Cat and Mouse

Arizona Territory, 1883. A drunkard robs a bank and kills two men. An ill-fated posse is formed to bring him to justice; but the men wonder whether justice is worth the sacrifice.

Cat and Mouse

Crossroads, Arizona Territory, 1883

When the man rode into town, his first stop was the saloon. He hitched his horse out front and walked in. The interior was mostly empty, as it was the middle of the day and most men were out working. There was one old man sitting in a corner alone with a bottle of rum and two overweight men playing poker at a table. There was a subtle odor of strong liquor throughout the building, and under that the rancid stench of body odor, vomit, and blood. A lone fly buzzed back and forth lazily. The bartender was wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest, and he stood wiping the bar with a dirty rag. He glanced up briefly as the man stepped in and went right back to his work. An ugly w***e walked down the staircase, tiredly scratching her back and yawning. A cowhand soon followed behind her, buckling his belt. The man went to the bar and ordered two bottles of rye whiskey. He paid for them and took a seat at an empty table. There was a mysterious brown stain on the old wood surface, and the floor was covered in dust and grime.

The man uncorked the bottle and took a healthy swig as the cowhand went to the bar and ordered a drink. The w***e went out to the jake and returned several minutes later. The man kept drinking. The whiskey was bitter and burned like hell. He liked it. As soon as that bottle was empty, he opened the other. He was a drunkard, accustomed to consuming large amounts of the firewater, and needed a lot to get drunk. Halfway through that second bottle, he finally achieved it. He knocked over his chair on the way to his feet and stumbled up to the bar. After paying for two more bottles, he left the saloon and packed the liquor into his saddlebags. Before he retied them, he dug around a bit and produced a Colt Dragoon revolver. The bank was just across the street from the saloon. He led his horse by the rein across the street and then tottered inside.

The banker looked up from his ledgers right into the bore of the massive pistol. The man holding it was rough looking, with large muscles, a dirty and tattered shirt, a long beard, and a massive bowie knife tucked into his belt. He inspired fear, and he reeked of whiskey. The banker was immediately babbling for his life, his small hands reaching for the ceiling.

“Git me money,” grunted the robber. His speech was similar to the grunts of an ape. “G’d d****t, man, yu heard me.”

The banker, his hands trembling in terror, reached beneath the counter and produced a small key from a hidden compartment. He laid it on the counter, now sobbing quietly.

“Wut am I suppos’d to do wid this horseshit?” the man cocked the revolver, producing a series of distinct metallic clicks, and the banker pissed himself. He took the key and motioned for the man to follow him into a back room, where the safe was. After it was open, the man looked inside at the money. There was maybe fifty dollars sitting in there, good for a few nights of drinking. The man pointed the revolver at the banker.

“Scoop it up,” he ordered. The pistol went off. His finger may have tightened on the trigger unintentionally, or maybe the powder just went off for no reason. Either way, the banker’s head rocked back as gore spewed out of it. The massive pistol ball had taken off half the man’s skull. Blood began gushing out, pooling on the floor. There was a large splatter on the wall behind where the banker had been, and a hole where the pistol ball had exited the skull and went into the wall. The man cursed and grabbed as much of the money as he could in one quick movement and ran out the front door. Men and women had gathered in the street, trying to figure out why a shot had been fired in the bank, and they watched the man run out, with a pistol in one hand and a handful of money in the other. He shoved the money into his saddlebags forcefully and mounted, almost sliding off the saddle in his drunkenness. One of the men in the street recovered from his surprise before the others and went for the pistol in his boot. The man saw this, cocked his gun, and shot him in the heart before galloping out of town.

An hour later, a posse was formed. There were ten men, armed with new Winchester rifles and Colt .45s. Among them was the Marshal, Webley, and his two deputies, Jim Cook and Tom Breuer. Bart Ward, the blacksmith, was there, as well as Jim’s brother Sam Cook. Jack Freeman, Yusuf Amarza, Peter Gold, Quincy Johnson, and Drew Killcutta were the others, all ordinary citizens who were outraged at the double murder and robbery that had happened that day. They mounted up three hours before sunset and rode out.

Two hours later, they came upon a creek where the horse the man had left town on was. It was laying on the ground, its throat slit, covered in flies.

