by Tony Healey
Several patrons cowered in one corner, while the rest hid under the tables, covering their heads with their hands. McBride, behind the bar, made for his shotgun.
No sign of the sisters.
Ethan aimed his pistols at McBride. “I’m not your enemy.”
McBride stopped, relieved that it was Ethan. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“Which way?” Ethan demanded, lowing his pistols.
The bartender indicated the door behind him. “Both of ’em went through there.”
Ethan moved swiftly past. “Don’t shoot me in the back, d’you hear?”
“Yessir.”
Ethan kicked the door open and dove to the side. A hail of bullets erupted from within and would have ripped him to Swiss cheese if he’d remained on the spot. Ethan hit the floor hard, tasting dust. He scrambled away, getting some distance, and when the firing ceased, he stayed low and waited. April Proctor emerged, prowling with her sidearm held at the ready. She did not see him hiding until the last seconds. April looked at him, eyes going wide. And as she made to fire on him, Ethan plugged her in the forehead. Skull and brain exploded across the bar, covering McBride—too slow to take cover—in visceral, meaty splatter. She slid to the floor, leaving the bartender looking dumbfounded, smothered as he was in the dripping contents of April’s head.
“No!” June yelled from within. “Not my sister!”
Ethan remained where he was for a moment, but when June didn’t appear, he got to his feet. He edged toward the doorframe and ventured a peek inside.
McBride stood on the spot just blinking.
“There a door out the back?” Ethan demanded.
The bartender turned slowly toward him, eyes wide. He nodded once; then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fainted.
“Damn,” Ethan said. He glanced once more inside, saw an open doorway somewhere at the back and a rectangle of moonlit alley beyond. Of course, she might have left the door open and kept herself hidden inside, waiting for him to make the mistake of pursuing her.
He stepped over the body of April Proctor and peeked over the bar counter. McBride seemed to have landed unscathed, apart from the blood on his face. “Somebody help him, will you?” he asked the patrons of the saloon. “Give the man some brandy when he comes around.”
He headed back through the doors out front, frantically searching either side of the street. Myra stood behind the corner of the gunsmith’s, watching for movement. As Ethan walked into the street, a shot exploded at his feet. He darted away, whirling around to look for the source. Another shot, into the ground ahead of him. Myra shrank back behind the corner of the gunsmith’s. Ethan slid behind a set of barrels and bent down low. He checked the chambers of his revolvers and quickly replenished his spent rounds.
“Myra!”
“I’m right here.”
“See where those shots came from?”
“Sorry.”
Ethan snapped his weapons back together and got ready to peek over the barrels. “Watch the street.”
“I am.”
Gingerly, he looked over the top edge of one of the barrels. Immediately a shot rang out. The front of the barrel sprang a leak, saturating the ground with some kind of dark fluid that did not smell too appetizing. Cursing, Ethan tried to keep out of the muck and weigh up his options. He was a sitting target, and the wooden barrel wouldn’t stop every shot that came his way. One would get through eventually. He had to move.
“Ethan! I think that shot was from above the saloon,” Myra yelled.
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it on a Bible,” Myra replied hesitantly.
Ethan grit his teeth. To hell with this, he thought, darting out from behind the barrel at a run, aiming up at the second story of the saloon. Then a movement caught his eye and he looked down the street. But it was too late. June Proctor came up behind Myra and pressed her pistol into Myra’s side, forcing her to step into the street.
“Easy does it,” June said, relieving Myra of her sidearm. She slipped Myra’s pistol into the sash around her waist, then wrapped her arm around Myra’s throat to hold her steady. “No sudden movements now, missy.”
June led Myra out into the middle of the street in plain view.
“You let her go!” Ethan shouted across.
June sneered at him. “Walk out here and set your guns on the ground, and we’ll talk about who gets let go and who don’t.”
“I walk out there, you’ll just kill us both.”
“No, I won’t. You got my word, and my word is good. I won’t touch a hair on her head, you give yourself up like I just proposed.”
Ethan looked across at Myra.
Myra looked back.
“All right, I’m comin’ over.”
Myra struggled against June’s restraint. “Don’t do it, Ethan!”
“I got to,” he said. “Can’t let you die, too.” He flashed back to his brother standing on horseback, and choosing Ethan’s life over his own. George swinging from the rope like a human pendulum.
“Very touching,” June said. “I’m impressed by this little demonstration of nobility you’re giving the good folk of Amity Creek. I’m sure they’re all watching from behind their curtains right now. Probably taking bets over who comes out tops here.”
Ethan strode forward, guns still trained on June. He could’ve taken the shot and hit his mark, too. But he worried about hitting Myra at the same time. If June was to use her as a human shield, Myra would die by his hand. Ethan knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened. He couldn’t take the shot.
But despite that, it still took every ounce of restraint not to aim and fire. He could see the shot in his mind: June Proctor’s head snapping back as the bullets hit, folding her face inward, June’s hold on Myra loosening as she fell backward. A fountain of blood, black in the moonlight, spewing up into the air to add a final flourish to the proceedings. It was beautiful, and yet it was a shot he could not afford to risk.
