“I can’t,” the older man said. “I can’t follow you.” The sheriff’s eyes were full of fear.
Christian understood. Newton’s heart was in the right place, but the man was afraid. Christian turned his eyes to a child who was hiding under the steps of the haberdashery. Newton followed his gaze.
“Get these people to safety,” Christian said, offering Newton an out. The sheriff nodded and crept toward the child.
Christian returned his focus to the bank. Shouts came from inside the building. He crouched and advanced, his pistol ready. He came to a stop just beside one of the bank’s windows and peered inside. The bank’s interior was far nicer than the outside. A small chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the bank’s floor was the only tile floor Christian had seen in Casper. Expensive pieces of furniture sat unused in the room’s corners. As in the courthouse, several paintings hung on the walls. A large empty sack sat in front of the teller, halfway hanging from the counter.
A man stood in the center of the tile floor, his face masked by a black bandana. The man held two revolvers in his hands. One was trained on a teller behind the counter. The other weapon was pointed randomly in the direction of the customers, who were kneeling on the floor. Christian counted five bystanders. So far, none of them were hurt.
“I said, fill the bag or I put one between your eyes.” The thug’s menacing voice carried through the window.
The teller was a plump man probably in his late forties with a round face and sparse red hair. The man was visibly trembling. Sweat dripped from his brow, staining his clothes. He gazed at the gangster with beady eyes buried behind thick glasses.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the rustler hissed.
Christian started to move forward, but a second rustler appeared in the view provided by the window. His face was also concealed by one of the bandanas. The second rustler paced the floor, holding a rifle pointed at no one in particular.
“Hurry it up,” the first gangster ordered the teller. He pulled back the hammer of his pistol to show he was serious. The teller stumbled to the back of the open vault and sank to his knees, rummaging through stacks of bills. Christian didn’t have a good look, but the vault didn’t appear to be especially full. He doubted Casper possessed a great deal of wealth to begin with.
The second rustler looked toward the window, and Christian ducked out of sight. He closed his eyes for an instant, praying he hadn’t been seen. To his relief, the rustler gave no sign of having spotted him. Christian was confident he could handle the two men, but he had to approach the situation carefully if he was going to keep the hostages from harm.
When he glanced back inside, the teller was hoisting the full sack of money over the counter. The rustler with the pistols didn’t bother to inspect the bag before tossing it across the room to the second thief. Christian’s eyes moved to a second bag.
“Don’t just stand there,” the first rustler said to the teller. “Get back to work.”
The front door opened quickly, and Christian pressed himself against the bank’s wall, just beside the window. The second rustler emerged onto the wooden platform outside the bank. He carried the bag stuffed with bills in one hand and the rifle in the other.
Christian’s heart raced. He waited as the rustler set the rifle down so that he could strap the bag to his horse. When the man turned his head, Christian sucked in a deep breath and ran. The rustler heard the thud of Christian’s boots against the ground a half-second too late. He slammed the butt of his pistol against the back of the gangster’s head before the thief could turn around. The man sank to his knees. Christian kicked the rifle away, and it landed in the dirt.
The rustler regained his footing surprisingly fast and caught Christian in the stomach with a punch. Christian lost his balance and stumbled backward. The rustler charged him, and the two collided. Christian’s gun slipped out of his hand as he and the rustler landed on the wooden platform.
Christian was the first to climb to his feet. He shoved the rustler against the wall and punched him hard in the face. His knuckles stung, but the thief slumped down and did not move again.
“What’s going on out there?” the first man shouted.
Christian picked up his pistol from the platform and swung the door open. He kept the gun trained on the remaining rustler.
“Drop the gun,” he ordered.
There was a gleam of defiance in the rustler’s eyes, and Christian knew this was a dangerous man.
“We were expecting you,” the man said. He held a gun on the teller. “Why don’t you drop your gun? Or I’ll kill this man where he stands.”
“That’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
The rustler’s finger tightened around the trigger.
He means to do it, Christian thought.
“Wait,” he said. He held up a hand. Slowly, he started to lower his gun.
The thief broke out into a grin. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
As the rustler turned his guns on him, Christian quickly drew his other weapon and shot the man through the neck. The rustler seized his wound, which was bleeding profusely, and fired at Christian with his remaining pistol. Christian shot the criminal again, this time in the chest, and he toppled backward over the counter, dead.
Still clutching the pistol, he turned to the people on the floor.
“Go now,” he said. “You’re safe.” Christian followed the people outside, where Newton was training a gun on the remaining rustler, who was beginning to stir.
Christian looked down at the criminal. “What are you going to do with him?”
“I’m taking him to jail, where he belongs,” Newton said. The two men shook hands.
The man’s eyes fluttered open. When he spotted Christian, he chuckled softly.
“Charlie said you would come,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” Christian demanded.
The man merely laughed louder.
Christian smacked the man’s face with his pistol.
The rustler spit out a tooth. Blood dribbled from his mouth. “With you here, who’s going to look after that farmer friend of yours and his wife?”
