by Lee Clinton
They waited for Moy to make his move, when out of the night two coyotes came into view from the right, just near a crag of rock, not more than fifteen paces away. They passed close by Luke, trotting through the saltbush, as if searching for prey.
The first coyote slowed to give out a low growl. The other paused, tilting its head back before letting out a piercing howl that cut the stillness of the night air.
In a flurry of saltbush, a spooked Calvin Moy leapt to his feet where he had been concealed and began to run. Gus raised his Winchester to shoot but the shot that rang out was from Luke’s rifle.
Moy dropped to the ground in mid-flight, as if his legs had been taken from under him.
Gus rushed forward, ready to fire, but the body was face down and completely still. The shot had struck its target in the centre of the neck at the base of the head.
Luke and Chrissy came up to Gus and the three looked down upon the body. Luke bent forward and as he did, he extended his hand towards Chrissy for her to take his Winchester. With one knee on the ground he reached for a limp arm and with his other hand he grasped the belt of Calvin Moy. With a pull and heaving motion he lifted the body onto his shoulders in a single motion and stood. It was a feat of incredible strength.
The two coyotes to their front, not more than ten paces away, each let out a long howl as if to acknowledge that the hunt was over, before turning to trot quietly away into the dark.
Gus and Chrissy also turned to follow Luke as he carried the body of Calvin Moy upon his shoulders like a trophy, just as a shotgun blast rang out to echo through the still night air. The three immediately hurried their pace, and as they rounded the corner of the homestead they saw Bev standing close to Henry as if to prop him up. In his left hand he held her shotgun, the muzzle pointing down at the body of Rufus Cole.
‘It’s finished,’ said Henry calmly.
Luke stopped and leant forward to let the body fall from his shoulders. It seemed to flop in a sitting position for a moment, before slumping and rolling on to its back between Rufus Cole and Aaron Moy. Three bodies now side by side.
In the stillness of the night the living all silently stood and looked upon the dead, as a coyote called.
Chrissy glanced at Henry, then at Gus. ‘Have we done wrong?’ she asked, her voice uncertain.
‘No,’ said Gus as he looked to Luke and Henry, then to Chrissy, who avoided eye contact. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, but received no response. As if to challenge, he said forcefully, ‘Look at me, all of you,’ and slowly they turned their heads towards him, and what he saw were no longer the faces of youth and innocence. Instead, he saw a toughness, a strength of character. It was in their unblinking eyes. Before him were true children of the real West, born and nurtured in the harsh realities of the frontier where law and morality were often not much more than righteous ideals. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘We have put an end to those who would commit evil within our community. How could that possibly be wrong? Today, here, right now, justice has been served.’