Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  “It’ll end poorly,” Tom predicted.

  “Now, Tom.” John cocked his head. “You don’t think I brought you out here to shoot you, do you?”

  “It crossed my mind. Course, it seems more likely you brought me to ask me to talk to Jeremiah and Phillip. And Thaddeus. Those are the names of the three men who run the place,” Tom explained, waving a hand. “I figure that you figure that I can convince them easier than you can. And if someone was going to shoot me, I guess it wouldn’t be you. It’d be him.” Tom indicated his left with his eyes; they could just hear the muffled sounds of someone vomiting in bushes up the slope. It was Creel, who had been following quietly.

  John scowled. “He ain’t supposed to be drinking tonight,” he muttered. “And he was just to keep an eye on us,” he added, doing an excellent job of hiding his annoyance. He was annoyed, though. He didn’t like having his hand read accurately, and it was distracting him.

  “I believe you,” Tom said, and he did. John hadn’t meant to kill him tonight; Tom was still more useful alive—at least for now.

  The sounds of Creel being ill turned to coughing. Common enough sounds in the gang’s camp, at least when there had been enough firewater for them to drown in. Now they were traveling with only what they and the horses could carry. Would they ration the drink? Or just guzzle it all tonight?

  Did they realize there were no spirits to speak of in Friendly Field? Would they build new stills to make their own? No, they didn’t plan to stay long enough for that. What, then? Did they think they would send the Quakers to get liquor for them? Because that would arouse suspicion.

  Tom liked to think of himself as a clever man, but he’d made foolish decisions. John was the same. He was clever, but making a play for Friendly Field was a mistake.

  Nothing would have convinced John of that, though. His success had fooled him into thinking he was right about everything and invincible. He was wrong on both counts.

  Instead of replying, John reached out and leaned on the nearest tree.

  “You’re a smart one, Tom,” he said, swallowing. He put his hand on his abdomen. “I wonder if that meat was bad.”

  Tom doubted it; the deer were fresh kills. John leaned over a little, a distant look in his eyes as he dealt with what he felt in his belly. Most likely that was a result of the mushrooms that Tom had poured into the soup pot from his bag.

  There must have been a particularly nasty moment of discomfort, because John didn’t even seem to notice when Tom plucked his gun from its holster.

  He did notice when the handle of it struck him on the head. John thudded to the ground like a sack of rocks, and the look on his face was more one of bafflement than of alarm, but just for the brief moment before Tom put a bullet in his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The shot boomed through the trees, and as much as Tom would have liked to believe all the outlaws who’d partaken of the poisoned soup were too ill to hear it, that likely wasn’t the case. He turned and lifted the gun, cocking back the hammer as Creel’s head appeared above a thicket up the hill; eyes unfocused, he was in the act of wiping his mouth.

  Tom shot him between the eyes and limped up the slope. His ears rang, but he heard the shouts of alarm and the other sounds that John had missed in his discomfort. Quite a few of them would have been affected by the mushrooms by now. If John had been paying attention, he’d have noticed the change in the air.

  Well, he wouldn’t be noticing much of anything now. You couldn’t say he’d tried to get the best of the wrong Quaker, because Tom wasn’t one. John Porter had set his sights on the wrong village, though. He’d probably realized that in his last moment or two.

  Creel’s gun was still in its holster, and Tom bent to pick it up. It was an English revolver that felt strange in the hand, but Tom wasn’t particular. As long as it was loaded, it would do. He stepped behind the nearest tree, leaned out, and raised John’s Colt as an outlaw with a rifle came crunching through the loam to investigate. He looked more or less alert. Tom lowered the gun and whistled.

  The man whirled; he hadn’t seen John’s body yet.

  Tom pointed. “They’re up there,” he hissed.

  The outlaw lunged to the nearest brush and dropped to one knee. “How many?” he asked.

  “Five at least,” Tom replied.

  “Five from the north!” the man called out. He meant to add something else, but Tom went ahead and put him down with a bullet between the shoulder blades. The outlaw never saw it coming, but as he slumped over, his rifle went off, sending a bullet into the night sky.

  There was very little chill in the air, but Tom’s leg pained him anyway. It was hard to avoid the thorns and branches in the dark, but there was still work to do.

  Peckner was with the horses, pulling his rifle out of a sheath on his saddle. Others kicked dirt over the fires and found their weapons. There was more than enough swearing going on to cover the sound of anyone moving around.

  Tom took aim at Peckner, but he moved past the horses.

  An outlaw named Evan was staring straight at him. Tom shot him instead, then the man beside him as he pulled his own gun. Both men went down with cries of pain.

  Tom looked over his shoulder on principle, and there was Simon, just up the hill—he was one of the usual sentries. The shooting had brought him back, and he hadn’t eaten yet. He was fast. Tom dropped to one knee, but he felt Simon’s bullet go by and a sting from the bark it knocked loose from the tree. Tom’s aim was better than Simon’s, but now John’s revolver was empty.

  “There! There!” That was Peckner’s voice, and it was followed by a rifle round.

  Tom scrambled under the branches and scuttled into one of the makeshift tents. It was empty, but a pack was there, and a sheathed knife. He got down flat and peered under the flap.

