Chapter 9
I told the livery owner that Brisco had been cooped up too long. Not that I needed an excuse to ride my own horse, but it might seem a smidgen strange, me going for a ride at night. I allowed as how I would ride toward the Fair Sister and if I got back late, I’d tie Brisco to the hitch rail in front of Calista’s and bring him to the stable in the morning.
The livery owner thought I was mighty considerate. “Most folks bring in their nags any hour of the night they feel like it,” he complained. “It never occurs to them I need my rest the same as everybody else.”
Brisco champed at the bit. He really had been cooped up too long. I headed east at a walk, but once I was out of sight of Whiskey Flats I reined in a wide loop and soon was cantering west toward the Dark Sister.
I admit I felt a few twinges. My conscience came out of hibernation. For the first time since I strangled my wife, I felt guilt.
I liked the Butchers. They were a caring, close-knit family. Maybe they were rustlers, maybe they weren’t. A court of law was the proper place to decide that. Me, I was a court of death, and sentence had been passed. Once I was paid to do a job, I always saw it through. Always. Without exception. It was part of why people sought me out to do their killing. They knew they could count on me to get it done.
In all the years I had been at this business, I never once considered whether those I was hired to remove deserved to be turned into maggot bait. It simply did not enter into the scheme of things. The same as when someone swats a fly or a spider. You never stop to ask yourself whether the fly or the spider deserves it.
I always prided myself on keeping my emotions under control. There are some who say I don’t have any, but that’s not true. I have feelings the same as everyone else. I just lock them away and don’t let them out because I can’t afford to.
But tonight I was in turmoil. By the time I reached the Dark Sister, I was a mess. I wanted to turn around and go back. I kept asking myself stupid questions, such as did I really want to kill these people? Which was stupid. “Want” had nothing to do with anything. It shows what can happen when you think too much. I’ve noticed that those who do the most thinking are the ones who are the most confused about what is important in life and what isn’t.
I drew rein. There I was, a quarter of a mile from the Butcher homestead, and I was fighting a battle with myself inside my head instead of paying attention to my surroundings. Mad at my silliness, I gigged Brisco into the trees and dismounted.
I slipped out of my jacket and laid it over my saddle. I opened one of my saddlebags, removed my gun belt with the long-barreled Remington snug in its holster, and strapped it on. From my other saddlebag I took a box of shotgun shells and crammed a handful into my pocket. The scattergun was hidden in my bedroll. I broke it open, inserted two loads of buckshot, and was ready to commence.
Light glowed in the cabin window. It was likely some of them were still up, but that was all right. I would kick in the door and cut loose with both barrels, then finish off the rest with the Remingtons and my boot knife.
I crept toward the clearing. I did not see their mongrel and reckoned it was indoors.
Daisy’s face seemed to float before me in the air. I tried to tell myself that she meant nothing to me, and gave an angry toss of my head to be shed of her image. Not much movement on my part, but suddenly the night exploded with gunfire. I dived flat. The shooters missed but not by much. There were two of them, off to my left, vague shapes in the night, and they had rifles, which gave them greater range. I had to get close for the shotgun to be effective. But that would not be easy, them being backwoodsmen and all.
I laid still a while, thinking they might work toward me, but I never heard so much as a leaf rustle. Along about then I saw that the light had gone out in the cabin, and that the cabin door was open. Someone was peering out, but I could not tell who. They did not make the mistake of calling out to the pair in the woods. Hannah’s doing, no doubt. She was a savvy one, that gal.
I started to crawl to my right. But no sooner did I move an arm and a leg than the dark was shattered by more gun blasts. Only this time the two with the rifles were closer. I saw the muzzle flash of one in front of me, and the slug kicked up dirt in my face. I let the shooter have both barrels, then rolled behind a tree and rose onto my knees to reload.
Figures were gliding across the clearing from the cabin. They were coming after me, all of them. This was not good. I was one against nine and that was too much of an advantage for them.
I had to get out of there. I turned and ran. A rifle barked, then another. Fickle fate favored me and they missed. But I made enough noise that they had an inkling where I was. It sounded like they all fired at once. The trunks, branches, and leaves around me were peppered.
I poured on speed, but they were hard after me and impossible to shake. I willed my legs to their utmost in order to reach Brisco ahead of them, and in that I succeeded. I was in the saddle and reining to the east when someone—I think it was Clell—hollered, “There he is!”
Rifles and revolvers boomed like mad. For one of the few times in my life, I was scared. Not for me but for Brisco. He was a big target and I did not want to lose him. I slapped my legs, wishing I had spurs on. Bent low, I rode for my life.
The trees saved me. There were so many of them, so close together, the Butchers could not get a clear shot. I made it to the trail and gave Brisco his head. Presently the shots and shouts faded.
The Butchers might come after me, but I had the utmost confidence in Brisco. He was the fastest critter on four legs, or damn near the fastest. No other horse could hold a candle to him, or hadn’t yet. Besides, I had seen the horses in the Butcher corral, and they were not in his class.
I had been riding a while when I became aware something was wrong with the saddle. It felt rough and lumpy. Reaching down, I discovered I was sitting on my jacket. I had forgotten all about it. Reining up, I twisted and slid the scattergun into my bedroll, then tugged the jacket out from under me and shrugged into it. Since there was no sign of pursuit, I unstrapped my gun belt, wrapped the belt around the holster, and crammed it in a saddlebag.
I was in glum spirits when I reached Whiskey Flats. It was past midnight and the town, as usual, was still and quiet. I had told the liveryman that I would bring Brisco back in the morning, but now, after thinking it over, I rode to the end of the street. The double doors were shut and barred. I rode around to the corral, stripped off my saddle and saddle blanket and bridle, opened the gate, and shooed him in.
The boardinghouse was dark. I entered by the back door and snuck up the stairs. A few creaked but not loud enough to wake anyone.
I laid on the bed and thought about the fiasco. I had accomplished nothing. The only one I could blame was myself; I had been careless. For a professional Regulator, I would make a great dishwasher.
I wondered if maybe I had been sloppy on purpose. That sounds ridiculous, but part of me had balked at rubbing the Butchers out, and that part might have wanted things to go wrong.
Eventually I drifted into sleep. Usually I don’t remember my dreams, but when I opened my eyes and sat up the next morning, images lingered. Images of a scarecrow figure in a brown hood that had chased me all over creation. In his bony hands had been a gleaming scythe that he kept trying to stick me with. “Damned silly,” I said out loud.
I filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed up. I shaved, too. Most parsons are tidy about their appearance.
The restaurant was half full. I claimed my usual seat, and right away Calista brought a cup of steaming coffee and set it in front of me with a warm smile.