Better Off Without Her (Book One of the Western Serial Killer series)

by Hestand, Rita

  "You from around these parts?" she asked innocently her attention drawn to his hunger.

  "Nope, just passin' through." He didn't bother looking at her. He didn't like what looking at her did to him—he didn't understand it, and he didn't like it.

  "We've lived here almost eleven years now. Came out not long after we married. It's a little lonely but its home." She smiled. "So…where you from?"

  "Kansas," he grunted again. He hoped she didn't ask too many questions, he wasn't good at questions.

  "Plannin' on settling in these parts, are you?"

  He nodded and kept eating. He wished she'd quit asking questions—it was hard to carry on a conversation. He wasn't settling anywhere. But there was no need to go into that. The woman probably didn't care. He'd figured out that many people talked but never said anything. He didn't bother looking about him until he completely finished his meal. When he did finish he noticed the boy and the woman staring. Had he done something wrong? He'd copied his fashion of eating after a gentleman in a boarding house. He'd copied many things; it was a way to get by.

  The kid was still standing over by the door still, just staring at him. Victor didn't want anyone staring at him. He knew he wasn't a pretty site. How could he be? Why did people stare? It seemed rude to him, but then, he wouldn't be knowing what rude was, either. He'd heard the word once when a portly woman in a dry goods store called her customer rude for staring at his scared face. That was the first woman he'd ever liked. He had almost touched her cheek to see if it was as soft as it looked, but he didn't. He wasn't supposed to touch women. He'd been told that enough. Instead, he touched his big scar on his cheek absently. He began to rub it; he always rubbed it when people confused him. He shouldn't be rubbing it, it tended to turn red when he rubbed it, and sore.

  "My…you have quite an appetite. Should I fix you more?" Hattie asked, staring at his empty plate.

  "No. That was plenty. I thank you for it too." He said and still refused himself the pleasure of looking at her kindly face. It had come to him at times that there were kindly people, who did nice things, without asking for money or anything in return. He found it strange, but somehow nice too.

  Some people were so handsome, he decided. He didn't understand it. Would he have been handsome, if not for his father? He'd never considered it. Perhaps he'd have been many things if not for his father. Fathers and mothers, what good were they?

  "What's he lookin' at?" Victor asked, nodding his head toward the boy. "Don't he talk?"

  The woman laughed. "Of course he talks, we just don't get many strangers, especially men strangers—with the war bein' on."

  "I Knew he had a gun on me while ago, that's good thinkin'." Victor smirked, and then frowned, inwardly wincing from the pain.

  "Just a precaution, I assure you." Hattie said with a chuckle. "Have to be careful of folks sometimes." Hattie's voice sounded a little less pleasant, a little less happy.

  "You know how to use a gun, son?" Victor asked his voice softened slightly as he talked to the boy.

  "Yes sir," the boy came closer. "My pa taught me."

  Victor flinched, "What did he teach you?"

  "He taught me how to shoot a gun. But I ain't ever killed anybody."

  Victor nodded, absently rubbing the scar again.

  "Well, what you starin' at boy?" Victor barked so loud the boy jumped away again.

  "I just…never saw a man with so many scars…on his face." The boy replied. "How'd you get 'em? You were in the war sir?"

  "Don't matter, I got 'em," he growled. "Weren't no war either, whatever that's about."

  "You mean you don't know about the war? "The boy edged closer.

  He asked too many questions. It confused Victor.

  "No, it ain't any of my business. And it's not nice to stare…" Victor grunted.

  "No sir," the boy moved away and didn't look at him again.

  "Forgive him please, he just doesn't see many people," Hattie said.

  Victor glanced about the cabin, his eyes taking in the big bed off to one side, and the little cot off to the other. There was a chair and he couldn't stop staring at it.

  "What's that?" he asked, not taking his eyes from it.

  "That?" Hattie questioned her eyes landing on the chair too, "Just a rocking chair. It was a present from my Aunt and Uncle back in Philadelphia, when I was with child. They said a mother needed a good rocking chair."

  "I never seen one before." Victor grunted again.

