by Jake Henry
Savage watched him disappear and after a brief period return with the keys and coach gun. The keys rattled in the door lock and the door swung open with a screech.
Cooper stepped back and raised the gun. “If you try anythin’ funny, I’ll unload both barrels into you.”
Savage walked out the back door and into the crisp night air of the desert. There was no cloud cover to speak of and the moon cast its silvery glow across the town. Far off in the distance, he could hear the yip of a coyote.
The stab of the gun barrels in his back prodded Savage to move.
The privy was a small, foul-smelling, plank-built blight that stood near a pile of split wood around thirty feet from the back door of the jail. As he got close, Savage staggered and went down on one knee. He cursed the dark, and a small rut in the path.
The coach gun prodded him again. “Get up and move.”
As Savage rose, he scooped up a handful of loose soil which he flung at Cooper’s face. As the outlaw reeled back, Savage continued the arc of his swing and grasped for the coach gun. His left hand clamped down on the twin hammers so the weapon couldn’t be fired.
With his right hand, he chopped down on Cooper’s arm and broke the man’s grip on the gun. Cooper cried out with pain.
Savage dropped the coach gun and continued his attack. His right fist darted out swiftly and he punched Cooper in the throat. The outlaw gagged and clutched at the affected area. He tried to call out but his damaged throat emitted only a hoarse gasp.
As he moved in closer, Savage smashed two blows to the outlaw’s face. There was a sickening crunch as Cooper’s jaw broke and blood began to flow freely from his wrecked mouth. His legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground. Savage drew back his right boot and drove a furious kick into Cooper’s head. There was a loud smack of leather on bone and the outlaw ceased all movement.
He blew out a harsh breath then glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed the Carver exchange. When he saw no one, he hurried back inside the jail.
The cell area was clear and he cautiously approached the office door then eased it open a crack and looked through. It too was vacant.
Savage strode into the office and found what he was looking for. The Winchester was in the gun rack and the Remington was in the top drawer of the desk. His saddlebags still sat in a dusty corner of the room where they’d been dropped.
The remainder of his money was tucked away in his boot. He had everything he needed, so it was time to send Carver a message and let him know that this thing was far from over.
~*~
An ashen-faced Ringo Thomas crashed his fist repeatedly on the closed door of Carver’s room at the Sparkling Kitty the following morning.
A slim red-headed whore, with a smattering of freckles and a blackened eye, stirred beside Carver as the drumming continued.
Annoyed at being rudely awoken, Carver dragged himself from the bed which groaned and squeaked in protest of the movements. He scooped up one of his Colts from the bedside table and padded across to the door with not a stitch on.
“Who is it?” he asked gruffly.
“It’s me,” Thomas answered.
“What time is it?”
“Just after dawn,” Thomas informed him. “Damn it open up.”
Carver turned away from the door. “Go away.”
The door crashed back and Thomas’ frame filled the doorway. The redhead whore in the bed shot up, eyes wide with fright. Carver was about to explode with rage when he saw the look on Thomas’ face.
“What is it?” he asked cautiously.
“You’d better get your duds on and come with me,” Thomas said grimly.
That told him that it must be bad. “I’ll be right out.”
Carver dressed hurriedly and rushed out the door to find Thomas still waiting.
“Are you goin’ to tell me what this is about?” he asked Thomas as he followed him along a narrow hallway.
“You need to see it,” Thomas told him. “And trust me, you ain’t goin’ to like it.”
~*~
Outside, the orange of the new day had appeared but the sun was yet to make its long climb into the sky. Though it was early, there was nobody about, instead, it was eerily quiet. Nothing moved along the street, not even the usual morning breeze that came off the desert after sun-up.
Carver frowned at the stillness. Then he saw the scaffold in the distance and remembered that today was the day set to hang Savage. He did a double take as there appeared to be a body already hanging from the rope.
He looked at Thomas questioningly. “What the hell is that?”
“That’s Cooper,” Thomas told him.
Carver was stunned. “What? How?”
“Savage killed him,” Thomas explained. “He hung him there as a message for you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“A man don’t have to be a genius to figure it out. Not after what we done to his wife.”
Carver stepped down off the boardwalk and out into the main street. He made his slow and cautious way towards the scaffold, acutely aware of the dozens of eyes that peered out through windows, watching to see what their self-anointed sheriff would do next.
Ahead of the two outlaws, there was a flutter of black as a crow swooped down and landed on top of Cooper’s head. It cawed an invitation to unseen friends then leaned down over the dead outlaw’s forehead, and drove its beak into the left eye.
It worked briefly then flapped it wings and flew off over the top of the false-fronted buildings with its grisly trophy.
Thirty yards later, Carver and Thomas stood at the base of the scaffold and looked up at the blackened, misshapen face that belonged to Cooper. The trap hadn’t been tripped. The rope was hauled up short so that Cooper’s feet dangled just above the platform.
Carver noticed a piece of paper sticking out of Cooper’s shirt pocket and knew that it was meant for him. He pointed it out to Thomas and asked, “Did you see that before?”
Thomas shook his head. “Nope.”
Carver dropped his hand to his right-side six-gun and looked about the street. At a glance, it appeared to be clear and when he turned back, Thomas had moved around the pine-built structure towards the steps.
He climbed them cautiously and when he’d reached the platform he stopped in front of the dangling corpse.
Thomas wrinkled his nose at the stench of the corpse, wherein death, the body had defecated. For a man who’d been surrounded by so much death in recent years, it was a smell he knew well but would never grow used to.
He reached out tentatively and drew the piece of paper from Cooper’s pocket. As he unfolded it, he turned away from the corpse.
