Red Creek

Folly is a young woman’s friend, or the crown of an imprudent man; both are callow and infantile. Pray they perish with alacrity, pay not for their sins, and find peace in their absence—the Book of Intolerance, the Sacral Compendium.

Maro sat motionless outside the horse pen, allowing the bushes, shrubs, and trees around the fence line to mask his presence in the dawning light. Before him, the Double Rock Ranch house stood twenty meters away like an indolent cat stretching out in a spot of sunshine. The single-story structure of rock and timber splayed out in a long rectangle. A gray and white wraparound porch with stairs leading up to the front door matched the gray stone of the abode.

Nice place. Be a shame if someone shot it up.

A wispy curl of white-gray smoke, almost invisible against the backdrop of billowy, cotton swirls, plumed from the chimney.

Might be too early for breakfast. Maybe that’s the remains of the night’s fire?

As if reminding him of the last proper meal and not the hardened meat he consumed on the trail, his stomach gurgled at the thought of eggs and toast with honey.

Washing it down with a mighty fine cup of coffee works wonders, too.

The smoke implied cooking and not stoked to keep them warm, which would make sense in the early autumn, but that didn’t mean Maro couldn’t use it for warmth afterward.

Regardless of the time of year, coldness remained his constant companion, and when winter rolled around in earnest, well, he was just more miserable than usual.

He strained his ears to detect anything, any voices, the number of moving feet … Maribel. The gnawing, tearing teeth of worry wormed its way through his guts, and that’s why he and Bastard rode hard to reach the ranch house. What he learned from Bo turned his stomach sour.

There were two different mindsets in the group: Ludre and Bo’s leadership, and Wesley’s bucking of the system. Ludre and Bo wanted to keep the profitable and often cake-eating arrangement with Avardi. In recent months, they refrained from stealing cattle, raping, and murdering, and to their entrepreneurship towards stage coach robbery for food, supplies, and a dandy bit of money.

Wesley favored throwing off the banker’s influence and terrorize the territory from Grand Gorge out to the fringes of the Salt Canyon. Rape, pillage, and plunder was his motto, and Bo, between the screams, told Maro that Wesley wanted to ‘salt Atar with blood.’

He sighed. It seemed no matter what he did, where he went, he always found people like Wesley. They were in the army, interrogating prisoners, and now they were out here on the frontier.

Wesley, from Bo’s description, was younger than Maro’s paltry twenty-three years, and, by Bo’s reckoning, the little pompous ass wanted to buck any shackles of control.

Some men always want to bite the hand that feeds them.

But that’s not what worried him. People like Wesley, they were easy to predict, follow the trail of bodies or protect the biggest assets or the weakest people in the area; the problem centered on figuring out where they’d strike next, because logic didn’t roost in an outlaw’s home.

Wesley, who spurned Avardi and his control, wanted to dally with Maribel. Sensing the arising dilemma, Ludre took his best three men, Maribel, and Wesley, to Double Rock Ranch, leaving Bo in charge of getting the money back to their lair. The move puzzled Maro at first, but as he thought about it after dispatching Bo and during the ride to Double Rock, he realized what it meant.

Ludre’s control of the group was slipping.

Whether Wesley was popular among them remained an unknown factor, but for Ludre to take Maribel with him, and the troublemaker, meant that Ludre didn’t trust any of his outfit. In Maro’s reckoning, Ludre took three men he trusted most, so if Wesley made a move, they’d be there to gun him down.

No honor among thieves, huh?

Now, in a closed environment, Ludre could watch Wesley, but that meant little chance for escape if it all went tits up. Maro scrutinized the windows, noting the open white drapes.

What are the chances that only one person is awake?

Wesley?

He pushed those thoughts aside. Ludre wouldn’t let Wesley take a watch this deep in the night, not with the chance of him going in for Maribel.

Unless Ludre makes the girl sleep next to him. How ironic would that be? The man who kidnapped her also fulfilling the role of protector?

After a half minute of staring, Maro saw no movement, but darkness still smothered the light. Only the softest of golden glows from a candle illuminated the house. It didn’t matter. With his boon, shadows became an ally, not an impediment.

Shit, now’s the best time to go in, unless I wait another day for night to fall.

He glanced to the east. The top sliver of the sun peaked above the horizon.

No, now. He couldn’t wait. Who knew what would happen in another day! More reinforcements might show up, or Avardi, or worse, a killing spree, so Wesley would have Maribel for himself.