  "It's made of solid oak, too." Hattie beamed. "Go ahead, sit in it if you'd like."

  Victor shook his head. "My clothes ain't fittin' to sit in such finery."

  She twisted her head, and smiled. "That's very kind of you to worry, but it's made of wood, it won't hurt it. Go ahead."

  Victor shook his head.

  The wind whistled under the door, and Victor turned his head toward it, as though the wind itself were calling him. The eerie call of the wind bothered Victor.

  "It's just the wind kicking up again. You know it wouldn't be so cold here, if it wasn't for the wind." Hattie picked up his plate and took it to the small counter to wash.

  "I best be movin' along now, I thank you for the food." He said and this time looked at her.

  When she stared up at him with those oh-so-blue eyes, he frowned mightily and reached out to touch her hair. "You’re a right handsome woman."

  Hattie backed up. "No…no, I'm not." Her eyes were big, her hands trembling as she clasp her chest.

  He smelled her fear. Just like an animal.

  She looked frightened for a minute, and then busied herself, as though looking at him might put her in more danger.

  Victor looked for the boy, who was standing toward the corner of the room.

  "What's he doin'?" Victor asked roughly.

  "John T's being punished." His mother returned cleaning the table, not daring another straight look at the stranger in her house.

  Victor studied the boy for a moment, then the woman. Punishment. A word Victor knew and didn't like. His brows drew together in an even bigger frown.

  "What for, what's he done?" Victor demanded

  Victor could see the questions in her eyes as she glanced at him. "Well, I asked him to fetch the rest of the wood outside, and he wouldn't go. So he's standing in the corner, as he should. He knows better. He knows a good boy would mind his mother."

  Victor's eyes widened. "You're punishing him fer not goin' outside where it's freezin' cold?"

  Hattie stood staring at the man as though he'd lost his mind. "Yes, he wasn't told to stand in the corner, but he knows when to."

  "He ain't done nothin' that bad." Victor's voice roared.

  She began to back up against the wall. "He's standin' there himself." She insisted. "By his own choice."

  "You run along now, boy," Victor directed the boy not taking his eyes from the woman.

  The boy shook his head.

  "You don't want to see this," he insisted when John T. wouldn't move.

  Then in one lithe movement, Victor picked the woman up. He lifted her high off the floor and she struggled with everything in her to fight him off. Her eyes were round as saucers as pure terror must have reached inside her.

  Victor knew terror too; he'd been raised with it.

  She nearly screamed, but he had his hand on her throat and the sound that sputtered from her blue lips sounded morose. She kicked and tried to pull loose of him but he was too strong for her.

  "Put me down sir, how can you…do this…?" she began as his hand moved away for a moment. The terror seizing her had her eyes darting to her son.

  The boy came up behind Victor and kicked him hard on the shin with the butt of the gun.

  Victor grunted but continued to hold his mother.

  "Run John T." Hattie screamed as loud as she could.

  Without thinking, Victor kicked the boy across the room, the force of his boot so hard the boy fell to the floor. The woman shrieked and Victor's hand tightened.
He hated himself for hurting the boy, but John T. was getting in the way. He couldn't let that happen.

  "Now you stay there boy," Victor said turning back to Hattie. "You will pay for punishing him. You'll all pay. I'll see to it myself. He didn't do anything wrong." He threw her up against the wall, her body made a thudding sound, and she groaned aloud, trying desperately to move. He picked her up again, lifting her high into the air, and this time his fingers closed round her throat until they met. Her feet jerk, her head sagged against his arm, and her breath finally sighed from her body as he let her fall to the floor. The thrill it gave him to kill subsided quickly. He shook his head as he stared at her limp body. He ought to feel something aside this crazy surge in his head, but he didn't. He couldn't. "Ain't right to punish a kid…Why does all you folks got to punish 'em?"

  John T. tried to tackle him, tears streaming down his face, his voice at high-pitched scream, but Victor didn't budge. He took his knife from his boot and proceeded to cut off her wedding finger, while the boy continued to batter him with his small fists. The solid gold ring on her finger bounced and rolled on the floor, making a strange music in the air. The woman's eyes glazed over, and stared empty, as the boy screamed again for his mother.

