Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  * * * * *

  When the rustler fired at Emerson from across the street, Finley stepped out and fired his shotgun at him. Charlie turned his gun on Finley, who dove behind the wagon.

  “Boss, let’s go!” shouted Heath Pennington, who was sitting on the back of his brother’s horse. Kane spurred the horse and raced for the safety of the mountains.

  “Get back here!” Charlie shouted angrily, but the brothers were already out of earshot.

  As Charlie took aim at Emerson, a bullet blasted into the wall behind him. Charlie looked up. From the loft, Forrester had managed to grab his rifle and held it trained on him.

  Charlie took his pistol off Emerson and fired blindly at the storage barn. He seethed with anger. With the arrival of the newcomer, the battle’s momentum had quickly swung in the other direction. All but two of his men had been killed, and the others had fled, leaving him alone. Charlie realized his position was untenable. As much as he hated the idea of retreat, there was no choice left to avoid capture or death.

  “This isn’t over yet,” Charlie snarled. He wheeled his horse around and headed for the mountains.

  * * * * *

  Christian watched him go. He kept his guns ready in case the rustler doubled back. It wasn’t long before Charlie vanished from sight, without casting so much as a glance behind him. Christian turned his attention to the storage barn. He waved to Mark Forrester, who might have saved his life by drawing Charlie’s fire. Forrester didn’t wave back. The man closed his eyes and slumped against the wall of the hayloft.

  Griffith stumbled out of the bullet-ridden saloon, looking shaky at best.

  “Is it over?” he asked.

  Christian nodded. “For the moment,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Christian dismounted and surveyed the damage to the saloon. Riddled as it was with bullet holes, the building was still standing. The rustlers had failed to burn it down this time, but they would return. He was sure of it.

  “You came back,” Finley said, toting the shotgun in one hand. The young man was dazed. His face was flushed, and his voice wavered from adrenaline and fear.

  “I did,” Christian acknowledged. He holstered his pistols.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I reckon I’m going to see this through,” he said with the look of a man who had resigned himself to his fate. Like it or not, he was a part of this now. Christian spotted Griffith standing over Matthew’s body, which lay immobile in the street.

  “It wasn’t right for him to die like that,” Griffith muttered.

  “It’s too late for us to do anything for him now.” Christian said as he gazed toward the barn where Mark Forrester had fallen silent. Christian quickly closed the distance and scaled the ladder to the hayloft. Finley followed closely behind, with Griffith watching from the ground.

  The wall Forrester was slumped against was streaked with blood. Christian gently rolled the man onto his back. He didn’t have to check to know the man was dead.

  “He didn’t make it,” Christian called down. Forrester had lasted just long enough to hold Charlie Sheldon at bay. Without Forrester covering them, the odds would have been against them. He turned to Finley.

  “He was a good man. He deserves a decent burial.” Christian motioned to the young man. “Help me carry him down.”

  The two men slowly descended the ladder with Forrester’s corpse. When they reached the bottom, they rested the body gently atop the dirt.

  “Does he have someone to pay for his funeral?”

  “I’ll handle the expenses,” Griffith said mournfully. The normally boisterous man looked sunken. The rustlers had been held at bay, but at a high cost. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Emerson. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, Finley and I would be dead too.”

  Christian nodded grimly. “This won’t be the end of it,” he said. “Big Jim doesn’t sound like the sort of man who accepts defeat with grace, and I suspect I’ve just made an enemy of Charlie Sheldon for life.”

  “What should we do?”

  “At the moment, the best thing we can do is to tend to the affairs of the dead. It’ll take some time for Charlie to regroup and figure out his next move. We’ll have to anticipate how he decides to act.”

  Across from the saloon, the door to the jail swung open, and Sheriff Newton staggered outside. Disbelief registered clearly on his face when he looked to the left of the saloon at the storage building.

  “It’ll help if we can get the sheriff on board,” Christian added.

  “Newton’s a lost cause,” Finley muttered.

  “Don’t be so sure. People in this town are going to have to start choosing sides soon.”

  Newton surveyed the carnage. In addition to Mark Forrester and Matthew, three men lay dead in the street. The injured horse had finally stopped thrashing about and lay still in the dirt.

  Newton stared at Christian, incredulous. “What have you done?”

  “Only what I had to,” he answered honestly. “Charlie Sheldon would have killed these men and burned the saloon to the ground.”

  Newton scowled and crossed his arms. “You ride into town only a few weeks ago, and now you think you can take the law into your own hands?”

  Christian raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to arrest me, Sheriff, or are you going to help us clean up this mess?”

  Newton hesitated for a moment, then finally shook his head and helped Christian and the others load the bodies onto the empty wagon in front of the saloon. Christian paused when he lifted the body of one of the rustlers he had shot. The man’s jaw had been blasted clean off. Years had passed since he’d had to kill a man, and since coming to Casper he had killed four. Based on the look on Charlie Sheldon’s face when he rode away, Christian suspected that number would rise as time went on.

