She was still brave and would face what was ahead, with or without Chance. She could do nothing to summon his presence. Instead, she had to prepare to fight the Andrews Gang who descended on their town.
Finally, her feet moved, and she hurried away to find Isaac and the boys.
Chapter Seven
Chance fiddled with the horse’s reins after Deborah had ridden away. What must she think of him? He went to the saddle, where the scabbard was, and pulled the rifle out, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Sheriff Vic had told him to quit hiding behind his hat, to accept who he was, a hero. Did that mean accepting the rifle, too?
He didn’t feel like a hero. To climb high into a tree, take aim at unsuspecting men, and shoot them had brought him only misery. Yes, the sharpshooters had shortened the War, he’d been told, saved lives on both sides, but it seemed a cowardly way to fight.
Why had he ever done it?
It’d been a game, at first. They’d gone off to War, thinking it’d last a few short months. Heck, that first battle, folks came out to picnic, to watch them fight. It was a picnic seared on their minds forever, he was sure.
War was not a game. He’d been young, wet behind the ears, eager to prove his worth. And he had. The other men recognized his skills, congratulated him, gave him accolades. And he’d willingly accepted them. Until he’d shot his own brother.
To tell the truth, he had few memories of what happened after that. He’d not put the rifle down but had continued the shooting, going through the motions he’d already learned so well.
The wind was cold on his neck, and he pulled up the collar of his coat and leaned against his horse. He’d continued for one reason. He had wanted to die. How could he live when his brother’s life had been snuffed out? When he could never return home to face his family after what he had done.
He’d wanted death so badly, he could taste it, taste it like as strong as the taste of blood, that time when the Reb had smashed him in the mouth with the butt of his rifle.
That day, he’d snuck behind Rebel lines and found himself in a tree, and somehow had missed the Rebel sharpshooter sitting on the limb above him. Didn’t see him until he’d climbed right up beside him. Somehow, the Reb had missed him, too.
Not that it was surprising.
Chance had a way of moving, silently, stealthily. Many a time growing up he’d startled his mother when he went into the kitchen to sneak a biscuit. God had given him that skill. He’d been born with a slow, deliberate way of moving that barely caused the smallest of tree limbs to move when he climbed a tree.
It was a good hunting skill to have, even when the prey was his fellow man. He gave a wry smile as a tightness entered his chest and twisted inside him. He turned so that his back was to the horse. He still held the rifle and lifted it to his shoulder, remembering the feel, before lowering it.
Chance had taken off his greatcoat to climb the tree, that day. The Reb perched on a frail branch, looking like a bird about to fly away. The man’s dark brown eyes widened when it dawned on him whom he was looking at.
By that time of the War, even the members of the Confederacy knew him. His image had been passed around from hand to hand, and a bounty put on his head. Chance was easily recognizable by his gray eyes, not entirely gray but marked with a circle of navy blue around the irises. Maybe God had marked Chance, the way he’d marked Cain, so folks would recognize him for what he was.
The Reb had gone slack jaw and then smiled in recognition. Funny what the man had said. “I admire your work,” as if Chance had been an artist, a painter. And then the Red had come up with the stock of his gun, smashing Chance in the mouth. The blood pooled, and Chance spit a glob, even as he lost his balance and crashed backwards. But God, or the Devil, had been with him.
When he fell back, his suspenders caught on a limb. Right then and there, he’d recited Psalm 139—"If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”
And by the time, he’d righted himself, his knife drawn, the Reb had scrambled down the tree. Chance didn’t draw a bead on him but allowed him to scurry away.
With the pain of a busted chin and lip, Chance did his duty. He marked a man at the cannon, his original target, and shot, long before the Reb sharpshooter ever made it back to warn him.
Even now, Chance laughed bitterly at what followed. The Reb embellished the story of their meeting and turned Chance into a legend, if he’d not been one before. But if the Reb hadn’t run off scared, he would have seen the damage he’d inflicted, would have finished him off easily, given Chance the death he’d longed for.
Instead, Chance had done his job, climbed down the tree, retrieved his green greatcoat, and stumbled back to camp, dizzy from blood loss. He had needed ten stitches. Not only was his chin split open, but his upper lip, clean up to his nose. The surgeon had been skilled, or perhaps had taken special care because of Chance’s reputation.
Chance touched the barely perceptible scars now and thought of why he’d recited the psalm when the Reb had smacked him. Surprisingly, his words had been clear and loud, even though he’d had a mouthful of blood.
Chance, by that time, had long since quit believing in God, after seeing all the gore and destruction, seeing men with limbs sawed off, who’d never be able to make a living again, if they did survive the War. All that blood and gore, and where was God?
And yet, after being smashed in the mouth, he’d recited the psalm. He frowned and wondered why it stuck in his mind. He ran his hand along the barrel of the rifle and recited it now to see if saying the words would offer a clue.
O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me.
Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.
Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways.
For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether.
Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.