  Victor stuck the finger in his pocket, the blood still dripping from it.

  The boy jumped on him and beat upon Victor like a small mountain lion. Victor found it amusing then pulled him around by the hair. His face was pleasant now, no longer angry.

  John T. hung from his hand, his face screwed up in pain.

  "You got grit boy." Then seeing the boys tears added. "Don't you understand, I did it for you? So she couldn't punish you anymore. Your better off now…remember that. You're better off without her."

  Victor let him loose and walked slowly out of the house. John T. followed, grabbing the gun and trying to shoot Victor, but Victor flung it into the yard, ignoring him as the boy latched onto his leg and bit him. Victor yelped, but thrust him with one hard shove against the front door as he was leaving. He mounted without haste.

  He rode slowly, hearing the racking sobs from the boy in the distance. Victor shook his head, but this time he turned to look at the boy sobbing into the dry dirt. He heard the crying and tried to drown it out as he shot off his gun into the air. He didn't want the kid to cry. Why was he crying? Yet the sound of the sobs lingered in his mind. Didn't the kid understand? The woman had no right to punish him. He didn't do anything wrong.

  The boy ran after him when he saw Victor looking. Victor kept on riding.

  "I'll kill you, I will, I'll find you and kill you, you bastard."

  Victor turned to look back once more. The boy ran, sobbing all the way, but he couldn't keep up with Victor's horse. Why did he not rejoice? The kid was free now–why wasn't he happy?

  ~*~

  Ten Years later

  Laredo, Texas

  John T. glanced around the bar for a familiar face. Smoke filled the bar room making his eyes water. The smell of whiskey permeated the air. The spittoons reeked of tobacco. The bartender saw him and nodded to the table on the left.

  Wesley Collins sat at a table, nursing a beer. He looked like an average cowpoke except his clothes were a little cleaner, his face shaved and clear of a shadow, his boots spit polished. He looked too clean, not at all what John T. expected. A well-seasoned ranger, he quickly surmised. Good, he could learn from him. John T. considered the man the bartender had point out with interest. Collins stood out among these cowpokes. Wesley wore his gun low on the hip unlike a lot of the rangers who preferred it high so they could shoot in a sitting position. He kept his hand at a distance that could easily clear his holster in a flash. John T. never saw a man more ready for a skirmish, yet looking just the opposite. John T. reasoned that Wesley Collins was not the run of the mill ranger, but took pride in himself and his job by presenting himself in such a forthright manner..

  Collins relaxed slouch in the chair hid his obvious talent with a gun from most, but not from John T. John T. knew about guns and how men wore them and used them. He watched and studied for most of the last ten years, and not just the position of the gun, but the position of the man himself. Underestimating a man could be a fatal flaw. John T. didn't plan on underestimating anyone.

  He sauntered toward Collin's table, winking at a dance hall girl that flirted with him on the way over. "Mind if I join you friend?"

  Wesley took his time glancing up from his beer. He nodded. "Sure, have a seat."

  "Thanks, you're Wesley Collins, right?" John T. put the question on the table, figuring getting to the point was best. The ranger wore clean dark pants, and a tan shirt, his hat rested sort of crooked on his graying blond head of hair. His face wore the lines of grief and worry, and sweat.

  "That's what they tell me," Wesley replied. He gulped a long swallow of beer, and then glanced at the John T. with renewed interest. "And you're…?"

  "John T. Cole." The cowboy replied, waving away the beer the pretty dance hall girl offered him.

  "John T….now that's a name." Wesley chuckled. "Kinda calls attention." He pushed his hat back from his face and studied the young cowboy openly. "What's the T. for, trouble?"

  John T. frowned a little and admitted, "Stands for Terrance."

  "Terrance, well now that's some name there."

  "I'm stuck with it, but John T. will do." He smiled then took his hat off and ordered a beer from the dance hall girl who kept coming back to their table, obviously more interested than John T. had been. She was cute, real cute, but he had business here and he had to keep his mind on it. Women were a pure pleasure and he only indulged when there was either time or the right time.