  Otis was on the other side of camp, clutching his rifle. He still faced north, as though he hadn’t figured it out yet. Tom tossed John’s empty gun aside and shifted the English one from his left hand to his right. He laid the barrel over his wrist and fired a shot into Otis’ unprotected back.

  As the outlaw’s body thudded to the dirt, Tom was snatching the knife.

  A pair of bullets punched through the tent, and he got down lower, forcing the blade through the canvas and sawing down. He pushed through the tear and tumbled into the loam.

  More shots crashed through the dark, but they were aimed at the tent, not at Tom. The outlaws didn’t know he’d slipped out, and he wouldn’t be easy to spot in the gloom.

  There were five shots left in the English revolver. Tom didn’t know what kind of cartridges it took or even how to load it.

  But he knew how to fire it, and he did at the shadowy figure trying to make its way down the slope toward camp. An outlaw named Shane went down with a cry, and Tom crawled, but he barely made it ten feet before the others were in the tent.

  Several shots ripped through the canvas, throwing up leaves as the men fired blindly around the hole he’d cut.

  Tom rolled onto his back and went still.

  “Patrick!” Peckner called out. “Go around.”

  Someone was being violently sick nearby, but Tom preferred not to shoot at a man he couldn’t see.

  “He ain’t back there,” someone else reported in the dark.

  “What the hell’s going on?” another outlaw called out breathlessly from the hillside on the other side of camp. That would be another returning sentry—his name was Liam.

  There was a second tent nearby, but Tom didn’t hear anything from in there.

  A twig snapped, and he looked to his right—there was someone back to the east, maybe another man who’d gone to investigate those first few shots. Now they were back toward where Creel’s body was lying.

  “It’s that Quaker!”

  Tom didn’t feel a need to point out to that if he wer
e actually a Quaker, he wouldn’t have a gun in his hand and eight fresh graves on his bill. He just kept still and quiet.

  Patrick staggered into view less than twenty feet away, putting his back to a tree. He was more interested in the hillside, not even looking in Tom’s direction.

  Tom waited.

  There were footsteps behind him as well. Someone else was making his way around the thick shrubs and the second tent. Tom eased the English revolver under his thigh so the moonlight wouldn’t catch on the polished barrel.

  Peckner. Patrick. That was probably Cyril coming up behind Patrick.

  That left who? Liam was out there somewhere. And Hollister. Where was he?

  Who else?

  It was hard to keep track, and he didn’t get time to think about it; the loam rustled not even ten feet away. Who was it? It was impossible to know without seeing him or hearing his voice. Tom strained his eyes, but he couldn’t see everything without turning his head, and that would give him away.

  He stayed rigid.

  There was a groan from the direction of the big fire, which was now completely out.

  “There ain’t nobody else,” Peckner said. Tom couldn’t see him. “Ain’t no lawmen. It’s just him.”

  Another moan of pain came from up the hill—that had to be Simon. He wasn’t dead. Did he still have enough strength to hold a gun?

  “Help me, Pat,” Simon groaned.

  “I’m coming.”

  “Be careful,” the man behind Tom hissed, just as a third figure materialized not far from Patrick. It was Cyril, moving in a half crouch.

  A boot sank into the leaves not even a yard from Tom. It was Sven, the quiet one.

  Tom grabbed his ankle, and the tall man looked down in horror to see the muzzle of the revolver.

  He froze.

  Slowly, Tom rose to his feet and put a finger to his lips, keeping his gun on Sven all the while. He gently took Sven’s Colt.

  The other man’s eyes moved, and Tom followed them. Patrick was looking in their direction, and Cyril was right there with him—and the dark wasn’t enough to hide who Tom was.

  Tom shot Sven through the heart and Patrick in the belly. Cyril returned fire as Patrick crumpled to the ground, and Tom dove behind the nearest tree, scattering leaves.

  Behind him, with a dumbfounded look on his face, Sven fell backward and rolled into the ditch with a sound like a wheeze. Tom got Cyril in the back as he tried to get behind a tree, but a blast from Hollister’s scattergun sent bark and branches flying. Tom winced but took his own shot, and he had better aim than Hollister, who got a startled curse out before his body hit the ground.

  Tom inched to his left, trying to get as much of the tree between himself and them as he could.

  He had lost count with the English pistol, but it had to be empty. He dropped it and hefted Sven’s Colt, an old Dragoon.

  A hushed conversation was taking place. Who was left? Peckner, Liam—and there had to be at least one more. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think.

  Peckner didn’t call out again. He didn’t try to shout anything at Tom.

  John would have, but Tom’s bullet had put an end to John’s bullshit for good.

  “Isaac done ran away,” Liam said in the dark, and Tom snorted. Like hell he had; Peckner had put Liam up to saying that, and it meant Isaac was creeping around somewhere nearby, trying to get a clear shot, but he wouldn’t—not in these trees and this darkness.

  Tom let himself down to a crouch, listening.

  Nothing moved, and that suited him. He’d wait till dawn if he had to. They still outnumbered him, and boldness alone wouldn’t get him out of this alive.