Christian’s eyes grew wide. He threw the rustler against the platform and ran toward the saloon. Finley and Griffith stood in the street, anxious looks on their faces.
“What’s happening?” asked Finley.
“There’s no time to explain,” Christian said. He quickly entered the storage barn and led Galahad from the stall. “Landon Morgan and his wife are in trouble. They could already be under attack.”
“You can’t leave,” Griffith protested, but Christian was already on horseback. He kicked Galahad in the sides, moving with great urgency. The distance to the ranch was formidable, and every second counted. The horse moved swiftly over plains, galloping toward the hills and away from the river. Christian’s eyes shone with determination. He was not going to fail Landon or Rebecca, no matter what.
Just a few miles outside of town, he encountered a rider waiting to ambush him in the hills. Christian raced past the man, his gaze fixed firmly in the direction of the ranch. He heard the gun echo in the wind, but Christian did not look back. He leaned closer over the saddle and spurred Galahad faster. Christian pulled out a pistol in case he needed it, though he was reluctant to fire. He needed to conserve his bullets until he knew what waited for them at the ranch.
“Faster,” Christian said to the horse, sensing the rustler nipping at his heels. “We have to outpace him.” Galahad proved the faster horse, and Christian widened his lead on the man. He was out of range within minutes.
“Come on,” Christian said. He clutched the reins tightly. They were running out of time.
* * * * *
It was only a few minutes until noon, and the day was hot. Landon Morgan car
ried a basket full of chicken eggs and set it down on the porch. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rested his hands on the porch railing.
Morgan stared out over the quiet ranch. He sighed and scratched the top of his head. Truth be told, he was going to miss having Emerson around more than he cared to admit. Although Rebecca hadn’t said anything, he knew she felt the same way.
Nothing could replace the sons they had lost, but Emerson had managed to brighten the farmhouse considerably during his stay. In the right light, Emerson even looked like Abel. He was a good man despite keeping largely to himself about his past and intentions. It showed in the little things he had done, like completing tasks Morgan hadn’t asked him to do, or helping Rebecca in the kitchen whenever he noticed her arthritis flaring up.
Morgan sensed Emerson was a man haunted by demons, even from the little the farmhand had shared with him. The revelation that Emerson was running from the law was unexpected, though it allowed Morgan to make sense of many things. He was fleeing something in his past, desperately hoping it wouldn’t catch up to him. Morgan knew from experience that history always caught up with one eventually, but that was something Emerson would have to realize for himself. This left Morgan with only a feeling of sadness at the absence of someone he had come to consider a friend.
Then Emerson was gone from their lives almost as suddenly as he appeared. In some ways it seemed appropriate. Morgan went inside and emerged with his pipe before turning his gaze to the harvest. It was a shame Emerson couldn’t have stayed longer. The real work was just getting started. Whatever else he was, he was a hard worker. Morgan supposed he would pay the Mason brothers for help until the harvest was over. If Finley Mason survived his ordeal with the saloon, that was.
“There you are,” Rebecca said, approaching where he stood on the porch. “I thought I heard you.” She looked at the basket of eggs. “I see you’re making yourself useful.” Rebecca smiled like he hadn’t seen since before Abel’s death. “You miss him, don’t you?”
“I’ll miss the help,” he said.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He took her hand gently, caressing the twisted, bony fingers. “We’ll manage, I suspect.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but then she stopped. She peered beyond the ranch and squinted at something in the distance. He followed her gaze. A horseman was approaching from the south.
“Who’s that?” Rebecca asked as the man drew nearer to the ranch.
“I don’t know,” Morgan replied with a frown. He put out his pipe and returned inside to fetch his rifle. He rested the weapon against the rail and waited for the horseman to reach the homestead.
“Good afternoon,” the man said, tipping his hat to the couple as his horse trotted closer to the farmhouse. He was a relatively young man, likely in his thirties, with a trimmed beard and mustache. The man was not carrying weapons. There was a pleasant countenance on his face.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you out here before, young man,” Morgan said. “What brings you to my ranch?”
“I’m Albert Brennan. Rudolph Griffith sent me,” he said. “I’m to bring word that he and young Finley Mason are alive and well.”
“Thank God,” Rebecca said, clutching Morgan’s arm tightly. Morgan smiled in relief.
“What happened?”
“Mark Forrester and Matthew Donnelly died in the assault. Your farmhand, Mr. Emerson, showed up and helped fend off Charlie Sheldon and his boys.”
Morgan’s mouth fell open in surprise. Emerson.
“As I live and breathe.” It looked like Emerson had finally stopped running. Maybe they would see him again after all.
“And the saloon? Does it still stand?” He invited the messenger inside, but before Albert could answer, another cloud of dust rose in the distance. Three riders galloped toward the ranch. As they drew closer, Morgan could see that all three had guns drawn. One of them was Lester, the rustler Abel had been gunned down for fighting.
Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. “Get in the house,” he ordered his wife. He took the rifle in his hands. He had used it on many animals before, but never a man. “Now.”