Ethan raised his guns. “I’m gonna lay these down. Don’t hurt her. Do what you want with me . . . but let Myra go.”
“Attaboy,” June said.
Myra shook her head furiously. “No, no, don’t do it!”
Everything was plain to see in that moment. As Ethan bent down to rest his pistols in the dirt, he saw it playing out. June Proctor letting Myra go, then shooting him down in the street. So this was it, then. This was to be his final stand. There was nothing to think, nothing to consider.
“I can’t see her kill you, Myra,” Ethan said. He dropped his guns.
Everything changed in the blink of an eye. Out of nowhere, Warren Cavill dove at June, an iron in his hand. As he landed against her, he brought the iron down on the back of her head. The sight of the blacksmith doing anything to cause harm to another was shocking enough, but not as shocking as the way June’s eyes rolled up into her head. She hit the ground with a heavy thud, sending Myra tumbling down with her.
Ethan froze where he was, his mind catching up with what was unfolding before him.
Warren reached down to help Myra up. “Are you all right, miss?”
On the ground, Myra accepted Warren’s assistance with one hand, while with the other she yanked her pistol from June’s sash and turned. Without the glass in the windows, there was no hiding May Proctor up there above the saloon, lining up her shot. She aimed her gun on Ethan and pulled back the hammer.
Myra did the same. She aimed, arm outstretched, the pistol heavy as an anvil. Ethan looked at her in a momentary flash of confusion, then spun about to see what she was aiming at. Behind him, Myra fired.
The bullet struck May Proctor in the neck. She reflexively fired her weapon, but the shot went wild, up into the night sky. Ethan darted back several steps in order to get a good vantage for shooting at May, but she dropped
her gun and clamped both hands to her neck. She looked down at them, gurgling angrily on her own blood, then fell forward onto the jagged fragments of glass jutting from the bottom of the window frame. If the gunshot hadn’t been enough to kill her, impalement on the broken glass was the final nail in her coffin.
Myra averted her gaze, a little frightened sound escaping from her lips as she looked away.
Warren held a hand over his eyes and groaned in disgust. “Oh, Lord . . .”
Ethan continued to watch as, above the saloon, May Proctor gurgled once more and was still. Then he gathered up his guns.
* * *
* * *
Deputy Boyd Mitchell had chosen to cut across country and avoid the road completely. He did not want his surveillance of the Denton place noticed by anyone on the ground. But he was close enough to the road to hear the distant sound of three horses galloping in the direction of town. And a little while after, another horse headed in the same direction. Something was happening back in Amity Creek, and though he figured he ought to get back, he wanted to watch the ranch a moment longer through his field glasses. He’d witnessed nothing in particular that might have been cause for alarm. That was what was so frustrating about dealing with Denton. He was a cool customer. He knew what to do and what not to do, which made Mitchell’s duties all the harder to fulfill. He swept the glasses across the buildings on Denton’s property and saw a lone figure sitting in front of a fire. Could have been Jack Denton or someone with the same build, for that matter. He couldn’t be sure. No sign of Abernathy. No sign of Abernathy’s horse, either.
Mitchell ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. Should he ride farther along, announce himself and just ask Denton straight up? It seemed the most commonsense thing to do, with the sheriff having gone missing the way he had. But it’d be like shoving your own foot into a bear trap, and Abernathy didn’t train fools when it came to knowing a tight spot when you saw one.
First light I’ll come back here with a couple of men from town. Denton will think twice about doing anything with witnesses present. I’ll know for sure if the sheriff has been there, Mitchell told himself.
He turned and headed back toward town. When he heard the shots ringing out like distant thunderclaps, the deputy steered his horse toward the road, where the ground was even and flat, and rode her as fast as she would go.
* * *
* * *
Ethan walked over, helped Myra to her feet. “That was one hell of a shot. I owe you.”
Myra dusted herself off. “Wish I could’ve done more.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ethan gasped. He patted Warren on the arm. “Boy, am I glad you turned up.”
“I heard the shootin’ and decided I couldn’t just rest on my laurels and not do something. Had to come see who it was.”
Doors opened and the townsfolk appeared one by one to get a glimpse of what had taken place in their sleepy little town. On the other side of the street, the baker’s wife, Edith Gilmore, shrieked in horror at the sight of May Proctor slumped over the window above the saloon, her blood now coursing down the roof. She fainted and fell back into the arms of her husband, who lowered her gently to the floor and tended to her.
Dolly Tubman appeared in her nightgown with a heavy coat thrown over the top for warmth. She stood with her hand against her mouth, aghast at what had unfolded at the saloon.
Sally Greenacre charged over, clearly indignant. “You’ve brought nothing but trouble to this town!” she snapped.
Myra advanced on her, gun in hand. “Get back to the sidelines, old crone, and mind your own business.”
With a terrified shriek, Sally ran back to safety.
“Hey.” Ethan laid his hand on Myra’s gun. “Let’s not terrify the natives. She got the message.”
Myra slid the pistol back into its holster.
Ethan said, “As for you, Warren, I knew there was a side to you I hadn’t seen yet. Didn’t realize you were handy with an iron.”
