by E. L. Ripley
Carpenter listened, but there was nothing to hear but the creaking of the house, and it sounded as though the ceiling of the parlor might not be the last to fall in. The killing out back hadn’t been enough to drive off Hale’s help, but the dynamite had done the job. Several had run.
It was a pity he hadn’t taken his family and fled with the rest of them.
“I surrender,” Hale said clearly, an earnest look on his face and a gleam of sweat on his brow.
“Mighty wise of you,” Carpenter told him.
“I can’t understand it, Bill. You won’t shoot a Yank, but you’ll shoot us? We were together, Bill. We were all together at Seven Pines. Why can’t we be together now? What happened to you, Bill?”
“Same thing that happened to you.” He shrugged. “I got older. And a little tired,” he added.
“I misjudged you.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Mr. Hale, I’d like you to send your family outside,” Silva said politely.
“Mr. Silva, I don’t expect you to feel anything but what you do,” Hale told him directly. “I wouldn’t try to change your mind. But don’t let it come between us making an arrangement. Anyone would be upset.”
“Upset,” Silva echoed.
“But don’t let it stand before business.”
“You defy belief, Mr. Hale. Even now, with a gun on you, you still believe it’s your right to issue me a directive.” Something twitched in Silva’s cheek. “Even if things were different, who are you that you believe that?”
“I’m a businessman.” Hale had tried to conjure up a little false confidence, but it was bleeding out of him fast. One of his smaller daughters grabbed her mother’s skirts, but he shooed her back behind him.
“You might have been once,” Carpenter said dryly. “Now I’d call you a highwayman, only you aren’t. You just sent your men to do the work.” He turned to Silva. “It’s done. He can still do some good.”
Silva ignored him.
“I am extending you a courtesy,” he said to Hale. “Something you never did for me. Have them step away. I would prefer they not see. Spare me,” he said to Carpenter, before he could object. “I won’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. It’s gone on enough. It needs to be settled.”
It was a testament to the look on Silva’s face that Hale didn’t so much as open his mouth.
“Planning to kill the boy too?” Carpenter asked, glancing at William.
Silva twitched. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Carpenter?”
“You’ll have to. You think he won’t avenge his pa, whether he sees you do it or not? In fact, you might as well just shoot them all.” Carpenter shrugged. “Mrs. Hale too. If she’s steady enough to raise six little ones, she’s more than steady enough to blow you away, and we did just destroy her house.”
Carpenter waited, watching Silva’s hand, already regretting what he’d said.
Silva took a deep breath. “I will ask once more,” he said. “And only once. Mrs. Hale, please take the children outside.”
William’s face was getting redder by the second, but his mother had a death grip on his hand. He was about ready to shake her off, though.
“Better do as he says,” Carpenter warned.
“You can stop him, Bill,” Hale said, and his nerves were showing.
“So can you,” Carpenter said, hoping he wasn’t lying. “Do as he tells you and get on your knees. You seen for yourself that Mr. Silva ain’t soft. He’ll kill, but you can still hope he won’t murder. Either way, it ain’t something for your boy to see.”
“For God’s sake, Bill!”
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t use my name in that familiar way,” Carpenter said, “as it seems we aren’t so well acquainted as we thought.”
“Enough,” Silva said. “Step out from behind your wife, Hale.”
William tore free and lunged. Silva shot him at the same moment Hale fired the pistol he held behind his wife’s skirts. The children scattered, blood flew, and Silva fell as Carpenter took aim and pulled his trigger. Hale cried out and reeled back, crashing into the sideboard and scattering the fine silver.
William stumbled into the table, bleeding from his arm. He snatched up a knife, but Carpenter turned the shotgun on him, and he froze.
Silva gasped on the floor, his hand clamped over his chest, blood bubbling between his fingers.
Mrs. Hale was still upright, frozen in horror as her smaller children huddled in her skirts and took shelter under the table.
Eyes burning, William tore his gaze from Carpenter.