Rebecca stumbled back and opened the door with panic in her eyes.
Albert Brennan turned his horse around to face the approaching riders. “What’s this all about?” he started to say. The gunman in the middle shot him in the shoulder, and he hit the earth beneath the porch with a thud. Albert’s horse bolted and fled toward the range.
Morgan brought the rifle up before the rustlers knew what was happening. The old man pulled the trigger. The bullet passed by the rustler closest to the farmhouse. The unharmed gangster motioned for the others to fall back.
Albert Brennan was moaning on the ground, clutching at his injury. As he struggled to climb to his feet, one of the riders shot him through the chest. He fell back and did not move again.
“Why not make this easy on yourself and give up?” the rustler called to Morgan. “We might even let your wife live.”
Morgan set the gun against the rail for support and pulled the trigger again. The bullet missed a second time.
The ruffian sneered. “Get him, boys.”
The riders approached the porch from three different directions. Morgan tried to hold them at bay as long as he could, firing whenever one of the riders got too close. He knew he was running out of ammunition and time. Bullets streamed around him, ripping through the house.
Morgan dared to rise from his position to get a better look, and a bullet hit him in the shoulder. He collapsed on the porch, and his gun clattered to the ground. He could see Rebecca watching him from the house. Tears ran down her face. She held one hand over her mouth.
Morgan stretched his uninjured arm toward his wife, and she reached her hand toward him, but the distance between them was too great. A man’s shadow fell over the porch―the rustlers had at last overtaken the ranch.
“It looks like this just isn’t your day,” the man said, now standing on the porch.
Morgan stared up defiantly to find the rustler’s pistol trained directly at his head.
A bullet ripped through the air. Both the gangster and the old man wore a look of shock as the former tumbled to his knees and grasped at his bleeding stomach.
Emerson closed in fast, approaching from the south. He blazed toward the other rustlers with death in his eyes.
The two remaining riders turned and fled, firing blindly at him as they left.
* * * * *
Christian recognized Morgan’s attackers. When he was sure they were gone, he dismounted and ran to the porch.
“You’ve been shot,” he said to Morgan. He ripped open the farmer’s shirt and looked at the wound. “It looks like it passed through,” he said. “All the same, we need to get you to Doc Brooks.” He cut off Morgan’s sleeve with a knife and wrapped the wound as best he could.
“What if there are more of them?” Rebecca asked, bursting through the door and kneeling at her husband’s side.
Christian shook his head. “There was another one following me, but I gunned him down miles ago.”
Morgan reached out and took the fallen rifle in his good hand.
“Stay here,” Christian said. “I’m going to hitch the wagon and ride out ahead of you on the way to town in case there’s more trouble.” He looked to Rebecca. “Can you drive?”
She nodded.
“We can’t leave,” Morgan protested. “The harvest.”
Christian chuckled. “You stubborn old man,” he muttered. “This time, we’re doing things my way.”
He quickly hitched the wagon and helped the couple aboard. Then he mounted his horse, and together they began the journey to Casper.
* * * * *
Christian had only been gon
e an hour when Charlie Sheldon rode into Casper with Quinn and the Pennington brothers. They stopped outside the jail. Kane Pennington slid off his horse and knocked on the door until Sheriff Newton timidly opened it.
“I believe you have something of mine,” Charlie said.
Kane stripped the keys from the reluctant sheriff and walked inside the jail. Charlie spotted the man sitting behind bars and opened the cell door. The man inside walked free, and Kane let the keys fall away to the floor. Newton just stood in the doorway, staring at the ground.
“Bill,” Charlie said curtly. “What happened to Harry?”
“Emerson gunned him down,” Bill said. “Then he left to fetch the Morgans, just like you said, boss.”
“Good.” Charlie turned to Quinn. “Your plan worked. With any luck, he’s dead already.” He stared down at Bill. “Find a horse.” Then he rode over to the saloon and dismounted. The others followed.
“Rudolph Griffith,” he called. “You can come out now, or I’ll burn the building down around you.”
The portly man emerged from the saloon, his wispy hair strewn about by the wind. Charlie walked up to the businessman and towered over him.
Finley Mason ran outside holding a shotgun. “Mr. Griffith!” he shouted. Before he could do anything, Heath Pennington grabbed the barrel of the gun and wrenched it away.
“You should have stayed home, boy,” Charlie said. He tipped his hat to the Pennington brothers. Taking their cue, the men took turns beating the young man. Finley tried to fight back, but the older, stronger fighters easily overpowered him. Quinn watched as Heath held the young man’s arms behind his back while Kane punched him repeatedly in the stomach and face. When Heath finally let go, Finley collapsed against the ground. Then the two men kicked him until all the fight had gone out of him.
“Stop!” Griffith shouted.
“If I were you, I’d worry more about yourself,” Charlie said. He held his pistol against the businessman’s temple. To his surprise, Griffith didn’t even flinch. Charlie smiled and lowered the gun. “Then again, maybe I’d rather have you watch what I’m about to do.”
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