by Tony Healey
“You’re tellin’ me Denton’s had the Proctor sisters holed up at his place all this time?”
Ethan said, “You bet. Just like that Russian monster he denies knowing. We both know from that run-in in Warren’s stable that he exists, don’t we?”
Mitchell sighed. “I was up near Denton’s place looking for the sheriff.”
“Why? Has the sheriff gone missing?” Myra asked.
“He headed out to question Jack Denton and never came back. I tried to spot something from a distance, but all I caught wind of were the sisters tearing through the countryside toward town. When I heard the shots ringing out, I came straight back.”
“But no sign of Abernathy.”
The deputy shook his head. “No. I am pretty certain of what has happened, but I don’t want to say until I have definite proof. I admit I fear the worst.”
“Regardless, I guess you can’t just go charging in there on your own,” Myra said.
“I’d be no good to anyone shot full of holes,” Mitchell said, glancing back up at May Proctor impaled on jagged ridges of broken glass. “I do not see a quick end to this bloody violence.”
“There’s no stopping it now,” Ethan said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Once a thing like this begins, it has to be seen through. That’s how it is—how it’s always been, I guess.”
Mitchell looked at him. “You expectin’ more trouble, Ethan?”
“I’d be a fool not to. But it’s nothing Myra and I can’t handle.”
“I do not like this. I do not like this one bit,” Mitchell said, removing his hat and running his fingers through his lank hair.
Myra stepped forward. “We don’t like it, either, but it’s like Ethan said. We’re locked into this now. Whether tonight or some other time, Denton is going to come for us.”
“I don’t want any further bloodshed in my town,” Mitchell said.
“Nothing else will happen here,” Ethan said definitively. “We won’t inflict any more violence on the people of Amity Creek, Deputy Mitchell. You have my word on that.”
“I guess that’ll have to do,” Mitchell said, replacing his hat. “You sure have left a hell of a mess for me to deal with—that’s for sure.”
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said, “but like we told you, it weren’t nothing we started.”
Mitchell hooked his thumbs into his belt. “So where will you go now?”
“To her brother’s place,” Ethan said.
“And do what?”
Ethan looked at Myra.
“Wait,” she said.
* * *
* * *
Riding away from town at a trot, Ethan asked over his shoulder if Myra was ready for what was to come.
“You mean, more shooting?”
“Not just that,” Ethan said. “What happened in town was a unique situation. What we can expect at your brother’s place is likely gonna happen in a much smaller space. No room to move out of the way, so to speak.”
“The man I killed, he was in my home at the time. So if you’re talking about being in a tight corner, I’ve danced to that tune before.”
“Point taken,” Ethan said.
Ruby picked up speed and Myra’s grasp tightened around Ethan’s waist. “Is any of this violence ever avoidable?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “This is a hard land and it takes hard people to tame it. But there’s always another way, a better way, that doesn’t involve killing children.”
Myra leaned against him as they rode. “I want this to be over,” she murmured softly, but he heard her.
Tonight it will be, Ethan thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bobby Denton sat next to the fire and listened. When he figured at least an hour had passed and he’d not heard anything resembling the tromp of boots on the ground or hooves galloping on hard earth, he decided it was time to make a move. He couldn’t sit there forever, even if his captors had threatened him with death if he so much as thought about leaving.
It wasn’t easy with his ankles bound, but Bobby got to his feet and managed to keep his balance. He bent over at the waist and shook his torso from side to side, forcing the potato sack to loosen until it fell off completely.
Now he could see.
The fire still crackled, but the flames were dwindling because it had not been fed fresh wood. Soon the fire would peter out completely, and he would not only be alone in the dark but cold to boot. Bobby hurriedly cast about for something to cut his wrists free of their bindings, and he soon settled on a nearby tree. A lower branch about an inch thick had snapped off at some point, leaving a jagged edge jutting from the bark the length of a man’s pinkie. It was about the right height for him, too. He backed up against it, found it with his fingers and began to work against the thin ropes holding his wrists together behind his back. He rubbed back and forth until the ropes twanged apart and he was finally able to free himself. Next, he worked on his ankles and, when he was completely free, headed back down to the road. He was happy to be able to move his limbs and to make some noise. It was not in his nature to embrace silence and stillness.
He found his horse where he’d hitched her and was soon riding for home.
Bobby had had plenty of time to think while he’d waited by the fire. Time to evaluate his life. He had had no hand in the murders. The guilt for those was not his—and yet he had been complicit by failing to speak up about what had happened. His father had killed a man just to get his land. He could hardly believe it, and yet it was true.
If only his mother were alive, he thought. She had been a cold and distant woman yet loving in her own way. When she’d passed away, Bobby had looked to his father for guidance, but Jack Denton treated him like an employee, just another one of his hands, when Bobby was anything but.
Rosa was the only person who adored him. . . . Well, he wasn’t certain that Rosa’s feelings toward him were entirely genuine, but he was happy to act as though they were. As if she loved him and cherished their nights together.