“He had a fresh horse waiting for him here,” said the Marshal. “His tracks turn here-” he pointed to the spot- “and continue south. He only had an hour’s head start, but he has a fresh horse and we don’t, so he’ll be moving faster than us. We’ll ride him down until he can’t run anymore and we’ll get the b*****d. Y’all ready? Mount up!”

The men finished filling their canteens and drinking the brackish water and mounted their horses. Quincy slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his arm to feed. One at a time they spurred their horses forward until they were moving single file across the desert. The sun was setting behind a low mountain to the west, partially hidden by the rocky mass, and the landscape was cast in a dim blue light. Clumps of cholla, mesquite, yucca, and agave dotted the ground, beneath it a coarse, pale dirt. Gnats clouded the air in great swarms, many of which the riders had to slap away as they rode through them. There was a great barrier of rocky brown hills in the direction they were headed. The tracks were slight and difficult to see in the dark, so they decided to stop for the night. Drew and Yusuf gathered small branches of mesquite and dried grasses and soon they had a medium fire going. Peter started cooking bacon over it while the rest broke out biscuits and hardtack. After dinner, they unrolled their bedrolls and laid down to sleep. Jack was first watch, and two hours later he woke up Sam. They were all up just as the sun was beginning to rise.

“Still too dark to see his tracks,” commented Marshal Webley, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Git a small fire goin’, so we can have some coffee with our breakfast.”

“We ain’t never gonna catch him at this rate,” said Tom Breuer.

“We’ll pick up his trail and haul a*s his direction,” Webley replied. “I’ll wager he’s still asleep. We’ll run him down sooner or later.”

“What’re we gonna do when we find him?” asked Drew, as he set up a pile of tinder and small twigs.

“Tie him up, take him back to town, have him a trial, and hang him, more’n likely,” said Webley.

“I say we hang him as soon as we find him,” said the blacksmith, Bart. “We know he’s guilty a’ready. Half the town saw him plug Ken in the street, and saw him run out of the bank with a gun after shooting Oswald. We don’t need no judge to tell us he’s guilty.”

“I agree with ya, Bart,” Webley replied. “Only it’s my job to see that he gets a fair trial.”

“Do we even have a court?” Quincy asked. “Crossroads ain’t Chicago.”

“Jest shut up,” said the Marshal. “You all’re givin’ me a headache.”

They soon had coffee brewing, and ate their breakfast in silence. The sun continued climbing the sky until its light touched everything. They saddled their horses, packed their cookware, and set out once again. The trail they followed was little more than shallow imprints in the ground, which were barely even visible, and bent plants.

By midday, Yusuf was complaining of a stomachache. He tried to drink some water from his canteen, but just threw it back up. The others looked at him with mild concern, but they had no medicine and could do nothing.

The next morning, Yusuf was deathly sick. His skin was pale and bluish and he had to keep going behind a bush to relieve himself every few minutes. His stomach could hold no water or food. Jim, Sam, Webley, and Peter were beginning to get sick themselves. They had to stop riding for the day because half of the posse had to keep dismounting to go behind a bush.

By night, Yusuf was dead and Jim was at death’s door. Every other member of the group were displaying symptoms too.

“Dump your canteens!” croaked Webley. “We brought some cholera from that creek.”

By morning, Jim and Drew had joined the dead. Everyone else was dangerously dehydrated, and the arid desert didn’t help much. Sam’s jaw dropped when he saw his brother, still and unmoving, lying in his bed. They dug shallow graves for the dead, then mounted their horses and continued, hoping against hope for some fresh water. Fate was on their side, and they discovered a small stream, from which they drunk deeply and rinsed out and filled their canteens. They stayed there for two more days until everybody was better and ready for travel. Nobody else died. They mourned the needless deaths of their comrades, but accepted it as a fact of life and continued following the trail.

“I swear, when we find that sumbitch...” muttered Bart, stroking the butt of his Colt with his thumb.

“I hear ye,” said the Marshal. “We may skip that trial yet. That’s now five deaths he’s responsible for, directly or indirectly.”

“We lost a few days on him,” pointed out Jack. “How are we gonna catch up to him now?”

“We’ll catch him,” replied the Marshal, spurring his horse viciously. “By God, we’ll catch him.” The remaining seven quickened their pace.