  With the danger having passed, townspeople emerged and filled the street once again. A few joined in the cleanup effort. Christian was grateful for the help, though he saw fear on nearly every face.

  Charlie Sheldon has terrorized this town long enough, he thought. It’s high time somebody stopped him. He was all-in now. Either they would succeed in driving Charlie out of town, or the rustlers would take their revenge.

  Christian spotted Reverend Burke among the helpers. The preacher greeted him with a knowing look and went about his work. After the effort was nearly complete, Burke insisted upon giving the dead rustlers a proper burial alongside Matthew and Mark Forrester. Some folks disagreed with the prospect of burying murderers and thieves alongside honest men, but Burke won the argument, and they carted all the bodies away to the undertaker. A group of riders dragged the dead horse away from town and burned its body. The wind ushered the smell of charred flesh back toward Casper.

  Griffith’s storage barn behind the saloon had a few stalls for horses. Since Big Jim owned Casper’s stables, Christian elected to put Galahad up in the storage building instead. As he removed the saddle, he carefully inspected the horse to make sure the animal had no injuries. Fortunately, Galahad was unharmed. He stroked the animal’s mane.

  “You did well today,” he said kindly. Galahad’s ears flickered backward lazily. They had been through many battles together, and it would take more than a few noisy gunshots to cause the horse to lose his calm. “It looks like we’re not quite finished fighting yet, old friend. Think you can handle one last battle?” Galahad pawed the ground with his front hoof.

  “You should have left town,” a voice said from behind him. Russell Hale lingered near the entrance to the storage barn. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled.

  “I intended to,” Christian said plainly. He shut the stall door and joined the mayor next to the barn’s entrance.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Running wasn’t the right thing t
o do.”

  “I could have smoothed everything over,” Russell muttered almost to himself. “I could have fixed it. There’s no fixing what you’ve done. Not now.”

  “Sometimes there’s no choice left but to fight.”

  “This is a fight you can’t possibly win,” Russell spat. “And now you’ve dragged this town into chaos with you.”

  Christian peered into the man’s eyes, but the mayor was unable to return his gaze.

  “Deep down, you know this is a fight worth having. You just have to decide if you want to join in. I’ve made my choice.” Christian touched his hat and returned outside. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the mayor. He knew what it was like to struggle over doing the right thing.

  * * * * *

  Russell watched as Christian was greeted by several thankful townspeople. They treated him with deference bordering on adoration. Russell felt a stab of envy. There had to be a way to deal with this without further bloodshed. An idea occurred to him, and the mayor walked away, ignored by the crowd. He returned to his office and began composing a letter under the dim light provided by his oil lamp.

  * * * * *

  It was dark by the time everyone finished working. The saloon remained peppered with bullet holes, though most of the mess was gone. Christian found himself famished, and Pete Hodges came over to personally cook for the men. Christian devoured his portions with fervor. Rudolph Griffith ate surprisingly little for a man his size. He seemed to have regained his spirits but continued to wear a look of nervousness. When they were finished eating, Christian stockpiled all the guns and ammunition gathered from the dead men for future use.

  Christian, Finley, and Griffith took rooms above the saloon for the night in case the rustlers came back. The men settled on a rotating watch. Griffith found a man in town who would carry word in the morning to Finley’s parents and Landon Morgan about the events that had unfolded. Christian was uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Morgan in the dark for the moment but agreed that the saloon was in more immediate danger.

  Griffith took the first watch. Later that night, Christian woke to relieve Finley. He yawned and treaded lightly down the stairs. He found Finley sitting on the walkway outside the batwing doors, the shotgun across his lap. The young man was staring up at the moon and barely noticed Christian.

  “How are you holding up?” Christian asked.

  Finley continued watching the stars. “It wasn’t what I thought it would be,” the young man said. “I saw Matthew die. If you hadn’t returned, they would be burying me tomorrow too.”

  Christian sighed and sat down next to Finley. “I was younger than you are now when I saw my first battle,” he volunteered. “My family was wealthy, and I didn’t have to go to war. I was headstrong, like you, and enlisted because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “What side did you fight for?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  Finley considered the question for a moment. “I suppose not. What was it like?”

  “Like nothing you would ever want to see again. But I was young, and I saw things differently in those days.”

  “I thought you said you were an outlaw. I didn’t have you pegged as a soldier.”

  “It was a long time ago.” The pair fell silent for a few minutes. “You can teach yourself to become a better shot,” Christian added finally. “You can’t teach heart. And you have that, Finley. In spades.”

  The young man smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Emerson. I figure I should get some rest.” He got up and headed inside, taking the shotgun with him.

  Christian took out one of his pistols and held the gun in his hands. The silver tip shimmered in the pale light. The metal felt cool against his skin. He fished out several bullets from his pocket and reloaded the gun. Christian wondered how many lives he’d taken with the pistols. He’d lost count over the years. He had never murdered a man, killing only in self-defense. Yet he still had blood on his hands, didn’t he? Christian thought of King David, who was forbidden from building God’s temple because of the blood on his hands. He sighed. It did not do to dwell too closely on such things. After all, he was only a man.