Inexplicably, tears came to his eyes, ran down his cheeks. He found himself on his knees, sobbing, as he’d done that day with Isaac. He struggled to his feet, gripping the rifle, and repeated a part of the psalm he’d never paid attention to before.
Surely thou wilt slay the wicked, O God: depart from me therefore, ye bloody men.
For they speak against thee wickedly, and thine enemies take thy name in vain.
Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate thee? and am not I grieved with those that rise up against thee?
I hate them with perfect hatred: I count them mine enemies.
Everyone knew of the Andrews Gang, and the atrocities they’d committed. Were they not enemies of God? Were they not rising up against God, going against everything Godly and holy? Would it be so wrong to protect those he loved from such men? He was fearfully made. Even he couldn’t deny it, as much as he wanted to. His movements were slow and deliberate, his hands steady, his hearing, his senses, attuned to all around him.
God had given him abilities that exceeded those of most men. If he was honest, his ability with the rifle exceeded that of any man he’d ever known. The rifle felt but an extension of his hand, as much a part of him as his own fingers.
Not that he’d ever asked for such gifts and considered them more a curse than a blessing.
But if God had given them for a reason?
And yet why? He’d shot Paul. Tears slid down his face again as more of the words of the psalm came to him: “Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”
The darkness had covered him, but even the night was light to God. He didn’t understand why his brother had to die, but the War had killed not only Paul, but thousands upon thousands of good men. And those who were not killed had been maimed, if not in body, in s
pirit.
To God, even the blackest of times were the same as the light. He pondered that for a moment. He’d been so caught up in his own pain during the War that he’d not noticed the other men... much. But even he could not fail to notice how fast friendships formed, how the men helped one another, risked their own lives, brought light in the darkest of times.
Remembering was one more pain for him to bear for none had befriended him. Partly it was his own doing, the path he’d chosen, seeking solitude to nurse his sorrow.
But there was another reason he had been friendless. The men had been frightened of him, some perhaps jealous. He’d been a better shot by such a wide margin, that it was something they’d not been comfortable with. He’d heard more than one man say God’s hand was upon him, and that was enough to frighten some away.
He’d tried to escape his fate, to run from God, but no matter where he went, God was with him, holding him fast, even when he’d been hit with the butt of the rifle and fell backwards, to be caught upon the tree limb.
In the weeks, months, since he’d shot his own brother, he had yearned for death, tasted it, tasted it as surely as he had tasted the blood that day when he’d been smacked in the mouth. He’d spit globs of blood and endured, hanging on the limb, quoting scripture, and scaring the man away.
And then had come the agonizing suturing of his mouth and chin wounds because God didn’t give him what he wanted, had not quite been finished with him.
Maybe God saved his life for just such a time as this, when the town of Brokken was being threatened by a gang of outlaws. How could he simply walk away?
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not from Deborah.
He looked at the rifle in his hands. It felt right. He prayed he’d not have to use it.
Chapter Eight
Chance decided to skirt the north side of town, to scout out the movements of the gang, but found their camp abandoned. Fear knocked on the door. He refused to answer, except to murmur Amor fati.
The main trail led to the southeast, although two smaller groups had splintered off. A pang of guilt assailed him. The main group had headed toward East Street, the place Fritz had asked him to guard. But surely, they’d found enough people to help. He prayed they were ready for the onslaught.
He scanned the area as he rode forward, every muscle tense, and pressed closer to his mount. As far as he knew, his horse had no name. Fati, he whispered, and patted the horse’s neck. The mare tossed her head as if nodding in agreement. He pressed closer to her, knowing she would sense an unknown presence long before he did.
The tracks from the gang, as he’d already surmised, entered the town on East Street. Molly and Thomas lived on the very end, on the outskirts of town, and Chance gave the house a glance.
The tracks did not lead to their house, thankfully, although he doubted they were home. Molly owned the restaurant, and this was a busy time, getting close to the dinner hour.
A body lay on the ground, not far from the Reed home. Chance gave the body a quick glance, noting it was the butcher. If anyone else from town had been guarding the road, they were gone. He hoped they’d fled, not been shot down.
On the left, not far down the road from the Reed home, stood the school. He almost rode past it when he felt Fati tense. He pulled back on the reins when the door of the school creaked open. Fear beat a tattoo at the base of his throat until he recognized Miss Edna who peered through the cracked door.
He turned Fati off the street and rode right up to the school before he dismounted.
Her eyes were round and unfocused, looking beyond him. Yet, when she greeted him, her voice was calm and strong, from years of dealing with unruly children, he was sure. She’d been a fixture in the town for many years, and Deborah held fond memories of her, and they’d occasionally taken treats to her, especially lately. Her health was not the best. She’d decided to retire at the end of the year, and Lydia’s bookish sister, Beth, would be accepting the position.
Even now, the pallor of her skin was evident, whether from fear or illness, he didn’t know. She searched his face. “Who were those men who rode by? I’ve never seen such a large group of riders.”