A few hours later, they lost the tracks. The Marshal ordered a perimeter search, but the trail could not be found again.

“He was goin’ to the mountains yonder,” Marshal Webley said. “No reason he’d have changed it. There’s nothing to the east or west, and he came from the north. Let’s go.”

They rode well into the night, now that they weren’t following the trail anymore. They stopped and rested for four hours and resumed their journey shortly after sunrise, without eating breakfast. The mountains were looming close now.

“We’re a long way from home,” said Quincy.

“Ayep,” said Bart.

“Funny, how if he hadn’t shot anyone, we pro’lly wouldn’t be out here chasin’ him,” said Quincy.

“Well, he still robbed the bank. That’s honest folk’s money that he stole,” replied Bart. “Hell, I had a few dollars in that bank.”

“Yeah, but we would’ve given up chasin’ him long ago. We wouldn’t have lost Drew, Jim, and Yusuf just to get back fifty dollars.”

Bart said nothing and spurred his horse. Webley drew up alongside Quincy a few minutes later.

“I’m worried about Sam,” Webley said quietly, so Sam wouldn’t hear. “He hasn’t said anything since his brother died, and he’s had this blank look to him.”

“I’d be more worried about the man we’re chasing,” Quincy said. “Sam lost his brother, but he’ll get over that eventually. This criminal might know we’re followin’ him, though, and those mountains up ahead look like a prime spot for an ambush if you ask me.”

The Marshal nodded and went ahead. Quincy retrieved a plug of tobacco from his saddlebags and began chewing it, occasionally spitting the vile brown juice onto the dirt. They cut the robber’s trail several times, ensuring they were still heading the right direction.  That day Bart shot a deer and they had venison for dinner. Marshal Webley told everyone to keep the fire low, as he was thinking of Quincy’s warning and decided that if their quarry didn’t know how far away they were, the safer they would be. He said as much and cautioned them to keep their eyes open for danger in the days to come.

Sam stared straight into the fire, a bad practice out in the wild as it ruined your night vision. He never spoke and nobody spoke to him, out of respect. They acknowledged the fact that he would need some time to mourn, that was all. Marshal Webley hoped that he would still be keyed up when they found their man, and that he wouldn’t just be dead weight from here on out.

Quincy was assigned the night’s first watch. Webley told him to let the fire burn down and gave Quincy some saddle blankets to wrap up in, as the extreme hot of the desert turned into extreme cold with sunfall. They all curled up to sleep, and Quincy walked a little away from the camp and hunkered down beneath a mesquite tree, his Winchester in his lap. Pretty soon he was shivering, so he returned to the dying fire, and when the flames burned down into embers, he decided to just put another branch or two on there, to get him through the watch better. The man was on the run anyway, he wouldn’t be hunkered down waiting by himself to shoot it out with a full posse.

Marshal Webley awoke to gunfire. One pistol shot rang out, and then three more in quick succession. He leaped out of his bedroll, his boots still off, and ran towards the commotion in his sock feet with his gun in his hand. The others were up and ready almost as fast. They found Quincy, sitting on the ground, somewhat slumped forward. His revolver lay on the ground beside him. Webley dropped to the ground, and the others did the same.

“Quincy!” he whispered loudly. “Quincy! What is it? What the hell happened?”

There was no response. Webley crawled forward on his belly and tapped Quincy’s shoulder. Quincy finally turned around. He looked dazed, like he didn’t know what was happening.

“What is it?” Webley repeated. Quincy showed Webley his arm. On it were two small holes, side by side. A thin trail of dark blood dripped out. Webley stood up slowly. “He’s snakebit,” he called out regretfully. Then he buried his face in his left hand. “D****t man, how’d this happen?”

“Just wanted some wood,” mumbled Quincy, his eyes wide and vacant. “Some wood for the fire. Scared a rattler.”

“I said to let the fire die,” Webley said.

“But it was so cold...” muttered Quincy.

“Where is the snake?” asked Jack, his eyes scanning the ground feverishly, as if a rattlesnake might leap out of nowhere and get him, too. Quincy pointed with his good arm at the small gathering of firewood, where a large rattlesnake lay in two pieces. Even after seeing the dead snake, the fear didn’t leave Jack’s face.