Hale had been too close to his wife; Carpenter had aimed wide, so she wouldn’t take any of the shot. Only one piece had struck Hale, but it had clipped his neck, and the amount of blood didn’t leave much mystery about what would happen. He was only on his knees, but he was already dead. The last of his strength went, and he crashed to the floor.
William’s indecision didn’t last. The knife clattered to the table, and he rushed to his father. The last gunshot of the night had come and gone, but the room was louder than seemed possible. The terrified, sobbing children and the stony, thunderous silence from Mrs. Hale.
William speaking to his father as though there were even the slightest chance of a reply.
Silva’s shuddering breaths and the ringing in Carpenter’s ears weren’t as bad as artillery and horses; they were worse. Blood pooled on the floor and speckled Mrs. Hale’s pale dress.
Carpenter knelt over Silva, placing his bandanna over the wound. The pressure had to be painful, but Silva didn’t make a sound. He simply couldn’t, and Carpenter couldn’t, either, though he wanted to. Suddenly he knew just how William felt; there were still words for Hale, questions for him. And for Silva.
This wasn’t what he’d wanted. Carpenter knew that much. What he didn’t know was why they had both seemed so surprised that this was where their violence had brought them. What had they expected?
It didn’t matter.
William wasn’t talking anymore; he understood what Carpenter had before he’d even pulled the trigger. Silva understood now as well, for all the good it would do him.
EPILOGUE
The chill had never been friendly to him, not even as a young man.
It was worse now, but Carpenter still got his legs out of bed and put his feet on the floor. And there he sat for a while, as was his custom, though it seemed each day he sat a little longer. He could bemoan the cold all he liked, but he knew that if this was what passed for winter here, he was a good deal better off than he would’ve been in Richmond.
In another life, he might have liked to dress and be on his way quickly, so as to avoid the noise and bustle of the camp as the day began. As it was, there wasn’t much bustle to be had, though it was still more than it had been when he first arrived.
On his porch he pulled on his coat, looking out over Antelope Valley. Even if other things changed, the view wouldn’t. At least, not in his lifetime. That was a comfort on mornings like this one.
Hopper hadn’t made a sound as he approached. The hound just sat in the sun, tongue out, watching him expectantly.
In the stable, Francine seemed particularly bad-tempered today, and he was tempted to saddle her up and spare himself the walk. As usual, he didn’t. He made sure she had enough feed, then put on his hat and started on the path down, tossing a stick for Hopper.
There were enough people in the street that it seemed like a settlement, if not exactly a town. It went against his humor, but he found it in himself to bid a few of them good morning, at least after they did so to him. Hopper growled at the man pushing the cart laden with caged chickens, but fell silent when he noticed the man outside the charred remains of the sheriff’s office.
The Reverend Brown had been speaking to several women who were clustered around him with their bonne
ts and baskets, but he’d stopped on noticing Carpenter. Well, God’s word wasn’t going to spread itself, though it would’ve been nice if the reverend had taken notice of Doug Hill lying in the gutter not ten feet away.
The bottle in Doug’s hand was still half full. Carpenter nudged it out of reach with his boot, then kicked it under a trough. He bent to haul Doug to his feet, brushing him off a little. It wasn’t as though the man didn’t have a bed to sleep in; he did. Carpenter was paying for it. And it wasn’t as though Carpenter didn’t know perfectly well himself that didn’t always matter.
Doug looked around blearily for a moment, squinting painfully. Then he cleared his throat, or tried to, and shambled off without a word, patting himself down for tobacco.
In the hotel, Carpenter took his place at the bar and gave the barman no sympathy at all. He’d made Carpenter’s breakfast as usual, only he’d made it too early and it had gotten cold, so he was making it again. It wasn’t the worst problem to have. The girls were all idle, sitting on the steps, sharing a newspaper.
He took his time with his bacon and eggs, which were exceptionally good.