And yet he knew deep down Rosa would never leave with him. She was not a woman destined for domestication—as if she were a wildcat that Bobby, in his ignorance and misguided arrogance, believed he could tame by association alone. Rosa’s destiny was not the same as his.
He would not see Rosa again, he decided. He was just a customer to her, that was all. He’d been a fool to think it would ever be any different.
Soon, Bobby was riding through the entrance to the ranch. And there before a fire sat Jack Denton with the look of the devil on his face.
* * *
* * *
Denton listened to what his son had to say and at first displayed no reaction. Truth be told, he was so angry, he could barely restrain himself from snatching the boy by the neck like a pigeon and crushing his windpipe. He wondered how he’d truly feel when he saw Bobby dead on the ground, and when an emotion did not readily suggest itself, Denton knew he would only feel relief at ridding himself of such a burden.
He had never been cut out to be a father. At times, he deluded himself into thinking he’d turned a corner and was going to parent in a way that would have surprised his brothers-in-arms from the old days, when his bloodthirstiness was legendary, and he lost count of the dead whose ghosts trailed behind him in an endless procession. But here he was, playing at being something he was not.
Of course when Bobby had gotten himself arrested, Denton hadn’t hesitated to get the boy out. That instinct to protect him was there whenever someone or something other than himself threatened to cause harm to his offspring. But when it came to hurting the boy himself, Denton was not so inclined to empathy.
“Pop? Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
Denton looked up at his son. “You overheard us talking about the Harts.”
“Huh?”
“I s
aid, you overheard us talking about the Harts,” he said, approaching his son with his hands clenched at his sides. “You were listening to a conversation that was none of your damn business, and you told those two all about it.”
“Please, Pop, try to understand—”
That was when Denton snapped.
In a flash he pulled his right fist back and swung it around in a tight arc, slamming his knuckles into the side of Bobby’s face. The boy staggered to the side, dazed, holding his hand to his face and shaking his head to clear it.
“Wait!” Bobby said as Denton set on him.
Denton grabbed Bobby by the shirt and swung him around, then shoved him so hard, he landed in a heap next to the fire. Denton stormed over and jabbed a finger in his son’s face. “You betrayed me!”
Bobby scrambled to his feet. “No, no, I didn’t!”
Denton caught Bobby by the collar and uppercut him once, twice in the stomach. His son bent double, winded. He made a strangled, gargling sound. Before he could recover, Denton took a handful of Bobby’s hair, lifted his face and hit him hard with his right. He followed it up with his left. Punching him until Bobby fell back down and gasped for him to stop. “No! Please! Pop!”
Denton was breathing hard. He shook his hands out. “If you were anybody else, I’d stick a bullet in your head, boy. The enemy gets ahold of you, you say nothing. The law gets ahold of you, you say nothing. You don’t blab at the first opportunity. Haven’t I taught you anything, you idiot?” He snorted. “My son. The one man around here I’m meant to be able to trust. Pathetic!”
“Pop, I’m sorry!” Bobby cried, instantly reverting to childhood. A frightened kid living in the shadow of his father rather than a man standing on his own two feet. Denton looked at him and felt only pity. He saw that his boy was weak—and the weak were a liability, even if they happened to be family.
Denton advanced on Bobby, ready with a tirade that was sure to further eviscerate his son. But he was interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping hard for the ranch. He turned to see June Proctor ride in fast, blood staining her clothes, both horse and rider slick with perspiration.
“Get out of here before I beat you some more,” Denton snapped at Bobby, dismissing him from his sight as he went to help June from her saddle.
Bobby glared at him, then left. He went inside the main house and slammed the door shut behind him.
Denton hardly noticed.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Got shot,” June said, wincing as he examined the wound.
He looked at the hole that had been left in June’s arm. He’d seen worse. But as was always the case with such wounds, it made you think: a few inches to either side, it wouldn’t have been the kind of wound you could dismiss so easily. “Your sisters? Where are they at?”
June looked at him, shook her head.
“I don’t believe it . . . ,” Denton said.
But June’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Believe it. I saw them die. They’re gone.”
“I’m sorry.” Denton removed his belt and tied it around June’s arm. “Bullet went straight through, far as I can tell.”
June flinched as he pulled the belt through the buckle. “Hurts like hell,” she said.
Denton reached up and pushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “What can I get you?”
“Something strong.”
“I’ve got cognac.”
“Bring the bottle.”
Denton steered her toward the seat he’d been occupying next to the fire. “You just sit there. Let’s see if I can’t rustle up something to make you feel better.”
He started to walk away.
“Can you bring back my sisters?”
That stopped him in his tracks.
“Because they died on your account,” June continued.
Denton took a knee and reached for her hand. At first, she shrank back from him, wouldn’t permit him to touch her. But then she allowed his hand to envelop her own. Denton said, “I am so sorry, June. How did it happen?”
June recounted how her sisters had been killed by Myra Hart and Ethan Harper. Denton’s mouth twisted tight at the mention of Ethan’s name. “We didn’t realize there would be two of them. I don’t know what went wrong. We just . . . underestimated them. It was like they expected us to be there.”