“Want us to cut it off?” Bart asked slowly after several moments of awful silence, gesturing towards the wounded arm. Quincy was immediately alive with terror, scooting away from Bart and babbling in protest. Bart just nodded solemnly and sighed.

Webley finally noticed Sam standing off to the side. He was staring at Quincy, his eyes empty and dead, his arms folded over his chest.

“How do you treat a snake bite?” Jack asked hesitantly. “I mean... rattlers are poisonous, right? What are you supposed to do?”

“It burns so bad,” Quincy cried out, clutching his arm tightly.

“I cain’t tell you,” Marshal Webley said.

“Maybe if we tie his arm real tight, the poison won’t flow,” Bart suggested, though doubt was thick in his voice.

“No, no, I’ve seen men try that afore and they had to lose their limb, which isn’t an option,” Webley countered. “Best thing would be to get some rest, I suppose. Not much to do about it right now ‘sides hope it don’t get worse.”

Quincy went to bed sobbing in pain and sorrow. Webley sat up with him most of the night. Around three in the morning, his breathing became increasingly shallow and labored, and his arm was swollen to twice the normal size. He was dead by sunrise. Webley dug the grave himself, carefully setting a cairn of stones over it to keep wild animals from digging it up later. The rest mounted up and rode on without saying a word. After almost an hour, Jack finally broke the silence.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “We set out with ten and now we’re down to six, and no closer to finding that rat b*****d.”

“I hear ye,” replied Tom Breuer. “But we’re in it now. Might as well see it through.”

“He shore is givin’ us a good chase, for some drunken lowlife vagabond,” remarked Bart. “I miss Crossroads. I want to git back home, sleep indoors for a change, and eat somethin ‘sides bacon and hardtack.”

Sam rode a little away from the group. He had his pistol out, and kept putting it at half-c**k and then easing the hammer back down. The fire of anger was bright in his eyes, and the other riders were growing a little worried about him. Peter finally decided to go and talk to him, since the others were too hesitant to do so. He rode up alongside Sam.

“How you doin’, Sam?” he asked carefully, watching Sam’s face for a reaction. Sam just kept looking on, cocking and uncocking his gun. “I know you’re real torn up about your brother, and me and the boys are sorry, mighty sorry about that, but we need you to be a part of the group again. I promise we’ll set up a real nice funeral for Jim when we get back.”

“You don’t know s**t,” snapped Sam, out of nowhere. “And nobody’s comin’ back from this. We’re all dyin’ off senselessly, and it’ll keep up until there ain’t a man of us left.” He spurred his horse forward with great passion and Peter watched him go. Then he sighed and pulled out a clump of tobacco to chew on before swinging back and rejoining the group.

“How’d that go?” asked Tom.

“Not well,” replied Peter, spitting onto the ground and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That boy just needs some time to hisself, is all,” said Tom without conviction.

“I don’t know. He’s in a dark mood, and I have to say it frightens me a little. He wants the blood of the man who led us into this, I can say that for sure. And he said we were all going’ to die off like we have been till ain’t none of us left. What d’you think he means?” Peter replied. Tom just shook his head slowly.

They camped in a small grove of trees that night. The landscape was gradually turning more green, less arid. It was a relief to be in the shade more often, and water was more plentiful here. It was also rougher country, with vicious thornbushes and treacherous ground where any slight misstep could cause a slip and tumble. The temperatures here were slightly lower than the desert was at night. The men were huddled up in their blankets, shivering violently, their teeth chattering. They laid as close to the fire as they could without burning themselves and the man on watch kept it fed with wood. They weren’t as concerned about the man they were chasing spotting the fire as they were with staying warm.

In the morning they enjoyed hot coffee and bacon before setting out again. The bank robber’s tracks were much easier to follow in the soft dirt, compared to the firmly packed and windswept ground of the desert. Marshal Webley kept his eyes on the ground, occasionally glancing around at his surroundings for anything amiss. Tom rolled himself a cigarette and another for Peter. Bart was basically asleep in his saddle, as the relentless cold had kept him awake most of the night. Jack was watching a couple of birds dance lazily in the air, singing their restful songs. The ground was flat, though to the left was a short but steep slope of loose soil, ending in a tangle of thornbushes and trees. Dead twigs snapped under the hooves of their horses and the vibrant green grass swayed slightly with the breeze. The region was so serene, everybody but Sam felt somewhat rejuvenated and relaxed for the first time in days. Then the moment was shattered.

