Vendetta

He had been running, blindly, for what seemed like an eternity. Through bur and brush, he ran as far as his legs could carry him. He saw the faded brown shape of a barn in the distance, an oasis in the vast desert of gold prairie and grey sky. Stumbling through the wide wooden doors, he finally found a reprieve, though his pursuers would surely not be too far behind.

He did not have long.

Leaning against a wooden beam, he pulled a revolver from its holster and stared blankly at the cold, blue steel. He had one round left in the chamber, the missing five had lodged themselves into the bodies of two outlaws, and Heaven knew where else.

He had acted on impulse in a sudden outburst of grief and rage; the men he killed had taken something precious from him and the price was blood.

Word traveled, and the young man now found himself staring down mortality, as the Sycamore gang hunted for their leader's assassin. They had certainly expected death to come for them by the Sheriff's hand, and perhaps at the end of a rope, but never a wayward farmhand.

"Guess nobody's helping me this time," he murmured quietly. The farmhand took off his hat to reveal a shock of brown hair, it hung over hazel eyes that stared into the distance just as blankly as they had at the revolver. He was a man who had lost everything, the hope and love of a groom about to be married had been seized and replaced with a bitter torpor.

His bride was gone.

"Marie."

He saw her as she walked down the aisle in that white gown, gleaming in the sunlight. It was ethereal. Her blonde hair was alight, bringing a glow to her emerald eyes as she smiled. It was like something out of a fairytale, at least, until the shooting started.

The Sycamore gang rode in, guns ablaze. They slaughtered most of the onlookers and their leader, a large, ragged fellow, Tom Barton, had taken the bride to be. Her screams echoed back:

"JOHNATHAN!"  

It was the last time he ever heard her voice.

In the barn, the farmhand busied himself, loading his revolvers, as sadness turned to hatred.

His thoughts wandered as he stood in the encroaching darkness.

***

The Deputy had just finished sweeping when a bloodied man staggered toward him and called out weakly, "P-Please, you gotta do something... quick!" He stumbled and the Deputy caught him, taken aback by the condition the man was in. "S-Sheriff, I think we got a situation!" he shouted.

***

Sheriff Joseph Long of Amarillo County emerged with greying hair and mustache that highlighted gunmetal eyes. He was a man of few words and quiet authority. Years of stress showed themselves on the sheriff's aged features. There was a line for each man he'd personally sent to the gallows. "Can't a man have his lunch in peace, for Pete's sake? I thought I told you t-" The Sheriff's irate tirade was interrupted as he stepped outside. "P-Please..." the man repeated. "What in the hell... Nathaniel, go get the Doc!" the boy wasted no time as his superior questioned the dying man. "Can you hear me?! What happened to you?" the Sheriff queried. The man coughed, his feeble voice barely able to speak, saying just two words before losing consciousness: "Wedding... Sycamore."

***

"What do you reckon he means, Sheriff?" Nathaniel had arrived with the Doctor in tow, who tended to the man's wounds as best he could. Joseph wore a grave expression as he spoke: "He means we're gonna be needing to round up a posse."

***

It was a den of sin. A place where whisky flowed and men gambled, some with money, others with fidelity, most, with their lives.

"THIS OUGHTA FIX YOU GOOD, YOU CHEATING BASTARD!"

The gun fired and a man fell back in his chair, dead.

"AIN'T GONNA CHEAT ME AGAIN!"

The bartender shook his head, annoyed at the inconvenience more than anything else: it was the second time in a week that a man had been shot in his establishment. "Slim, can you please not kill me customers," he pleaded.

"Ah, SHUT IT, Irishman." Slim Jenkins said in a nonchalant tone. Men cheered as the card sharp holstered his gun, "Slim wins again!" one of them shouted in jubilation. He sat at his table, divvying up his "winnings", a squat, toad-like fellow. His ratty garb, uncut goatee, and ragged brown hair belied the vast amounts of wealth he had swindled through guile and gun. Sunken blue eyes, yellowed and bloodshot from years of alcohol abuse, surveyed the winnings like a savage hawk, eyeing its prey.