  "Heard you were from Kansas originally," John T. said matter-of-factly. His eyes straying to the piano player who was pounding out a southern tune. One of the older dance hall girls was dancing a jig and some of the cowboys seemed to appreciate her talents. As they grabbed at her breast she laughed and pulled away just in time, a practiced art.

  "Yep, Dodge City. That hold some interest for you, cowboy?" Wesley smirked.

  "Yes it does." John T. eyed the man, seeing nothing but the truth coming from him. This was a straight-forward cowboy, one he could probably trust in any situation."I just joined the rangers; they told me you'd be sort of my partner."

  Wesley swallowed his beer and smirked."Ya don't say. Never had a partner before. Guess you can call me Wesley, then." Wesley grimaced. "Does that mean you're just a green horn kid trying out with the rangers, and I'm to watch after your butt?"

  "Maybe, does that bother you?" John T. smiled.

  "Don't make no never mind to me. Where ya from kid?" Wesley barely gave him a glance as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  "Got a small piece of dirt up in the Panhandle, if ya call it home." John T. sighed too heavily.

  "Don't sound like you're too anxious to get back to it," Wesley chuckled.

  "I'm not. Obviously you've never been there, or you'd know why. There's nothing there. It's too cold in the winter, too hot in the summer. Grounds nothing but dust. No trees no grass, not good for much. Too many Indians around to stay comfortable too long. Not much into farming or cattle, least ways not right now."

  Wesley eyed the young man now, his curiosity showing. "Ya married?"

  "Naw…huntin' outlaws and marriage don't go together much," John T. smiled.

  "Well now, ya got that right." Wesley let the legs of his chair down and sipped his beer slowly. He seemed to study him in an off-handed way. "Women are a luxury, that's for sure…"

  "You?"

  "Naw…not any longer. Had me one once, got killed takin' a bullet for me," Wesley shook his head. "Don't plan on repeatin' that history."

  "That's rough…" John T.'s face screwed up in an almost painful frown. He couldn't help but think of his mother, who had died so innocently by the hand of a monster. Women were something to treasure and take care of, not to be killed by no-goods.

  "Yeah, she was a good woman, goo
d cook, miss her every day…." He said, and then gulped his beer studying John T. a little longer..

  Wesley seemed to study John T. a long time, "So what got you interested in the rangers, kid?"

  John T. cupped his hands around his chin. "I'm huntin' a man…"

  "Do tell….Ever green horn I ever knowed was huntin' a man." Wesley smirked and pushed his hat back. "So who is he?"

  "Don't know his name…yet." John T. glanced about the room, eyeing the poker game for a minute. He did his best to stay away from poker; he had no money to lose.

  "How you gonna find a man if ya don't know his name?"

  "I'll find him, I got a whole lifetime to do it," John T. said putting his feet up on the table and relaxing.

  "Grudge killin'?"

  "You could say that…" John T.'s smile faded. Just thinking about the man that killed his ma made him angry, and that was a long time ago. He swallowed his beer, trying not to think about what the man he hunted had done. Putting his man-hunt into words made it seem different to him, as though he had no right to want to kill the man. He knew he had ever right.

  Wesley watched him, and then looked at his boots, worn out. "You look as though you've done some travelin' in those boots, boy."

  John T. turned beet red. He hadn't had a new pair of boots in a long time. "Reckon I have. Ain't been paid yet."

  "Gonna buy a new pair when you are?"

  "Maybe…what's it to ya?" John T. seemed annoyed.

  "Well, a man ought to have a good pair of boots, if he's huntin' another." Wesley picked up the spittoon near the table and spit. "Yes sir, boots are important to a man."

  John T. glanced at the spittoon, noted the fact that many wouldn't care whether they hit it or not and eyed Wesley with respect. "Never thought about it much. Why?"

  "Well, all kinds of things can happen when you're chasing a man. You horse can get shot up, you might have to go it on foot to get him. The better equipped a man is, the better his chances of getting what he's after. Lesson one, son, be prepared."