Red Creek

May your hands never tire strangling the life out of evil people; pray to me if you grow weary, and I will give you strength to snuff out their existence—the Book of Malice, the Sacral Compendium

The shot rang out. Wesley went down. Maribel screamed. Shouted curses followed in the wake.

Maro dropped to a knee, spun to face Saul, raising the right musket. He squeezed off a round once the barrel cleared over the top of Maribel.

Saul fired at almost the same instant. Maro’s ball sailed wide to the left. Saul’s ripped into the wall beside Maro. A spray of splinters and wood fragments washed over his face. He closed his eyes against the debris and sting.

By the time he wiped it away, Saul barrelled down the hall. Maro regained his feet. The outlaw lowered his head as he rushed. The bounty hunter reached for his last remaining musket-pistol as Saul drove into him, trying to tackle him. Maro used the butt of the handle to crack the back of the man’s skull. He slumped to the ground, but he groaned, tried to rise. At point blank, Maro pulled the trigger and shot the man in the back of the head.

Blood splashed the wood floor.

Saul fell limp, motionless. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air as a wispy haze clouded the room. The screaming ring in Maro’s ears grew shrill in the quiet.

Down the hall, a tiny figure peeked out of a doorway. Relief washed over him. The girl was alive.

“Maribel,” he said in a quiet voice. Or at least, it sounded quiet to him. For all he knew, he shouted at her. Maybe she couldn’t hear as well as him. “Come here, Maribel. Let’s get you home.”

He held out a hand to her, and she took a timid step into the hallway, then another, and her face went pale.

That was all the warning Maro had. Wesley seized him from behind, his arm snaked around Maro’s neck, choking him. Maro’s hat tumbled to the floor. Wesley growled something in his ear, but he couldn’t hear. The grip around his throat tightened, cutting off his air. Wesley was shorter, so he held the leverage as he pulled Maro off balance.

Maro clawed at the arm around his neck, but a young, squeamish calf couldn’t be bucked. Fighting back the panic, and the certainty that he’d die, his mind—and the years of training—took over as he raced through his options. He came up with only one. From his belt at his left hip, he pulled the long hunting knife, flipped it around so the tip faced backward, and stabbed.

Wesley screamed, something shrill and girly, and his grip fell away. The knife wrenched from Maro’s hand in the sudden jerk. With the constriction gone, Maro stumbled forward. He coughed, trying to suck in that sweet air. When he spun around, Wesley crawled toward the fireplace, as if in a mad scramble to escape. For a moment, confusion washed over the ex-soldier as he took in the surroundings. Wesley wasn’t trying to flee. He crept for his loaded musket.

In two strides, Maro leapt on the young man’s back as his hands closed around the pistol. Maro used his reach to pull it away, but to no avail. If Wesley rolled over, he’d have a clear shot. As the two wrestled, Maro searched for anything to use. Empty pistols lay around them, and absent the knife, he was out of options. He could choke Wesley as the brat did him, but that meant giving up the fight for the weapon. Maro’s eyes fell on the fire poker; he thought about clubbing the little shit to death, but it lay far beyond reach.

Maro’s spied the fireplace. Bashing Wesley’s skull against the rocks crossed his mind, but he’d have to drag him forward, again losing the fight against the weapon. He saw his solution.

Wesley tried one more time to turn the single-shot pistol around. Maro scrambled off his back, using his legs to hold the arm down, and gripped Wesley by the hair so he couldn’t pull away.

With gnarled fingers full of Wesley’s brown locks, he jerked the boy’s head, and the bounty hunter spoke into his ear. “I just want you to know I was never a good man.”

Glancing toward the fire, he used his boon, calling forth the flame. It leapt out of the fireplace, engulfing Wesley’s face and head. Under Maro’s control, the flames swallowed Wesley’s head; under his direction, it wouldn’t spread anywhere else. He rolled away. Wesley screamed, pleaded, rolled on the floor, clawed at his face. Maro made his feet as burnt flesh twisted with mangled cries. And then, Wesley stopped moving; the screams faded, and only a small tickle of flame curled over a charred, smoking skull. White bone peeked out among the matted flesh.

Maro grunted. “I should’ve said bacon … instead of telling him I wasn’t a good man: do I smell bacon? That would’ve been better.” He spat, and the saliva sizzled on the hot bone. “Tell Bo I said hi, shithead.”

Turning away from the dead man, Maro found Maribel standing in the same spot, her face white with terror.

“You remember me?” he asked.

She nodded. “You said your face would give me nightmares.”

He grunted. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I bet it still does. You haven’t been dreaming about it, have you?”

She shook her head.

With slow care so she couldn’t tell what he was doing, he stepped between her and the burnt remains. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head.

“You ready to go home to your aunt and uncle?”

She nodded. “Can I keep the puppy?” She repositioned the small, squirming dog in her arms. Maro didn’t remember hearing it bark, but he could’ve missed it while being choked, stabbing people, or when he engulfed Wesley with fire. The pup licked her face.

Maro’s lips narrowed in a line. “Don’t let it do that.”

“Why?”

“Cause they lick their ass, and they lick you. You want to lick a dog’s ass?”

She chuckled. “You’re funny, mister.”

“I wasn’t joking; and call me Maro.”

He let his eyes fall from the girl, and he saw two of his discarded muskets. Now that he ran through the entire gang, he wouldn’t need all of them. Then again, he could turn them into the Bounty Hunting Guild and maybe pocket a pretty penny for it.

“Come on, Maribel. We’ve got to hit the road.”

“Where are we going?”

“First, we’ve got to get my horse, then go digging, and after that, we’ve got a long road ahead.” He eyed the puppy and resigned himself with a silent groan. “And yes, you can bring the little pest.”