  A cry of pain floated over the breeze. Maybe if he waited long enough, sickness from the mushrooms would kill the rest of the gang and save him the trouble. Shane had been watching to the south, and Liam up to the northeast. Isaac had been standing guard to the west. Like as not, that was the way he’d be coming from.

  Tom squinted, but it was too dark for him. He didn’t let himself sigh; such a stillness had fallen that someone might hear it. He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. A fight was never his first preference, but a fight was what he had on his hands. He couldn’t give up control of it, or he’d lose.

  “I’m leaving now,” he announced loudly. “Don’t try to follow me!”

  With that, he got down lower, ears primed. He leaned over to peek back toward the camp, but nothing moved. Slowly, he crawled away from the tree, staying as close to the ground as he could.

  Sven hadn’t gotten a shot off. There were six cartridges in the revolver and no guarantee that anyone else would come near enough for Tom to rob them.

  There it was—a groan from the other side of the tent.

  Tom made his best guess and fired a shot through the canvas at Isaac; then he scrambled up and slid behind the thicket.

  Two deafening booms came so fast that it was almost a single shot, from Liam emptying both barrels into the spot that Tom had just escaped. Liam ducked out of the way, but Tom fired back and got him in the arm before he could get behind his tree.

  Liam’s scattergun was empty and his arm was shot.

  Tom hesitated, but only for a single breath. He lunged forward, limping for Liam’s tree as fast as he could.

  The outlaw let go of the scattergun and went for his pistol, but Tom was there, swatting it out of his hand. He struck Liam squarely in the face with a closed fist, dashing him against the tree. Tom spun him around and locked his arm across his throat, putting the muzzle of the Colt to his head before Peckner could pull his trigger. He stood there between the two tents, his revolver pointed at them—but Liam was Tom’s shield, and he was a good one, because he was just enough to give the gang’s remaining leader pause. A pause was all Tom needed.

  He shot Peckner through the throat. The older man jerked his trigger, but his bullet went wild. He fell to his knees, and Tom threw Liam to the ground and shot him as well, then brought the gun back up at the ready.

  Seconds passed, and the sounds of the gunshots fell away, leaving only Tom’s heartbeat.

  Peckner gurgled in the night. Tom went over and put him down, then listened after that echo faded. Isaac was still breathing on the other side of the tent, and Tom finished him off as well.

  Simon wasn’t making any noise on the slope now. If he had the strength to move, he was using it to run, not to fight.

  It was quiet. Tom let out his breath and lowered the Colt. The air was choked with gunpowder, and Otis’ body smoldered where it had fallen on the remains of the fire. Tom coughed and covered his nose, trying to count in his head. It wasn’t a snapping twig or a crunching leaf; it was just the scuffing of dirt that made him turn around.

  But Quincy was already swinging his ax.

  PART THREE

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Asher hadn’t ever gotten to know the real Tom.

  Sure, he’d had plenty of opportunity to read between the lines, but he’d never seen Tom as he had been back when he was on his feet and playing cards. All the same, he knew enough that the very notion that Tom would want to return to Friendly Field, want to remain there—that would’ve been difficult to swallow.

  Most men wouldn’t look kindly on trading piles of money for potatoes. Trading silk handkerchiefs for linen pillowcases. They wouldn’t want to sit in a parlor instead of in a saloon. They wouldn’t choose a plain older woman with a sense of propriety over a beautiful younger one who made her living by being good company. They wouldn’t give up good friends and allies for stuffy Quakers and stuffier churches.

  That was what anyone might’ve thought, Tom included.

  Of course, given the chance, Asher would’ve also had something to say about what Tom had done. He wouldn’t have been able to he
lp himself; he would have had to comment on the peculiarity of raising hell and killing more than a dozen men, all in pursuit of peace and quiet.

  Asher was the type who couldn’t let something like that lie. Of course, maybe Tom didn’t know Asher quite as well as he’d thought; he’d been wrong about a thing or two himself, and here and there things had turned up that he hadn’t seen coming.

  Quincy’s ax, for example.

  Thoughts tumbled, but not in the same way they had when his brain had been on fire with fever. It was different and, in Tom’s estimation, not as bad. It still hurt, though.

  He groaned in the dark, though he barely had the breath to do that much. He was being crushed, and pushing against it didn’t do any good. He was sticky all over, and his arm was numb. The hand he could still feel was wrapped around the grip of a pistol.

  The numbness became a tingle. He needed to cough but couldn’t.

  In the end it was the smell that gave him the will to heave off Quincy’s body. It wasn’t much of a heave, but the giant rolled, ever so slightly, freeing one of Tom’s arms. With pins and needles in his fingers, he clawed at the ground and dragged himself free in the grainy light of dawn.

  No longer muffled by the corpse and filled with his own feeble attempts to breathe, his ears were suddenly full of rustling tree branches and the birdsong of early morning.

  The pain in his chest was worse than the pain in his leg, but he was glad just to be breathing. He crawled out of the miasma and sank to the ground, sucking in deep breaths and blinking away some of the stars. His fingers were still claws, locked around the empty pistol, which was caked with dried blood. With a shaking hand, he pried the empty gun free and shoved it away.