by Tony Healey
Myra aimed the gun at him across the table. She thumbed the hammer back, and Denton’s left eye fluttered momentarily at the sound of it. He knew that sound—had lived his life by it. Wreaked havoc and misery by it. That click meant something to him, like the minute hand on a clock nudging the short hand past twelve. It meant things had changed.
But as soon as he’d displayed surprise at her actions, Denton relaxed before her. This was another truth of his being—that he had ridden with death, and knelt by its side, for all of his days. The two of them were not strangers; they were kin. He and death knew each other well.
“What’re you going to do with that shooter?” he asked casually. Almost mockingly. What business do you think you have with that? “I thought we were havin’ a civil conversation here—”
“What we were having was a preamble to the real conversation I wish to have with you, Jack Denton. Or shall I say Bertrand Woodward?” Myra said.
“And that’d be?” He was unfazed by her use of his real name.
“I want to know something. When you plow things out of your way, does that include children, too? Children like my niece and nephew?”
Denton held up his hands to calm her. “Let’s not let emotion come into this. We both know what went down here, and what was done can’t be changed. It is what it is.”
Myra stood, arm outstretched, her pistol like a cannon at the end of it. “It is what it is?” she asked in disbelief, failing to keep the emotion out of her voice. “It is what it is?”
Denton went to stand. “Now, listen—”
She fired. The shot ripped into Denton’s shoulder and sent him back on his chair, tipping over and crashing to the floor.
The feeling of pulling the trigger was indescribable. It was pure release, the bullet ripping into his flesh like a projection of her own anger and bitter loss. Myra walked around the table to see Denton working himself out from the shattered wood of the chair, grimacing from the bullet wound in his left shoulder. The hit had rendered his left arm completely useless but somehow he already had his gun in his right hand. Denton looked up at her and was about to lift the gun when Myra stamped down hard on his good hand, pinning it to the floor. Denton growled in fury, then agony, as Myra pushed down harder and harder with the heel of her boot, feeling the bones in Denton’s hand begin to give way—threatening to splinter like dry twigs.
“Let go of the damned gun,” Myra ordered through gritted teeth.
Denton did as he was told, and when he lifted his hand from the piece, gasping from the pain shooting up his wrist, Myra kicked the gun clear of his reach. He collapsed on his side, panting hard.
“I take it you’re gonna kill me, then,” he said.
Myra pointed the gun at him again. It would have been so tempting to simply pull the trigger and end it right there and then. But she knew that to deny Ethan the privilege of deciding Denton’s fate would be cruel.
“Not yet,” she said. It was Ethan’s turn for catharsis.
* * *
* * *
The gunshot inside the house split the night in two, ricocheting through the darkness and startling the riders’ horses. Ethan looked over the upper ridge of the roof and saw them charge toward the house. Within seconds they’d be there, gaining entry and most likely killing Myra in the process.
Ethan pushed up on the shingles, raised the rifle over the ridge and lined up his first shot. The weapon recoiled against him as he fired, his shot hitting the man on the far right in the thigh. He screamed in agony, clutching his leg. Ethan swung the rifle to the left, fired at June Proctor. His shot missed by a hair and she ducked away, turning her horse out of its charge. The big man on the left pulled his pistol free, aimed and fired up at the roof. His shots didn’t come anywhere near. Ethan held his position and returned fire, one of his shots blowing the hat straight off the man’s head. Inches lower, it would have been his head.
The big Russian hadn’t spotted where the shots were coming from yet. Hadn’t noticed the focus of the other man’s attention, either. He fought with his pony to keep it calm with the riotous discord of gunfire happening around it, but it was no use. The beast bucked its back legs once, twice, tossing him forward in the saddle. He hung on as best as he could, but when the creature spun about, then reared up, paddling its front hooves, it managed to shake him loose. He tumbled off, hitting the dirt hard.
The Russian got to his feet. Raised his weapon and found his mark. His gunshots blasted the shingles in front of Ethan, causing him to duck out of the way, shrinking down out of sight. Soon as there was a break in the man’s fire, Ethan sprang back up, aimed and fired. All his shots went wide, but he succeeded in pushing the Russian back, farther away from the house. June Proctor joined in, returning fire on Ethan’s position, determined to kill him, her face hard set. She would enjoy it. Of that, he had no doubt.
* * *
* * *
Myra peeked out the window at what was happening in the courtyard, and when she turned to look at Denton, he was attempting to crawl away, using his one good hand to pull himself along the floor. Inching toward the gun Myra had kicked out of his reach.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, aiming her pistol at him.
Denton gave up, pushing himself up to a sitting position and wincing at the pain in his shoulder. Myra was sure she’d never seen a sorrier sight in all her life. She almost felt euphoric at just how hard he had fallen and how fast.
“Just kill me.”
“All in good time,” Myra said.
She turned to look through the window again. Ethan was keeping them occupied out there, but for how long she had no idea. They’d get in the house eventually, surely.
When she turned back, Denton was now on his side, face turned away on the floor. He wasn’t moving. A steady gathering of port-colored blood pooled beneath him. Myra approached and tentatively nudged him with her boot. “Denton!”