“And no interference from the deputy?”
June shrugged, despondent. “I didn’t see no sign of him.”
“Interesting,” Denton said. He gave her hand a squeeze. “Look, nothin’ I can say is gonna make this any better. Nothing I do is gonna bring ’em back, either. But you gotta believe me, June. I sent you three because I knew you could take him. I’m not quick off the draw anymore. Never was, to tell you the truth. I was good at other things, not slinging lead in the street. Though I’ve done my fair share of that, too. I thought, one dud against the three of you—done deal. He shouldn’t have known you ladies were going to be there.”
June looked into the fire. “Didn’t have no time to grab the girls so I can give them a decent burial. I had to run. Damn blacksmith smacked me over the head, too,” she said, rubbing the sore spot where he’d struck her with the iron.
“You have been through the mill. How’s about I get that cognac and see if that don’t take the edge off things?”
June didn’t reply. Denton got up and headed toward the house. To his surprise the door opened of its own accord and Bobby emerged from the dark interior with a shotgun in his hands. His face was red, eyes bloodshot and shining.
“Where are you going with that?” Jack demanded.
With shaking hands, Bobby aimed it at his father. “First thing I’m going to do is blow a hole in you the size of a supper plate, Pop. It’s what you deserve.”
Denton frowned at his son. “What in God’s name are you talking about?” he demanded, furious. “Give me the damned shotgun, Bobby, or so help me God, I will shoot you myself.”
“Try it, old man,” Bobby said, pumping the action on the shotgun and holding it at the ready. “Come closer, I’ll deliver what I promised.”
“I’m not playing games here, son,” Denton said, holding his ground with one arm outstretched, palm up. “Put the damned shotgun down on the ground.”
“No.”
Denton edged toward Bobby. “Listen, son. Tempers are runnin’ hot right now. Things have been said that ain’t got no meaning, not really. Put the damned shotgun down and let’s talk this over,” he said, gesturing to where June sat before the fire. “You can see things ain’t gone to plan tonight. The woman’s mourning her sisters.”
Bobby faltered. The shotgun dipped in his hands. “It’s not right what you did,” he said. “It’s not right what any of you did.”
Denton’s brow furrowed further as the truth of Bobby’s grievance dawned on him. “You dirty snake,” he hissed, edging closer and closer. Diplomacy was forgotten. His eyes were set on the shotgun, his thoughts consumed with seizing it out of Bobby’s hands. “I’m gonna beat you with that gun.”
But he didn’t need to.
Mikhail emerged from the shadows. He snuck up on Bobby and grabbed him from behind. His arms wrapped around Bobby’s torso, lifting him swiftly off the ground. He shook him once, twice, and the shotgun jerked out of Bobby’s grip and fell to the ground.
“Did you tell Ethan Harper to expect June and her sisters in town?” Denton demanded.
Bobby squirmed and fought to get free, but it was futile. The Russian’s arms held him fast and he wasn’t going anywhere. “Yeah, I did.”
June got up, tried to lunge at the kid, but Denton held her back. “Mikhail, get this snake out of here. I’ll deal with him later. Right now I don’t want to lay eyes on him.”
“As you like, boss,” Mikhail boomed, carrying Bobby away.
/> “Go fetch Randy, too. Tell him to saddle up.”
“Yes, boss.”
Denton took June inside the house and sat her at the kitchen table. His troublesome son out of the way, Denton fetched the cognac and a glass. He poured her a full measure and watched her down it in one go. He refilled her glass straightaway, handed it to her, then took a long swallow himself straight from the neck of the bottle.
“So this is partly his fault,” she said.
Denton ran a hand over his face. “I know. . . .”
“I never pictured it playing out like this,” June said.
“We’ll get this finished tonight, once and for all.”
June shot him an angry look. “If you hadn’t sent us, they’d be alive right now.”
“We’re all guilty of something, June. You killed the Harts. The sheriff. True, I sent you and your sisters into town. But them winding up dead, that’s not on me. That’s on who shot ’em down. If Glendon Hart had just given in, none of this would have happened. He could have took his money and rode off into the sunset. Set up camp somewhere else. But he just had to dig in, refuse to budge. I can’t have that, June. I’ve never stood for that. Someone gets in the way, well, eventually you gotta move ’em. Whether it’s Glendon or anybody else.”
June lifted her glass to her lips but did not drink. “So what’re you suggesting, Jack?”
“We ride out there tonight. Settle this once and for all. Kill Glendon’s sister. Kill that meddling son of a gun, too. Burn that house to the ground and piss on its ruins.”
June stood, drained her glass of cognac. “I’ll make them regret what they did to my sisters. Right up until their last breath, they’re gonna regret it.”
* * *
* * *
Mikhail set Bobby down. There had been a big fire out in the field where Mikhail had his hut. All that was left of the fire was a long stretch of gray ash and the smoldering remnants of logs spread over a patch of ground the size and shape of a coffin.
“What happened there?” Bobby asked.