  “There’s no backing out now,” he whispered to himself. He was through running.

  * * * * *

  Quinn watched his boss carefully. For someone known for outbursts of temper, Charlie was in an exceptionally bad mood. He returned to the mountains with rage in his eyes and venom in his voice. After threatening to shoot one of the farmhands who clumsily dropped his horse’s lead rope, the outfit’s leader had stormed up to Big Jim’s homestead with Kane and Heath Pennington trailing reluctantly behind him as Quinn looked on outside the house.

  Quinn was disappointed to see that the boss had returned safely, though he took great pains not to show it. Quinn noticed that only three of the six rustlers were back.

  “You,” Charlie said angrily. “You told me he wasn’t a threat.”

  “What happened?” Quinn asked.

  The Pennington brothers exchanged glances.

  “It turns out Griffith decided to put up a fight. Then out of nowhere, Emerson rode into the fray.” Charlie’s face was red with anger.

  Quinn swallowed nervously. Before either man could speak further, Big Jim’s silhouette appeared outside the house.

  “Where are the others?” he demanded.

  “Gone,” Heath Pennington answered.

  “Shut up,” Charlie said. “You two keep silent. I’ve heard enough from you two tonight. You’re both lucky you’re still alive. If I didn’t need the numbers, I would have killed both of you already.”

  The two men looked to Quinn, who shook his head. This wasn’t the time.

  “Why don’t you run along?” Quinn said to them.

  Clearly grateful for the excuse, the two rustlers scurried away to put some distance between themselves and their angry bosses. Once they were gone, Big Jim turned to Charlie.

  “And the saloon?”

  Charlie didn’t answer. His silence spoke volumes.

  Big Jim glared at him. “I gave you one simple task to complete, Charlie. Burn down the saloon. I pay you for results.”

  “Don’t,” Charlie replied darkly. “Don’t tempt me, Jim. Now is not the time.” He punched a fence post and shouted with disgust.

  Quinn let out a sigh of relief. With Charlie’s rage directed at Big Jim, he’d be more likely to forget about his resentment toward Quinn’s advice.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Emerson showed up. He’s fast. I’ll give him that, though I’d wager I could’ve gunned him down if not for Griffith’s man in the barn.”

  Big Jim’s frown deepened at the mention of Emerson’s name. “I told Hale he should have taken care of this Emerson before he became a problem.”

  “Well, we’ll deal with him now,” Charlie said. “I always pay my debts.”

  “Your job is still the saloon,” Big Jim corrected. “Emerson is secondary.”

  Charlie glared at him. “I’ll decide what’s important. I’m running this show, Markham. Don’t forget that.”

  “It seems to me there is a way to deal with both problems at once,” Quinn said thoughtfully. Both men turned toward him. “Emerson is strong in town, where he’s surrounded by people who are no doubt loyal to him.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Charlie asked.

  “We lure him out,” Quinn said. “Make him vulnerable to our numbers. Split up the men,” he added. “When Emerson leaves town, the others will ride into Casper and finish the job.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Big Jim asked.

  When Quinn told them, Charlie’s face broke into a big smile.

  “I like it,” the killer said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christian was
sitting at an empty table inside the ravaged saloon when he heard the shouts. It was the day after the assault on the saloon, and he was eating a bowl of grits with scrambled eggs. The grandfather clock had only just struck eight when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot reverberated across town.

  Christian sat up straight and looked around. Finley’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “What was that?” asked the young man, who had been sleeping off last night’s watch duty only seconds before.

  Shouts echoed through the streets. Something was happening.

  “Trouble,” Christian answered. He stood up and drew one of his pistols. As he headed out of the tavern to see what was the matter, he stopped at the batwing doors. “Stay here,” he said to Finley.

  “But I want to come with you.”

  Christian scowled. “I said stay put,” he said sternly. “It could be a diversion.” Before Finley could protest, Christian rushed out of the bar. He looked across the street, where Sheriff Newton had emerged from the jail.

  “What’s going on?” Christian asked.

  Newton shrugged.

  A second gunshot ripped through the sky to the south. Christian ran down the street, gun in hand, and Newton trailed after him.

  “Sheriff!” a man shouted. “You’ve got to come now.”

  “What is it?” Newton asked.

  “Two of Charlie Sheldon’s boys are robbing the bank,” the man said urgently. He held his hat in his hands. “Please, sir, all of my money is in that bank.”

  “That’s bold, even for Charlie,” Newton muttered.

  “Just two men?” Christian asked. Something about it didn’t sit well with him.

  Another gunshot sounded, and the lawman and the gunslinger ran toward the bank. People were huddled in hiding places nearby, taking cover wherever they could.

  Christian walked softly down the dirt road, careful to stay out of sight from the bank’s large windows. He stepped onto the walkway for cover. When they drew close to the bank, Newton grabbed Christian’s shoulder.