Nothing.
Myra nudged him again to check if he was conscious. She wasn’t going to get him out of the house anytime soon if she was forced to drag him out by herself. The plan was that he would walk himself out. A man his size, he’d take some lifting.
“Damn it, wake up!”
She pushed again with her boot, shoving him onto his back. Denton tensed and snatched at her ankle. Panicked, Myra tried to kick him loose but he refused to let go. Denton glared up at her with bloodshot eyes, his face flushed red. Try as she might, Myra couldn’t wrench her foot free of his grip. Denton was strong. He pulled at her, and she lost her balance completely.
Myra fell back and hit the floor. Next thing she knew, Denton was scrambling to get on top of her. His entire weight pressed down on her legs and she tried without luck to buck him off of her. Denton grabbed hold of her blouse and lunged forward, knocking the air out of her lungs. Then his one good hand found her throat.
Denton’s fingers closed tight around her trachea. He squeezed his hand shut, attempting to strangle her.
Myra’s first instinct was to let go of the gun and use both hands to prize him off her throat before it was too late or maybe to try to gouge out his eyes. But then it dawned on her that she must keep her grip on the gun. She must use it. With one hard movement, under all his weight, she jammed her pistol into his gut. They were so close together, she could see the fear in his eyes.
She thought, You know exactly what that is.
Denton stopped trying to strangle her, his hand relaxing around her throat.
Myra sucked in a desperate breath, coughing and sputtering as the air rushed into her lungs. She pushed harder with her pistol and Denton rolled off of her. Myra kicked herself back from him, breathing hard and fast.
Denton sat up, wiped at his nose. Sweaty and out of breath, blood all down the front of him, he looked at her.
Myra got up. She rubbed at her bruised throat.
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“You’re not getting out of this house alive,” Denton told her. A smile grew across his lips. “You’re gonna die here like your brother.”
Myra stood over him. She flipped her pistol around, holding the barrel in her hand. And with one swift movement, she raised the gun and smashed it down on Denton’s head. He collapsed sideways, his face smashing into the floor with a sound like steak slapped on a chopping block. A tributary of fresh blood worked its way down the furrows of his forehead from where she’d struck him.
The exchange of gunfire raging outside, Myra looked at him, feeling the thread of her pulse thumping in her veins. She realized something.
She was no longer scared.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ethan let off another round of shots, holding June and the others back, but they were too much. This time when they returned fire, the shingles did not hold. Their bullets burst through to his side of the roof, one of them skimming his right biceps and grazing the flesh there. Ethan winced. It was not the worst pain he’d ever experienced, but it still smarted. He was left no choice but to retreat and shinny back down the rear slope of the roof. When he reached the bottom, Ethan dropped down to the ground with little discomfort other than where he’d been marked by the bullet.
It would take them only a few seconds to realize he was either dead or no longer up there, because he was no longer shooting back. Then Denton’s people would make a play for the close-quarters battlefield of the house itself. Ethan discarded the rifle for now, knowing he would need the speed and efficiency that his father’s twin pistols would afford him. Unsure of what was taking place inside, and with no time to check, he worked his way up the side of the house, guns drawn. The man he’d hit in the thigh when the shooting began came into view first. He pulled up at the front of the house. He was not looking toward Ethan’s hiding place, and when Ethan presented himself, the man did not notice. He was busily shooting out the downstairs windows. Ethan took a stance and fired both guns, hitting the man in the side and the chest. A spray of blood flew from the man’s mouth as he convulsed before falling off his horse. The animal took off and he landed on his back in the dirt, his worn duster settling over his bloodied visage like a shroud.
Ethan pressed on. June Proctor fired immediately, once, then twice. The first shot did not find its mark, but the second did half a job.
This time Ethan cried out. The bullet had blistered his neck. He retreated back against the house, holstering one gun and clamping that hand to the wound. Blood oozed through his fingers but did not spurt like she’d nicked a major artery. If that had happened, he’d have bled out in seconds. Ethan worked his way back, one hand on his neck, the other holding his pistol out in front of him. June sprang out around the front corner of the house to get the jump on him and Ethan fired at her straightaway. His shots plunged into the wall next to her, splinters flying into the air, and June took cover back around the corner.
“Can’t hide forever!” she screamed.
* * *
* * *
The gunfire was all around the house. Myra heard Ethan slide down the roof, and the reality that he might’ve been shot up there hit her with sudden dread. She moved from the windows just in time. They exploded inward in a hail of bullets. Myra darted back, cowering with her hands over her head as a sharp rain of shattered glass blew in behind her.
The biggest man she’d ever seen in her life barged in through the front door, breathing hard from the fight, eyes wild. She’d seen him from a distance on his horse, but up close he was so much larger. So much more imposing. The bulk of his frame filled the doorway as he passed through it.