Five within: Ludre, Wesley, and three others. Five pistols. He glanced skyward. Aren’t you a barrel of laughs, Autarch?

Staying crouched, Maro hurried forward, pausing at the putrid water trough and the corner post before making the dash to the side of the house. Hunkered over, he eased up to the nearest window but didn’t peer inside, just listened. A sound of metal clattering against metal, like a pan or pot on an oven top, reached his ears. This early, it might be breakfast or coffee. If the latter, it’d take a while for the water to percolate, but the aroma might draw more.

Damn, if I smell fresh cafe, my stomach’s going to announce my arrival.

A muffled voice sounded from within the house. “What are you doing awake, Wesley?”

The voice that answered came back sarcastic and waspish and young. “I’m sorry, dad, am I not supposed to be? Want me to go back to my room?”

“If I said yes, would you?”

Wesley chuckled. “No.” A pause. “How’s the little house guest?”

“Keep your mind off the girl.”

Another pause, but this one prolonged, and it lingered like the fragrant scent of the outhouse after the morning defecation ritual. The longer it built, the more pungent it grew. Though he couldn’t see the men inside, the weight of the silence built like a shit storm, and he wondered who’d step in it first.

Keeping low, Maro moved away from the window and toward the steps leading up to the front door, squatting in the corner where the stairs met the porch, out of sight of anyone who came to a window or the front door. But if they rode up to the front of the house from the trails, Maro was fucked, caught out in the open. Did someone ride around the property keeping watch? He didn’t count on it. He’d watched the place for over an hour before getting this close.

“When’s Avardi getting here?” Wesley asked, his voice holding an agitated edge.

“In a week. Mind your business.”

“This is my business. You’re sucking on that tit, placating that fat sow, bowing and scraping for scraps of the cut when we could take the whole thing! We should be taking what we want.”

“Shut up, Wesley!”

Yeah, shut up, Wesley.

“Think about it,” the young man continued. “There ain’t no real law for leagues, and every time they send a posse our way, we kill them. Even the bounty hunters steer clear.”

“And why do we know when the posse’s coming?”

The younger man’s voice dripped with disdain. “Enlighten me.”

“Avardi tells us. Ain’t nothing happening without that man knowing about it. He appropriates the funds from the territory to pay the lawmen who come hunting. He keeps us one step ahead of them, and in your arrogance, you’d cut ties with him.”

“So, that’s why you bow and scrape to him?”

“We don’t bow. We keep civilized. If we acted like animals, the way we used to do things, the way you want us to run now, they’d hunt us like animals. That’s why I run this outfit, and not some jackass like you.”

Ludre’s got a damn fine point. But aren’t they already animals? Didn’t they kill farmers?

Then, it fell into place for Maro. Farmers owned plots, and as a banker with his ear to the ground, recognized future prospects of building and agriculture projects, and he’d know what land he needed to claim to strike it rich. The acres would default to the bank, the wives and children sold to slavers—the only witnesses to point fingers at those responsible for the atrocity. But that also meant they were the spoils of war, and what happened to them from the time seized to the selling came as a bonus for the gang.

Wesley, in a soft voice, said, “I don’t like the way you talk to me.”

A gunshot resounded, followed by a grunt and someone clattering to the floor. Maribel screamed from deeper in the house.

Grace Autarch! She’s alive!

Relief swept through Maro, but so did the familiar clutch of panic and adrenaline. He pushed all thoughts of the girl out of her mind. Shouts rose inside the abode, the other three scrambling. In seconds, they’d all be standing in the foyer with guns drawn.

Thundering, hurried footsteps filled Maro’s ears. “What the fuck?” someone shouted as he came into the room.

Another gunshot, and another body fell to the floor with a resounding thump.

Any chance Wesley got shot, Autarch?

But Maro knew the answer; the everlasting god wasn’t the kind to respond with answers. Nothing would ever be that easy. From behind his back, Maro pulled two musket-pistols free and cocked the hammers. Best to get those hard to reach first. Two sat in the holsters, and one tucked in the front of his belt.

Incoherent shouts rose, cutting through the morning.

That’s my mating call.

Still crouched, he hurried up the stairs while trying to keep quiet, hoping the cacophony would mask his presence.

“By the Autarch, Wesley, what the hell’s wrong with you? Bo ain’t gonna like this.”

“Fuck Bo, and fuck Avardi, too! I run this outfit now.”