From behind the main group came a startled yell, then a curse. Unanimously, the posse turned around and watched as Sam’s horse struggled to regain its balance as the earth slid away beneath its hooves in a mass of dirt, old roots, and rocks. The horse finally fell on its side, with Sam still sitting in the saddle. Together they tumbled down into the thornbushes. Sam finally came loose and went flying into a tree. He screamed out loudly in pure agony. The others immediately dismounted and hurried down the slope to help him.

Sam tried to get to his feet, but his legs buckled under him and he let out a bloodcurdling cry of pain. On his shin, sticking right out of the torn flesh, was a jagged bone. His pants were already maroon with blood, and more was spurting out at an alarming rate. Webley ran forward to try and do something, but Sam drew his Colt and leveled it at his chest, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Not a step closer, damn you,” Sam hissed through his teeth. His breathing was heavy with exertion and pain, and his eyes were wild and crazed. “It’s my time now. Go find that man and put some hemp around his neck for me. I’ve been done for since Jim died, anyways. Git the hell out of here.” Before anyone could do anything, Sam put the Colt into his mouth and blew his brains out all over the tree behind him. The posse all looked away. Half an hour later, they had a grave dug. Webley cried as he put the last stone over the mound of earth. Too many people were dying needlessly.

Webley nearly jumped when Jack came and sat down beside him. They looked at each other for a moment, then their eyes fell to the ground, where one of theirs was now buried. Finally Jack spoke.

“I’m pullin’ out,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I ain’t never even seen a dead man afore we set out and now I’ve seen five. I can’t do it no more.” Before Webley could respond, Jack rose to his feet, put on his hat, and mounted his horse. He touched his spurs to the horse’s flank and trotted off, back the way they came. Marshal Webley watched him go. Tom went over to him.

“Do you need another minute?” he asked, quietly and respectfully.

“No. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Webley replied, turning around and heading back towards his horse. Tom followed and the remaining four kept pushing onward. The forest grew thicker. All about were pine trees, the floor littered with their needles and pinecones. The dirt was rich and dark. It was truly beautiful country, fresh and green, vibrant and alive. The four travellers no longer enjoyed their scenery. Within all of their hearts was a deep mourning. Death had touched them, not only the poor souls who were lost, but the unfortunate few who remained. Peter was thinking over what Sam had said, about none of them making it back alive. The grim prophecy was looking more and more true the farther from home they went.

The Marshal spotted a buck about one hundred yards away. It was laying on the ground, its four legs folded beneath itself, the very picture of peace. Webley signalled for the others to stop and dismounted his horse. He carefully slid his Winchester out of its scabbard and laid down on the bed of pine needles. Balancing the rifle carefully, he drew a bead on the buck’s head. Breathing slowly and deeply, he let his shoulders and arms relax. Using the ground for support, he steadied the rifle as much as he could and closed his left eye. His finger eased the trigger back, ever so slowly. The rifle boomed in the still air. The buck dropped to its side and didn’t move. Webley watched it for a moment, then stood, loaded another round into the gun, and replaced it into its scabbard. Drawing a hunting knife from his boot, he approached the dead animal and skinned and gutted it. Wrapping the raw meat in burlap, he brought it back to the others and packed it away. He wiped the blade on his pants before putting it back in his boot. The fresh meat raised their spirits by a little bit.

The tracks kept leading in the same direction as always, straight towards the mountain ahead. It seemed a lot bigger up close, though much smaller than the great mountain ranges of the country. There was some snow at the very top, and ridges all up the slope dotted with trees. They once heard a rattlesnake, but never saw it and just kept going. During the night, they camped by a large stream that seemed to be coming from somewhere on the mountain. Throughout the night they were disturbed by the howling of coyotes, and a family of javelina came down to the water to drink once. Nobody had spoken over dinner and they had trouble sleeping.

The next day they finally got up to the base of the mountain. The ground had steadily become more uphill and rocky, and the trees gave way to tangled shrubs and bushes. Small juniper trees grew here and there. There was a thin trail that led up the mountain. Their quarry had taken that route, and so would they.

