The villagers tracked the gang for many days, until they had crossed the tundra and reached the river, and there they found their camp, the killers ready to cross into the grasslands on the other side, where they would be lost forever. The villagers tamped their powder down and loaded the shot - one ball and hunting piece for each of the men who had so casually and callously destroyed their lives, and one spare in case the first should miss. Quietly, in the pre-dawn shadows, the villagers surrounded the camp.
Andrea chose the leader, the one who had laughed at her horror, for the satisfaction it would give her to see him die. Mo Murphy chose the mute, the grinning freak who had left his partner Clinton in such a terrible state that Murphy himself had despatched the injured man with a kerchief held over his mouth and a pinch below the bridge of his nose. Steve chose the Mexican, the one they called Ben (although Steve suspected he was really a Pablo or a Miguel), and prayed for the man's mortal soul, and for the courage to relieve him of the pain of this life. And Raja chose the woman, not out of any particular hatred for her, but because someone had to and it may as well be he. She had not partaken in the attack, but she had stood by and not prevented it, and she had profited in the aftermath, and as he watched her down the barrel of his musket, he saw that she was wearing his dead wife's coat, and this steeled his resolve.
The gang finished their coffee and threw the grounds to the dirt, then stood, and Andrea knew it was time to do the deed, before they could move close enough to their tethered horses to escape should the first shot miss. She gritted her teeth and ignored the empty maw that opened in her gut, and was bringing the required pressure to bear on the trigger when the gang stopped. She watched, hearing their voices but not picking out the words, as the gang shared out whiskey, and the leader raised his dirty tumbler in a toast. She watched, trigger half-way pulled, unable to reconcile this human moment with the monsters she sought to destroy.
At this point her trigger finger may have slipped, or the mechanism may have failed, she'd never know the truth other than the shot rang out from the unaimed musket and the glass shattered in the leader's hand, the ball passing through both it and his flat palm, blood and whiskey mixing with the shards, and he saw this happen even before the sound of the report had carried across the glade.
Murphy shot the mute through the abdomen and the mute fell to the ground. Raja shot the woman through the shoulder and she fell to her knees, watching the blood blossom on her stolen coat, and in the same moment the Mexican broke for the river, and as he reached it Steve's shot took him down and he fell face-first into the water, his last thought fixed on what had possessed him to flee that way when he knew he could not swim, and that last thought had passed and gone and he did not feel the cold as the river embraced his corpse. Raja took up his second gun and shot the woman again, and this time she went down for good.
The leader witnessed this without moving, and he scanned the scrub for the shooters, knowing there were many, and as Andrea brought her second rifle, little more a rabbit gun, to her shoulder and drew a bead, the leader found her, and their eyes locked, and he bared his teeth in a grin. "It's my birthday!" he roared across the forty yards between them. "Happy fuckin' birthday!" and as he shouted he drew his pistol but before he could bring it to bear she had shot him clean through his forehead an inch above his right eye.
Smoke drifted through the saplings. The leader's body twitched once and was still. The river flowed on. The villagers emerged from their hides. They would go home, they knew, but a part of them would not. A part of them would lie here with the bodies of those they had killed, and though none of them would ever regret the deed, they never spoke of it again, even between themselves. None of them would again shoot another living thing, and although they would feel pride that they did not rest until the job was done, that they did not take the easy path and carried the deed to the finish, all four would hold the pain of their violence in their hearts for the rest of their lives.
Andrea chose the leader, the one who had laughed at her horror, for the satisfaction it would give her to see him die. Mo Murphy chose the mute, the grinning freak who had left his partner Clinton in such a terrible state that Murphy himself had despatched the injured man with a kerchief held over his mouth and a pinch below the bridge of his nose. Steve chose the Mexican, the one they called Ben (although Steve suspected he was really a Pablo or a Miguel), and prayed for the man's mortal soul, and for the courage to relieve him of the pain of this life. And Raja chose the woman, not out of any particular hatred for her, but because someone had to and it may as well be he. She had not partaken in the attack, but she had stood by and not prevented it, and she had profited in the aftermath, and as he watched her down the barrel of his musket, he saw that she was wearing his dead wife's coat, and this steeled his resolve.
The gang finished their coffee and threw the grounds to the dirt, then stood, and Andrea knew it was time to do the deed, before they could move close enough to their tethered horses to escape should the first shot miss. She gritted her teeth and ignored the empty maw that opened in her gut, and was bringing the required pressure to bear on the trigger when the gang stopped. She watched, hearing their voices but not picking out the words, as the gang shared out whiskey, and the leader raised his dirty tumbler in a toast. She watched, trigger half-way pulled, unable to reconcile this human moment with the monsters she sought to destroy.
At this point her trigger finger may have slipped, or the mechanism may have failed, she'd never know the truth other than the shot rang out from the unaimed musket and the glass shattered in the leader's hand, the ball passing through both it and his flat palm, blood and whiskey mixing with the shards, and he saw this happen even before the sound of the report had carried across the glade.
Murphy shot the mute through the abdomen and the mute fell to the ground. Raja shot the woman through the shoulder and she fell to her knees, watching the blood blossom on her stolen coat, and in the same moment the Mexican broke for the river, and as he reached it Steve's shot took him down and he fell face-first into the water, his last thought fixed on what had possessed him to flee that way when he knew he could not swim, and that last thought had passed and gone and he did not feel the cold as the river embraced his corpse. Raja took up his second gun and shot the woman again, and this time she went down for good.
The leader witnessed this without moving, and he scanned the scrub for the shooters, knowing there were many, and as Andrea brought her second rifle, little more a rabbit gun, to her shoulder and drew a bead, the leader found her, and their eyes locked, and he bared his teeth in a grin. "It's my birthday!" he roared across the forty yards between them. "Happy fuckin' birthday!" and as he shouted he drew his pistol but before he could bring it to bear she had shot him clean through his forehead an inch above his right eye.
Smoke drifted through the saplings. The leader's body twitched once and was still. The river flowed on. The villagers emerged from their hides. They would go home, they knew, but a part of them would not. A part of them would lie here with the bodies of those they had killed, and though none of them would ever regret the deed, they never spoke of it again, even between themselves. None of them would again shoot another living thing, and although they would feel pride that they did not rest until the job was done, that they did not take the easy path and carried the deed to the finish, all four would hold the pain of their violence in their hearts for the rest of their lives.
