuckled. “I know better than to trust that man with a gun. He’s liable to shoot his own foot off. Even so, he insisted that he will stay in the saloon until the end, one way or another.” He shook his head as if amused. Finley was amazed the man could find anything funny at a time like this.

  “What do you mean you won’t help?” a loud voice demanded. “It’s your job.” The three men looked across the street toward the jail, where Griffith had cornered Sheriff Newton. “You can’t wear that badge and do nothing,” Griffith insisted.

  “I’ll handle this,” Forrester muttered. He strode toward the jail, and Finley hurried after him. Matthew remained where he was, holdi
ng the revolver limply in his right hand.

  Newton spotted the two men and frowned.

  “What’s going on here, Newton?” Forrester asked gruffly.

  “As I told Mr. Griffith, there’s nothing I can do. If you were smart, you’d keep out of Charlie’s way until he is finished.”

  “I worked my entire life for the money to build that saloon, and I’m not about to stand by and let a group of outlaws burn it to the ground.” Griffith waved his finger at Newton’s nose.

  Forrester interjected in an appeal to the sheriff. “You and I have had our problems in the past, Sheriff, but you have to see that turning tail isn’t the way. Charlie won’t stop with the saloon, and neither will Big Jim. They’ll keep taking until this town has nothing left.”

  “And how do you propose to stop him?” Newton asked. “You’ve seen what he and his men are capable of. You don’t stand a chance.”

  “Forget him,” Griffith said. He waved his hand dismissively. “Come on, Mark. We have work to do.” The two men started walking back to the saloon, and Finley turned to follow.

  “Wait,” Newton said, grabbing Finley’s arm. “This is no place for a boy. You don’t have to do this.”

  Finley wrenched his arm free. “Someone has to,” he replied with a glare.

  For a moment, there was anger in Newton’s eyes. Then the sheriff hung his head and returned to the jail. Finley thought he heard him lock the door behind him.

  He was about to rejoin the others when he heard the sound of hooves echoing to the south. Dark clouds gathered above, and a trail of dust approached from the other end of town. A group of horses galloped toward the saloon, mounted by riders wearing black bandanas.

  Finley tore down the road for the saloon. “They’re coming!” he shouted. He burst through the swinging doors. “Charlie’s almost here!”

  Alarm registered on the men’s faces. Matthew’s hands shook visibly. Forrester’s expression was grim. He closed his eyes, as if in prayer.

  “So, this is it then,” Griffith whispered. He took on a look of fierce resolution, drew himself up, and turned to Finley and the others. “Thank you for standing with me,” he said, offering a weak smile. “I count each man here as my friend.”

  “Let’s go,” Forrester interrupted. “We don’t have much time.” He loaded his rifle and hurried outdoors to take his spot in the loft, carrying ammunition with him. Matthew tentatively followed him outside the saloon.

  The sound of hooves drew nearer. Finley found his knees wobbling. He leaned against the wall to steady himself.

  “Be ready,” Griffith said. There was warmth in his eyes. “I’m counting on you for cover.” He sighed and pushed the doors open. Finley picked up his father’s shotgun and stood by the wall, ready to shoot. He peered around the corner, quietly watching from cover.

  The riders descended on the saloon like a horde of locusts consuming a crop. Their horses ground to a halt when Charlie Sheldon held up a hand, his unkempt hair flapping about. The tension was thick like the dust in the air. Finley’s heart pounded wildly.

  Charlie’s eyes locked on the lone man standing in the street. He leaned forward in the saddle and grinned at the others. Finley counted six of them total, a fraction of the total outfit. Their number included the Pennington brothers. Finley didn’t know the others’ names.

  “Well, what do we have here?” Charlie asked. Smiles spread over the faces of his men. “I’ll give you one thing, Griffith, you have courage. You should have hit the road a long time ago, friend.”

  “I’m not your friend, Charlie.” Griffith took a few steps back toward the swinging doors, eying Charlie’s gun hand. “You have no right to torch this establishment.”

  Charlie roared with laughter. A few of his men echoed him to a lesser extent. “I have every right. Look around you, Griffith. You’re alone.”

  “That’s not true,” Griffith said.

  A gunshot echoed loudly from the barn.

  Charlie looked toward the barn with a snarl. He could see Forrester in the loft clutching a rifle. The outlaw’s eyes scanned the area until he spotted the large man with the revolver in the alleyway.

  “Stay back,” Griffith said. “Or there’ll be trouble.”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t threaten me,” he sneered, reaching for his gun.

  Forrester fired again. This time, the bullet hit the horse of the rider next to Charlie. The horse collapsed, and its rider rolled away, unharmed. Suddenly, a third shooter fired from the cover of the saloon. The shot went wild. Even if Forrester was just a lone marksman, Finley was sure the rustler knew from experience that any man with a gun was a dangerous man.