The walk out of town was warmer and more pleasant. He caught up with Doug, who had made it all the way to the creek, where he was now vomiting. At least he’d had the courtesy to do it to the side of the trail and not in the middle of it.
“You’re half my age, Doug,” Carpenter told him as he supported him. “You’re supposed to be the one helping me.”
Hopper gave a single bark of agreement, and Doug just winced from the pain in his head.
“Mr. Carpenter,” a voice called out as they came into view of the factory.
“Morning,” Carpenter replied without much warmth. There was no faulting Ramon for his cheerful bearing, but day after day, it had a way of wearing you down.
He gave Doug a push, and the foreman caught him, steering him inside to get to work.
Carpenter followed them in, taking off his hat and sneezing from the sawdust. Shaking his head and groaning, he creakily mounted the steps and dragged himself up to the office.
Silva looked up from his papers, but frowned as Esmerelda shot from behind the desk, and Hopper leapt forward to greet her, and with all the same feverish energy they had the first day they met, they chased each other around the office, as they did every morning.
“You’d think they’d get tired of that,” Carpenter muttered, hanging up his coat and going to his desk.
“I wouldn’t,” Silva replied.
Carpenter sank into his chair with a groan, and Silva got up, grabbed his crutch, and poured coffee. He brought it over, along with a letter, which he threw down on Carpenter’s blotter.
Carpenter scowled at it. “What the hell is this?”
“It has your name on it. I do not open your mail, Mr. Carpenter.”
He tore it open and considered the contents.
“Well, I can’t read the damn thing. It’s wrote too small.” Carpenter pushed it back toward Silva, who patiently leaned the crutch against the desk and picked it up.
“Do you know a Quincy Elliot of Richmond?”
“Oh, just send him whatever he wants,” Carpenter said, taking a sip of coffee.
“You are certain it’s him and not someone else trying to get your money?”
“Does it look as though it was written by a cross-eyed . . .” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Deer carcass?”
Silva raised an eyebrow, then considered the letter. “That’s apt,” he said after a moment.
“It’s him, all right. Send him fifty dollars. He needs it more than we do.”
“All right.”
Silva returned to his desk with the letter. The dogs were settling down; Hopper would lie down somewhere one of them would be sure to trip over him, and Esmerelda would go to sleep on Carpenter’s feet.
He took another sip of coffee. “Are we out of sugar?”
“I don’t know where it’s gone.”
“There’s a safe full of gold and money, and someone’s taken the sugar?” Carpenter asked, puzzled.
Silva just shrugged. “You could tell the sheriff if we had one.”
In fact, they were getting along reasonably well without one, though that would change if anyone ever found any gold.
Carpenter put his cup down. “There was no more of the jam I like for my biscuit at the hotel today. For just a second, I thought I might get annoyed and say something.” He shook his head. “Can you believe that?”
Silva glanced out the window. “When we were out there, I think we would have been pleased just to have the biscuit.”
“And there were times when I’ve been a good deal hungrier than that,” Carpenter said, rubbing his face. “What it does to you, things going well.”
They both winced at a crash from below. For a moment they held their breath, but there were no cries of pain, and the muffled swearing from the factory floor was only the normal amount. Silva let out his breath, relieved.
“Phillip told me in passing this morning that Flora had her litter. Thirteen pups, he said.”
“Thirteen,” Carpenter echoed, impressed.
“I told him we might ride out and have a look this afternoon.” Silva glanced at the floor. “Barring any difficulty. If you would care to.”
Carpenter put his cup aside and opened his ledger, then dipped his pen. “Might as well,” he said.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
E. L. Ripley has a background of military service and social work. He wrote his first novel when he was fifteen and has been writing ever since. His novels have been praised as "A fast-paced and engaging intrigue, with characters the reader will be attached to and root for despite their flaws and faults" (Marko Kloos, author of Chains of Command) and "A wild, page-turning ride" (Mike Shepherd, author of Kris Longknife: Unrelenting).
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