“Where do you think he’s headed?” Peter asked Webley over a smoke. “We’ve all come a far piece, but he hasn’t tried to throw us off once. Why d’ya think that is?”

Webley thought his answer over before replying. “Maybe he doesn’t know we’re still behind him,” he finally said. “He seemed a little addled in the mind. Or maybe he’s got a hideout and a gang up here, who knows.”

“That wouldn’t be no happy ending,” Peter replied. “Comin’ all this way just to get shot down by a gang of criminals in the middle of nowhere.”

“It would be unfortunate, but its happened many times. I don’t think he’s got a gang, though. Wouldn’t make sense for him to have gone all the way to Crossroads, by hisself, through all that badland, just to stick up a small bank and run on back.”

Peter took a deep drag of his cigarette and tossed it into the dirt. “I hope this mountain’s the end of it,” he said. “I ain’t got much more left in me. I’m about ready to do what Jack did and split.”

“Now don’t do that,” Webley said. “That ain’t an order, that’s a plea. We’re already dangerously low on men, and I don’t want to spare another one. We may need you soon.”

“Ah, hell,” Peter said. “Okay. I was raised to see things through to the end anyways. But I still hope this mountain’s the end of it.”

“I agree completely,” said the Marshal. “My horse is about done for and I feel much the same.”

The path they followed grew more and more narrow, until they were forced to dismount and lead their horses in single file. The earth below them grew farther and farther away. Pretty soon the forest just seemed like a great field beneath them. They could even see the desert they had originally crossed, as well as the river running through the woodland. The view was magnificent, but unappreciated by the heights-conscious travelers.

“How long do you think it would take to hit the bottom?” Tom asked nervously. Nobody answered him and he didn’t speak again. Eventually they came to a major hitch in their path. There was a steep, precarious gravel slide that led straight to the edge of the cliff. Crossing it would be very risky, as the gravel could give way at any moment and carry anybody with it to the ground several hundred feet below. The Marshal volunteered to go first. He gingerly placed a foot down. It sent a couple of small pieces of gravel skittering down, but other than that, nothing happened. He took another step and another. His horses shied away at first, but he tugged at the reins and whispered to it and it finally reluctantly followed. Webley’s heart was pounding in his ears until he was safely across, and even then didn’t quite recover from the immense anxiety. His one surviving deputy, Tom, was next. He too made it across without incident. When he was once again on solid land, he let out an enormous sigh of relief and immediately took a massive clump of tobacco from his pouch to chew on.

Peter was next. He took a deep breath and then began his brief walk across. His first step caused a slight disturbance in the gravel beneath him, and he hurried forward to find a more stable spot. This caused a further shift in the gravel. He felt it sliding out from under him and cried out in surprise. Bart saw this happening and rushed forward to save his friend. His horse instinctively followed him. The weight and commotion on the gravel patch triggered a deadly landslide. Marshal Webley and Tom could only sit there helplessly and watch in horror as a mound of loose stone washed over Peter and Bart, consuming them and their horses. They heard a yell of terror from over the edge that was cut short suddenly.

Webley rose shakily to his feet, took off his dusty hat, and held it over his chest. His eyes were closed and wet, his breath shaky. Tom could only stare over the edge with his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide open in disbelief.

“Peter wanted out, and I got him to stay,” the Marshal said suddenly, his voice heavy with emotion. “I got that boy killed.”

“What do we do now?” Tom asked a few minutes later. He sounded tired, like he just wanted to curl up right there on that mountain path and be forgotten.

“We still got a man to catch,” Webley said. “Don’t see how that’s changed.” He put his hat on and took up the reins in his fist. His feet didn’t move though. He just sat there, looking down over the edge, his gaze distant. Tom watched him solemnly for a moment, then turned and walked on. Webley stayed there a moment longer, then followed.

The path widened out into a large ridge thick with thornbushes. The mountain slope ended here for a ways and became semi-flat ground. It was hilly, but more resembled the forest below than a mountain. Behind the thornbushes was a mass of juniper and pine, as well as mossy boulders and low vegetation of many varieties. Behind that, the slope continued, though it shed its dull, rocky appearance and became a steady uphill trend, where pine trees grew a little farther apart and the bushes weren’t as frequent. There was still a pale dirt path through the trees, and the tracks still went along it, so the last two men followed it. The sun was glinting off their badges as they rode. They both knew fully well that this would be the end of the road. The killer they had been chasing for so long would be someplace ahead of them. With this in mind, they kept their rifles in their hands and their eyes open for anything suspicious.