  Charlie pulled his gun. “Take cover!” he shouted to his men. He reared his horse and fired at the man in the alleyway. The bullet passed above the wagon blocking the entrance to the saloon and hit a sack, causing flour to spill out.

  “Kane! Heath!” Charlie shouted to two of the riders. He thrust his pistol back in its holster. “Take care of the man behind the barrels.” Grabbing the rifle that was strapped to the horse, Charlie slid from his mount and shielded himself behind one of the posts in front of the jail alongside the rustler who had lost his horse. The animal whinnied in pain and thrashed about in the dust.

  “Jake,” Charlie called to the horseless rider. “I’ll cover you. Get behind that wagon and get inside the saloon.”

  Jake nodded and advanced slowly in a crouching position, pointing his pistol toward the sky.

  Charlie gestured to the remaining riders. “Draw fire from the man in the barn. I’ll take him myself.”

  Finley could see Charlie Sheldon standing in the shadows in front of the jail. He reached out and fired from cover but missed his mark.

  “I can’t hit him from this distance,” he shouted to Griffith, who huddled in the corner of the room. Finley spotted a rustler behind the wagon only a few seconds before the gunman fired on him. He dove to the floor and barely avoided being struck. A barrage of bullets left holes in the walls, and small beams of sunlight streamed into the saloon.

  “They’re getting too close,” he muttered. He could see the two riders on horseback firing toward the alley. Finley took aim, hoping to draw their fire away from Matthew. The shell missed the rider, but his horse reared and threw him to the ground.

  Finley’s triumph was short lived, as he heard Matthew scream. He strained forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the bartender.

  Matthew slunk behind the bags of flour and dropped to the ground. He touched his shoulder gently, and when he drew his hand back, it was covered in blood.

  “I’m shot,” he said. His eyes grew wide with fear. “I’m shot!” he shouted louder. His voice carried above the gunfire. He stood up, hurled the revolver to the ground, and raised his hands in the air to surrender.

  “Matthew, no!” Finley shouted.

  He ducked out of the saloon to help, but he was too late. Heath Pennington shot three times at Matthew, who swayed forward, his mouth open in shock. Then he toppled to the ground and remained there, motionless.

  Charlie Sheldon looked on with a hungry gaze.

  “One down. Good work, boys!”

  Mark Forrester shot at a man moving away on horseback. The man jumped from his horse and took cover, hustling toward the wagon parked in front of the saloon. Forrester’s next shot missed the man, who joined the other rustler already behind the wagon. Both men fired at Finley, who hunkered down on the walkway. He glanced at the batwing doors, just inches away. If he tried to make it back inside, he would surely be hit.

  A bullet cut into the ground at one of the rustlers’ feet, and the men looked to the barn.

  “Go, boy!” he heard Mark Forrester shout. Finley ran, his heart beating like a drum. To his surprise and relief, he made it inside without being shot.


  * * * * *

  Mark Forrester was about to take aim again when a shot blasted clean through the side of the loft. A rustler on horseback sped toward him from behind the saloon, firing a revolver. Forrester’s next shot hit the rustler in the head, throwing him from his horse and killing him instantly.

  “I got one of them bastards,” he whispered proudly. Forrester grinned, just as a bullet caught him in the neck. He fell back against the hayloft, clutching his neck. Forrester felt his grip on the rifle go limp. His vision blurred. He could taste blood.

  * * * * *

  Finley knew he was in trouble when Forrester’s rifle fell silent.

  “Mr. Forrester?” he shouted, but the man did not reply. He exchanged a desperate look with Griffith, who was hiding behind the bar. Forrester and Matthew were likely both dead, along with only one of the rustlers. They were outnumbered five-to-two.

  He could see the rustlers approaching from outside. The men fired freely on the saloon, splintering the walls. As he huddled on the floor, bullets raining down around him, Finley closed his eyes and prayed.

  For some reason he thought of home and his father. He would never see them again.

  Forgive me, Father, he thought.

  “I’m sorry, May,” he whispered aloud.

  Then he heard a shout, and the bullets stopped. He scrambled forward, clutching the shotgun in both hands. He peered outside.

  A rider sped toward the rustlers, firing a set of sliver-tipped pistols. Finley couldn’t believe it.

  “Emerson,” he whispered. For the first time since the onslaught began, Finley felt a glimmer of hope.

  Christian’s bullet caught the first man behind the wagon in the chest. The rustler was thrown backward. Before the body even hit the ground, Emerson fired his other gun and killed the second man instantly.

  “Emerson!” Charlie shouted, rage etched onto his face. “You should have stayed out of my way. Now you’re going to pay the price.”

  Christian faced Charlie but was unable to get a clear shot. “Not today, Charlie,” he replied.