He saw Denton on the floor, then looked at Myra. He raised his gun to shoot her, but Myra was already on the move. Instinct and reflexes moved her arm of its own accord. As she dove behind a cabinet to use it for cover, Myra aimed and fired at the lantern Jack Denton had set down when he entered the house—the same lantern now situated by the Russian’s feet. The bullet from her gun blew the lamp apart, throwing fuel and flame up the man’s legs. The fire engulfed the giant’s body in seconds, running up his pants legs and latching hold of his shirt to enflame his torso. He screamed as he whipped his arms around in an attempt to fight off the blaze. Myra shielded her face, pressing her body hard against the cabinet as the human inferno erupted before her. The sound that came out of him would haunt her dreams, she knew. He dropped to his knees, fire chewing at the skin and hair on his face and head, and as she peeked, she saw him turn his gun on himself.
The big man shot himself in the head, and his limp, burning body fell back against the wall. The flames continued their advance, latching onto the wooden walls of the house and claiming them.
Myra felt herself choking on the smoke filling the house.
And yet despite the fire, June Proctor strode through the open doorway.
“You!” she screamed at Myra.
June fired her gun, running past the flames. Myra retreated farther into the house, taking cover. The bullets whipped past her, so close she almost felt them cut through the air. Myra managed to fire back blindly, but none of her shots found their mark. In seconds her pistol was clicking through the chambers, out of ammunition.
Myra dashed behind a wooden pillar and June unloaded her gun, the rounds slamming into the solid wooden post, sending splinters flying around her.
“Come on out, little piggy,” June taunted her.
Myra’s hands trembled as she attempted to reload the gun. She coughed and gagged on the smoke, her eyes stinging so much, she could barely see at all. Before she could snap the chamber back into place, June was on her. She’d rounded the pillar and grabbed Myra by her clothing, throwing her to the floor.
Myra’s gun fell from her hand and clattered away. She lay where she’d fallen, unarmed, her fate entirely in June Proctor’s hands.
Black smoke billowing around her, June took aim. Myra tensed, ready for what was to come. Ready for death, ready to see her family again.
The shot rang out, loud and sharp in the confined space. Myra flinched but did not feel pain, did not feel the wet warmth of her own blood. A hole had opened in June’s forehead, and as she fell forward, Myra saw Ethan behind her, bloodied but whole, a tendril of smoke rising from the end of his shiny pistol.
* * *
* * *
Ethan helped Myra to her feet and got her outside. Far enough away from the house for her to be safe for the moment. His own wounds forgotten, he fastened the face covering he’d used when they held up Bobby Denton and rushed back into the inferno of Glendon Hart’s house. He had to rely on his memory of the house’s layout. It was so hot inside, it felt like his skin would begin to blister and boil if he stayed in there much longer. But he located Jack Denton on the floor, unconscious, and dragged him by his feet toward the back of the house. He stopped on his way there and removed a framed picture from the wall nearest him, then continued to extricate Denton from the fire.
Choking on the fumes, Ethan collapsed to his hands and knees on the grass outside, trying to breathe. When he was able to, he got back up and continued pulling Denton to safety. Myra got up and tried to rush for the house, but Ethan dropped Denton’s legs and grabbed at Myra in time to stop her.
“Myra, stop it. You can’t!”
“His house!” she cried.
Ethan held her tight. Wrapped her in his arms. “Myra, it’s over,” he said. “Listen to me, Myra. The house is gone.”
“No, no, no . . .” She wept, pressing her face into Ethan’s breast as she sobbed.
He walked her farther back, trying to shield her eyes from the raging inferno of the house, the flames reaching up into the night sky and filling the air with thick black smoke.
“I’m so sorry,” Ethan whispered into her ear as he held her. “But now it’s done. You’re free of it, Myra.”
Myra pulled back from him a little and looked up in
to his face. “I don’t have anything to remember them by.”
“Yes, you do. See?” Ethan produced the framed photograph he’d rescued and pressed it into Myra’s hands.
She wiped at the soot-covered glass and her face lit up at the sight of the photograph of her brother and his family. “Thank you,” she said. “It means so much. You don’t know . . .”
“I do know.” Behind them, something broke inside the house. A beam slipped, and one wall collapsed in on itself, the sound as loud as an avalanche. “We can’t stand here. This place is a deathtrap. It could fall on itself any second.”
“Look,” Myra said, nodding back at Denton.
Ethan followed her line of sight. Denton was moving, after waking from the hit Myra had administered to him.
“Here.” Ethan handed her one of his pistols. “Don’t let him leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“To fetch Ruby,” he said. He’d left Ruby hitched to a tree a ways back from the house, out of sight of Denton and his minions.
Myra blinked away the sting from her eyes. “What then?”
“First I’m gonna hog-tie him. Then Bertrand and me are gonna play a little game he taught me a long, long time ago.”
EPILOGUE
The fire could be seen from town, and when Bobby Denton arrived on the main drag of Amity Creek, the deputy had roused as many citizens as he could to ride out with him to help combat it. Bobby hid his face as the men and women of the town thundered past on horseback and in carts and wagons. The Hart place glowed on the horizon, the tower of black smoke visible against the haze of the fiery light.
There wasn’t anyone watching as Bobby climbed down off his horse and approached the sheriff’s office. His back still smarted from the rough night’s sleep he’d had in the cell. But that night had taught him something. It taught him he did not want that life. He wanted to be free of his father and the Denton legacy.