Thomas read the note then suddenly focused his gaze on Carver, a mortified expression on his face.
“What is it?” Carver snapped.
That was when Thomas’ head seemed to explode.
Sixteen
SAVAGE HAD WATCHED them come along the main street from his position behind a curtain on the second floor of The Desert Wells Hotel.
He jacked a round into the Yellow Boy’s breech and slid the barrel out of the window and waited.
Word had quickly spread throughout the town about the happenings of the night before, helped along by the mouth of the hotel’s desk clerk. The town collectively held its breath in anticipation, knowing full well that the only way to rid their town of the killers was with bloody violence.
Savage waited as Carver and Thomas stopped short of the scaffold and looked at Cooper. There was a brief discussion and Thomas walked around to the scaffold and climbed the steps.
As Savage sighted along the rifle’s barrel, Thomas read the note and glanced at Carver.
The Yellow Boy roared in the confines of the small room and the Winchester slammed back against Savage’s shoulder. Without waiting to see if his first shot had hit its target he worked the lever and shifted his aim to Carver.
Once more the Yellow Boy spat flame and Carver coll
apsed as his right leg went out from underneath him.
~*~
As the echoes of the first shot died away, Thomas fell from the scaffold and landed on his back at Carver’s feet with a sickening thud. The outlaw was missing a large chunk of his skull from where the .44 caliber slug had blown it away, his sightless eyes stared at the cloudless sky.
Something else caught the eye of a stunned Carver. The note fluttered down and landed in the dust beside Thomas’ Corpse. It was right-side up and the outlaw was able to read the large, hand-written message Savage had left.
It said: YOU’RE NEXT!
The rifle roared again and Carver felt the hammer-blow of the slug as it tore through his upper thigh. He collapsed to the ground, a temporary numbness took away any pain.
But it didn’t last long as a burning sensation started to radiate outwards from the ghastly wound. He grasped at his leg and attempted to staunch the flow of blood as the wash of crimson spread across the material of his pants. But even as he did so, a small pool started to form beneath him in the dirt.
Panic began to build in Carver as it suddenly dawned on him that he was vulnerable. He grasped at one of his Colts. Fingers, slick with blood, fumbled with it before he managed to get it out of its holster.
Carver eared back the hammer and frantically looked for a target to shoot at.
~*~
Savage strode purposefully out onto the boardwalk and stepped down onto the street. He changed the Yellow Boy into his left hand and palmed up his Remington. Ahead of him, at the base of the scaffold, lay Carver, with his six-gun drawn, desperately looking for Savage.
When he saw Savage walking towards him, Carver’s eyes grew wide with alarm and he brought the Colt up to fire.
The Remington blazed and a .44 slug punched into Carver’s gun-arm. The bullet broke his arm and his fingers opened reflexively, and he dropped the unfired Colt. He cried out in pain and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.
Savage continued to approach him at a steady pace. The heels of his cavalry boots left small scuff marks in the dust.
Carver grabbed urgently at his second gun but only had it halfway out when another shot from Savage smashed that arm too.
Now, overcome with pain, Carver flopped onto his back. He seemed defeated as the realization of his imminent demise finally took hold.
He fought back the urge to cry out as the waves of pain washed over him.
From the other side of fly-specked glass, townsfolk watched expectantly as Savage drew closer to the wounded killer.
And then he was there. Carver looked up to see the man standing over him, staring down with hate filled eyes. His Remington was pointed at the killer’s head.
A sudden wave of calmness gripped Carver and he raised his head and smiled wryly. “I guess this is it then, huh?”
The Remington roared and a round hole appeared in Carver’s forehead. His head smacked against the street, driven back by the impact, sightless eyes open and mouth hanging slack.
It was over. All of Carver’s raiders were dead. And the hell of it all was that none of it would bring Amy back.
Townsfolk began to emerge on both sides of the street. Relieved murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd as they realized that the reign of terror forced upon them by those men was finally over. The bandits who had held their town to ransom were all dead.
Savage looked about at the people as they waited to see what he would do next. He looked down at the Remington which was still in his hand.
Silently Savage slipped it back into his holster, brought the Yellow Boy up to rest on his shoulder and began to walk back to the hotel where he’d left his saddlebags.
“Excuse me, Mr. Savage?”
Savage looked to his left and saw a short, thin man who wore a suit and spectacles emerge from the crowd. He stepped down to the street and approached hesitantly.
“What do you want?” asked Savage unpleasantly. Hell, it was all unpleasant.
“My name is Thaddeus Miller. I’m the mayor,” Miller explained.
“So?”
“May I ask what …?” he paused. “I mean … what is it you plan on doing now?”
“I’m getting my stuff and my horse and leaving.”
“Umm … would you consider staying? We need law and order and you could be just the man to do the job.”
Savage glanced about and then brought his gaze back to the mayor. “No.”
Before Miller could try to persuade him further, Savage pushed past and kept walking.
He’d not thought about what he’d do after achieving his goal of bringing Amy’s killers to justice. But he knew that he sure as hell wasn’t staying here.
Savage collected his saddlebags and went along to the livery to get the sorrel. He tried to pay the livery man who held up his hand.
“Don’t bother, Savage,” he told him. “After what you’ve done for the town I ain’t goin’ to take your money.”
“Thanks,” Savage acknowledged the gesture.
After the sorrel was saddled, he walked it out to the front of the livery stable and mounted. He looked both ways. To the right would take him back to nightmares he wished to forget. To the left …
There was movement beside him as the hostler came out and stopped next to the sorrel.
He looked up at Savage and asked, “What are you goin’ to do now?”
Savage heeled the horse forward and turned it left. Without looking back he answered the hostler’s question. “Drift!”
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