I ain’t a good man, but I’m sure as fuck about to die acting the part …

As the remaining voices shouted in protest, Maro kicked in the front door. The three inside froze in fright and surprise. Maro’s barrels zeroed in on those nearest to him. He pulled the triggers. An explosion of lead and heat rushed out towards them. Their expressions of shock turned slack as two musket balls found their mark right between their eyes.

Before the last survivor followed the falling bodies to the ground and glanced back up, Maro had dropped the empty pistols and drew the others from the holsters. The sound of them cocking drew the young man’s gaze back up to him.

“You must be Wesley.”

He was a young man, and to be fair, around Maro’s age, but he’d guess a few years younger.

Probably hadn’t even sprouted fuzz on his balls.

“You look like a Wesley, some whiny piece of shit.”

Wesley had a baby smooth face, with brown eyes and hair to match. And that made Maro hate him more. His good looks and perfect teeth; a fist would fix that right quick. The lad could’ve been or done anything, already had the pedigree but lacked the charm. Ladies would swoon, men would vote for him in the political arena, but he turned to outlawing.

A shame the rot took his brain.

Wesley’s gun wavered, paused halfway between rising and falling. He let it drop to his side.

“Smart boy.”

Wesley’s face twisted into a sneer. “Saul? You got the girl?”

“Yeah,” a voice answered back.

Maro groaned. Shit, six men, not five. When did the other get here?

“Bring the little bitch to me.” Then, dropping his voice, Wesley spoke. “That’s what you’re here for, right? The girl?”

Maro grunted. “Yeah.”

“You here because you want your turn?”

Maro’s lips drew into a sharp line.

“What are you? Some pissed off uncle?”

“You could say that.”

Maro’s gaze darted around the open room, checking for hiding threats. It doubled as a sitting area and a kitchen area. Smooth but unfinished wood stretched across the floor. The two bodies he polished off laid in a pool of blood on a royal blue rug in the center. A pearl-white sofa sat at the far side, opposite the stove and fireplace, the latter of which lined in dark gray stone akin to the exterior.

In the hallway, a man shuffled into Maro’s peripheral vision. His pistol trained on Maro, and with his left hand, he clutched Maribel’s shoulder. In her arms, instead of the doll in Tepress, she held a puppy.

Great.

“Looks like we got ourselves a bit of a quandary,” Wesley said, a grin coming to his lips. “You know what that means, right?”

Maro grunted his affirmation.

“It means a problem.”

“I know what it means, jackass. I ain’t as stupid as I am ugly.”

Wesley gave a single, halfhearted laugh. “Ha! Humor. I like a funny guy.”

The longer this drew out, the worse it would be for him. When Saul entered the room, both men would have clear shots of him with Maribel as their hostage. Things would get chancy, the outcome fluid. If he gunned down Wesley now, he’d shut the little shit up, but Saul might kill the girl. Maro’s eyes flitted to Saul. He had one gun visible.

One shot.

Would he waste it on the girl, or would he shoot me?

Shifting his arms, Maro drew the right weapon away from Wesley and leveled it at Saul. “Not another step, shit sack.”

Saul paused halfway down the hallway.

“He’s bluffing,” Wesley said. “He wouldn’t shoot towards the girl.”

“Want to stake your life on that?”

Wesley changed tactics. “What do you want? Money? Women?”

“Yeah.” He jerked his head toward Maribel. “I want that one to leave with me alive.”

“Can’t have her,” Wesley said. “We can give you money.”

Maro shook his head. “I already got your money.”

“What?” Saul said from the hallway.

“Shut up, Saul. What do you mean, you got our money?”

“Bo got real chatty last night.”

Maro’s arms ached. His left, pointed at Wesley, shook more than his right. Who knew holding two pistols out like this would cause him to shake? He needed to act fast.

“Yeah. Red shirt, wagon driver, second in charge. Spilled all your little secrets once I started cutting on him. Sebastian, too. Y’all let that poor fellow die a slow death by tourniquet. That was until I came along. Bo told me about Avardi, the farmers, their families, even the warning he gives you once the law comes your way. You give me the girl now, and I’ll tell you where I buried the money.”

“Shit, give him the girl!” Saul pleaded. “Ain’t no eight-year-old worth this.”

“Hey!” Maro snapped. “Ain’t no need to be inflammatory. She’s ten.”

Maro’s eyes drifted over the top of his left-hand barrel, focusing on Wesley, whose red face shone like a beacon. “Now, you listen to me, drifter—”

Maro pulled the trigger of the left pistol.