He considered whether to tell her the truth but a moment. Enough lies had been told for a lifetime. “The Andrews Gang.”
She put a hand to her throat, and fingered the medallion threaded through a silky black ribbon around her throat. She gave no other sign of agitation. “What are they doing here?”
He ignored her question and gestured inside. “Are the children all here? I don’t hear a peep.”
“Yes. I have them reading.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Miss Beth Walsh was here, but she left when those men rode by, to find out who they were.”
Chance nodded. Miss Edna was a strict disciplinarian, and the children obeyed her—usually. Sometimes, one or two would get out of hand, like the Jennings boys, or Calvin and Devon.
“Good. Keep them here.” He considered a moment. “Might be best to get them down low, on the floor.”
She dropped her voice to a whisper and gave a half smile. “I can manage that. We’ll make a game of it, pretend we’re in a cave.”
“And don’t worry about the sounds from the roof. I’m going to climb up, to see if I can get a sight on where those men may have gone.” Although he already knew, more than likely, they headed toward the bank.
She nodded. “I’ll tell them it is Santa, come to check their behavior.” She smiled, her face ashen but composed. “Thank you, Mr. Hale.”
“Bolt the door,” he warned her.
She did as he said, and he took Fati’s reins and led her to a shed out back, beyond the outhouse, where the children’s horses were kept, those who rode to school. Fati nickered softly at the other horses, and he left her, and headed back to the back of the building.
The school bell was in a square tower on top, and someone had had the foresight to make it easier to climb to the top for repairs. For on the wall were handholds, simple short pieces of wood that had been nailed into place. He glanced around, made sure no one watched and climbed with his rifle.
Not wishing to frighten the children, he made an extra effort to tread softly, although his naturally quiet step made little sound.
As he walked toward the bell, his gaze swept the area. He had a good view of the town hall, the Brokken Bank, to the south, and Molly’s Restaurant, the butcher’s shop, and the Brokken General Store to the north. He could not see beyond the buildings into the street. However, where East Street intersected with Main, a group of men gathered, a small group of only five or six. Two of them favored Fritz, and he suspected they were the two missing Brokken brothers. Their hands were tied behind their backs. His eyes adjusted, his vision sharpened, and he counted three others, arms folded, relaxed.
He calculated the distance and knew he could make the shot, shoot all three men before they knew what hit them. He hesitated, not only because of his reluctance to shoot the rifle, but afraid of what lay beyond the buildings. Fritz had said there were upwards of thirty men. Shooting three would not solve the problem. In the chaos that would be sure to follow, Deborah’s brothers might be killed.
He looked to the south but could make out no figures, no movement. Where were Klint, Fritz, and Deborah? And hadn’t they gathered more folks to help? The minutes ticked by. Had he made a mistake climbing onto the roof of the school? What good was he doing?
A smell traveled to him, carried on the wind. Smoke.
Although a tight fit, he climbed into the bell tower, placing a hand on the bell to still it, and looked for the source of smoke. The smell grew stronger, and horses neighed in the distance. And then all hell broke loose.
A popping sounded—gunfire. Flames leapt from several buildings—the bank, the general store, the butcher’s shop, the restaurant. He stood to get a better look. Riders on horseback galloped from the middle of town, the gang fleeing. Klint, Fritz, and perhaps others had driven them from
Main Street. They fled toward him and the school. He ducked behind the bell, praying they’d ride by.
Instead, four of the men turned to the schoolhouse, torches in hand. Surely, they would not set fire to the building, not with children inside? Glass broke as one of the men flung his torch.
And then, from the other riders, more broke off, perhaps ten, and circled back to the school. Chance laid down suppression fire, and they pulled their horses up, hesitating.
A group turned their horses and rejoined the riders who fled down the road, but that left eight circling the school, firing toward the school bell. Chance raised his rifle to his shoulder, stood, and fired. Shots whizzed by him, but he ignored them, intent on his targets.
These men Chance took care of swiftly, beginning with the men who carried torches. Even so, flames leapt from inside the building, and the front stoop also burned. Chance grabbed the clapper of the bell and clanged it, until his heart beat like an angry fist in his chest.
No one appeared to help, but the children, followed by their teacher, clambered out the window on the west side. Chance slid to the edge, to watch as the children made their escape.
Chance looked to the west. A couple of stragglers rode by, the last of the gang, and he raised his rifle, but they rode at a fast gallop and were difficult to get a bead on. He chose to let them go.
Miss Edna was a hundred or so yards safely away from the licking flames, ushering the children ahead of her, except for a young girl who held her hand. The teacher glanced over her shoulder, spotted Chance, and fully turned to give a signal that all the children were safe.
But uneasiness fluttered in his gut. He felt disoriented, as if he had slipped off the roof and dangled there, effects from inhalation of the smoke, he suspected. He had to get off the roof. Parts already collapsed, leaving gaping holes between him and the handholds in the back. And yet, he continued watching her.
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