Neither of them saw anything when the shot rang out. Tom gasped and slid from his saddle. His horse, wondering what had happened, nudged him with its nose. Webley dived off his horse and hit the dirt. Another bullet kicked up dirt in front of his face. He heard bushes rustling as the ambusher fled his spot. Webley had dropped his rifle, and went to retrieve it. He checked Tom before entering pursuit, and it was obvious the man was breathing his last. The bullet had gone through a lung, and frothy pink blood was bubbling from the wound. Tom tried to speak, but could only produce choking noises. He looked at Marshal Webley, his eyes full of fear and sorrow. Webley desperately wanted to stay and comfort his deputy, but an overwhelming sense of urgency compelled him to leave. He squeezed Tom’s hand and whispered some reassuring words into his ear before taking off in the direction the shot had come from.

It wasn’t long before he came across a rundown old cabin. It was built of pinewood and looked near collapse. There was a cluster of boulders ahead of him and a ring of trees surrounding the place. A shot came from one of the windows and Webley sprinted for the boulders. Anger burned inside of him, a seething, bubbling rage, and the urge to kill the man ahead of him was unbearable. He rose from his spot and fired several quick shots in the direction of the cabin, aiming for the windows. Rifle fire came from the cabin in response. For several minutes, the fighting continued like that, until Webley rose to fire and took a bullet. It felt like a very strong man just punched him in the gut as hard as he could, and Webley was knocked to the ground. Immediately there was a burning sensation in the wound. His shirt soaked red with blood. He staggered to his feet, desperate not to let the killer get away again.

The man was peering out his window to see if he had killed the Marshal. When Webley popped up again, he fired quickly and accurately and took the man in the shoulder. There was a violent string of curses coming from the cabin. Webley set his rifle down against the boulders, drew his single-action .45, and stumbled towards the front door, clutching his bleeding wound with his left hand. He cocked the hammer back. A moment later, the front door burst open.

The man stepped out quickly and drunkenly. He wore brown trousers and a dirty white shirt. The shirt was torn down the middle, revealing his bare chest. His left shoulder was dark red with blood and in his massive right hand was the Colt Dragoon. He looked just as mad as Webley. They both took long strides toward each other, and when they were within fifteen feet, they both raised their guns. Webley’s revolver fired a split second sooner, and the bullet struck the man dead center in the chest, throwing off his aim just as his gun went off. The pistol ball went flying harmlessly upward. The gigantic revolver dropped clumsily from the man’s hand and he stared at his hand in confusion, like he was wondering where his gun had gone off to. Then he looked at the Marshal in disbelief and collapsed backwards. Blood ran from the hole in his chest. He coughed weakly a few times, and then his body just went completely slack. Marshal Webley stared at him for a moment. There was no rush of satisfaction, or feeling of vengeance. He just felt empty inside, and he knew why. He had been the one to lead his men to their deaths, not the corpse in front of him. All he could do was take consolation in the fact that he had finished the job the others had given their lives for.

When he got back to Tom, he found him dead. His eyes were glazed over and stared at the sky blankly. Webley bent over and lowered his eyelids. His legs were going numb, and his blood was taking on a darker appearance. He knew the bullet had torn up his liver. He wished he had time to dig Tom a grave, and to find the bodies of Peter and Bart and bury them, too, but there was no more time. They would all just be food for the vultures and coyotes. Maybe someday some traveler would find their scattered bones, picked clean and bleached by the sun, and wonder briefly about the circumstances of their deaths. It didn’t matter though.

The Marshal had difficulty mounting his horse. The blood streaming from his wound didn’t stop or slow. He clicked his spurs to the horse’s flank and together they headed back down the path. Webley looked out over the edge of the mountain, at the grand forest below. The sunlight was shimmering off the brilliant blue water of the river, and the trees were especially vibrant in that moment. “Damn, it’s not so bad a place, after all,” he said to himself. Ten minutes later, he slumped forward over his saddle, then fell off the horse completely. His entire lower body had gone numb, all the way up to his chest. He sat staring up at the sky until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.