The blacksmith scratched the side of his head. “Gotta admit, it didn’t feel no good strikin’ a woman that way. No good at all.”
“But it was necessary. That reminds me . . . ,” Ethan said.
They turned to look where June had fallen.
She wasn’t there.
Startled, Ethan strode forward, pulling his guns free again, certain she must have been hiding somewhere nearby, getting ready to shoot one of them from the side. He paced out into the road, alert for any sign of movement.
A shopkeeper opened his door, and Ethan whirled about, ready to fire before realizing it wasn’t June Proctor. He relaxed and mouthed, “Sorry,” to the shopkeeper, who took the opportunity to retreat back inside his store and bolt the door shut again.
“Her gun’s here,” Myra said, picking it up.
“Where the devil could she be?” Warren asked, looking at the weapon in Myra’s outstretched hand. “Bet she’s kickin’ herself she left that behind.”
“Wherever she is, she ain’t done yet,” Ethan said. “Did we wing her?”
“I think so, yes,” Myra said.
Ethan held up a finger. “Listen,” he whispered.
They craned their ears to hear. Then the noise presented itself—a horse’s hooves thundering away from town at speed. Getting fainter by the second. Ethan cut down a dark alley between two buildings, followed by Warren and Myra. Sure enough, his hunch was correct. June had ridden away. There were two other horses hitched there where no one would be able to see them.
“Their horses,” Myra said.
“If she’s winged, she ain’t winged enough,” Ethan said, checking the ground. “I know it’s dark, but I’d expect to see some blood.”
“You got two, though,” Warren said. “Two down, one to go.”
Ethan looked at Myra and holstered his guns. “Well, one apiece,” he said, and smiled.
Ethan led them back into the saloon. Worse than the broken glass everywhere was the stink of blood, expended powder, sweat and fire. McBride had been laid out on the floor next to the piano. His eyes were open, but he looked stunned. Lew was kneeling beside him, giving him sips of brandy from a glass.
“Is he gonna be all right?” Ethan asked.
“Sure, once the booze has took the edge off.”
“Keep him calm,” Ethan said, looking around. He wouldn’t have known where to begin to clean up the mess. “Do me a favor, Lew. Try to clean some of that off his face before he comes back to his senses. It won’t do him no good to see it.”
Lew nodded his head. “I will do.”
“Good man.”
Upstairs they found a similar scene. Shattered glass and a pool of blood spreading out from May’s corpse.
“I can’t look,” Warren said, turning away and heading back down the stairs.
Ethan looked at Myra. “How about you?”
“I don’t feel sick if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I make no judgments. Tell me something. Were you aiming for her neck?”
“No, her head.”
Ethan shrugged. “Close enough,” he said. “Come on, let’s go back downstairs. She’s dead as can be. We can quit lookin’ at her.”
Returning to the saloon, they found Deputy Mitchell in the doorway, rifle in his hands and face bearing a look of utter dismay.
“Deputy . . . ,” Ethan said, hesitating, unsure how Mitchell would react to what had unfolded.
Mitchell blinked. He looked from Ethan to Myra, shocked by what he was confronted with. “I think you two got some explaining to do.”
* * *
* * *
The deputy’s first order of business was to get everyone out of the saloon. When he spoke, he addressed not only the saloon’s patrons, but the people of Amity Creek who’d emerged from the relative safety of their homes to see what was going on.
“I don’t want anyone inside the saloon until it’s been cleaned up and the damage repaired. Somebody could get hurt in there. That or have their disposition challenged by what they see. So for now, the show’s over, folks. What I need from you all is to stay inside until I say different. D’you hear? I don’t want folk caught up in any more violence. I have a lot of questions about this situation that need clearing up.”
Warren nervously told Mitchell he thought he ought to get back to the livery—“If I’m not needed no more”—and Mitchell agreed.
Ethan held out his hand and the two men shook. “You did us a good turn, Warren. I won’t forget it. Time for you to get safe now.”
Warren visibly relaxed. “I don’t need telling twice,” he said.
“Thank you,” Myra said. “You’re a brave man.”
The blacksmith blushed at the acknowledgment of his heroism. “You’re welcome,” he said bashfully. Bidding them all good night, he headed back to his livery.
Mitchell stared hard at Ethan and Myra. “Now tell me what the hell happened.”
“Jack Denton said he wanted to settle a score with me, and we agreed to meet here at nine. But we learned he’d sent three women in his employ instead, thinking they’d get the drop on me.”
“What three women?”
Ethan pointed up at May Proctor. “There’s one of ’em. The other is inside the saloon, next to the bar. Well, what’s left of her.”
“You said there were three.”
“One got away,” Myra said.
Mitchell rubbed at his stubble. “So you came here and the shootin’ started. Who instigated it?”
“They did,” Myra answered instantly.
“She’s right.” Ethan took a breath and added, “Deputy, that up there is May Proctor. Inside, by the bar, you’ll find April Proctor.”
Mitchell’s eyes widened in surprise. “Get out of here.”
“I’m serious. They’re wanted all over the place. I had my suspicions when I heard Denton had triplets working for him. But the minute I laid eyes on ’em in the flesh, I knew it was them from their Wanted poster.”