The event had played out for quite some time now, the bartender having been long resigned to the chaos. "All this, over cards! Mary preserve me," he said to himself.

"Ah, SHUT IT!" Slim yelled, adding "Better yet, run along and get me another drink," he laughed obnoxiously as the saloon doors suddenly swung open.

***

The farmhand came across one of the men standing guard outside the Sycamore camp. The outlaw reached for his pistol seconds too late, the soil ran crimson, a single shot rang out and the body slumped to the ground.

A gruff voice broke the momentary silence: "Some damned lawman's coming, get out there!"

The second man walked out nervously as the farmhand took refuge behind an adjacent building.

"Why're you hiding?" the outlaw quipped as he looked toward his fallen compatriot, "You know we're gonna' find ya!". Bravado masked fear as the second outlaw paced cautiously, being ever on the lookout for a glinting badge.         

 He rounded the corner as the farmhand took him by the throat and pinned him against the wall, placing a revolver against his forehead.

"You're not th-"

***

The typical chatter of the saloon died down as the Sheriff and the Deputy walked through the rows of tables. Wasting no time, the Sheriff addressed the room:

"LISTEN UP! I'm looking for a few honest men. We're aiming to take down the Sycamore gang and we need ourselves a good posse." Several of the patrons began to laugh and Slim spoke over them:

"You ain't gonna find no "honest men" here, lawman."

Jenkins started to laugh heartily as the Sheriff fired a shot into the roof, the bullet lodging itself into a wood plank in the ceiling.

The men reached for their guns as Slim stopped them. "WAIT A MINUTE, BOYS!" he yelled as he turned to the Sheriff.

"What do you suppose I get out of this?"

Sheriff Joseph Long looked to the body slumped in the chair across from Jenkins' seat.

"How about I don't hang you for killing this fella?"

Slim shrugged, "It's only a game of cards, Sheriff."

Joseph sighed. "Look here, I know you're a good one for sniffing them out, being an ex-bandit and all. I've also heard that you're a "crack shot", so I'm gonna ask more politely. Unless you and your boys here are thinking about proving me wrong in showing good manners" the gun clicked as Joseph pulled the hammer back and the Lawman's eyes flashed, bringing a menacing air to his countenance. "I assure you... I ain't one for missing neither."

"So that's why they call you 'the Negotiator', eh?" Slim asked with a laugh. "How about this: we join your lil' "posse", and you give me and mine a reward."

Though he wore the ragged clothes of a vagabond, the wretch sitting in the chair opposite where the Sheriff stood might as well have worn the sharp business suit of a merchant. As he was not one for missing out on rewards, the shrewd card sharp and former bandit looked to the Sheriff expectantly, eager to hear the response.

"Alright, how's about $300?"

Slim balked "You drive a low bargain, lawman! How's about $600? That's $100 each."

Nathaniel spoke up, "Well that ain't right, there's four of you."

Slim gave a crooked smile, "Yeah, that means I get HALF!" he chuckled at his corrupt reasoning.

Slim eyed the Sheriff closely, waiting for a definitive answer.

"$450, no higher than that."

"Wait one damned min-," Slims' cry of protest was cut off.

"And," Joseph said curtly, "whatever y'all can find on whosever we need to shoot."

Slim pondered for a moment. He was a good shot, that much was true, and he did have experience in dealing with bandits and the like, but he was no mercenary. Still, being as greedy as he was, money was always welcome, no matter who it was that paid him. And keeping whatever he found? There was no contest... 

"Well now, you've got yourself a deal, lawman," he said with a Faustian grin.

***

The posse formed a grim precession that moved through the prairie, weapons at the ready, their horses whinnying as the reigns flew at their rider's command. The Sycamore gang had left mere moments before they had arrived to question the parishioners, who were still shaken from the violent depravity they had been forced to endure.

"Wedding crashers, eh?" Slim said with a sardonic laugh.

"Knock it off!!" Nathaniel retorted in an annoyed tone.

"What? They is," Slim replied, paying no mind to tact whatsoever.

"Settle, both of you." Joseph interjected. He looked to Slim, "Where do you reckon they ran off to?" he asked firmly.

Slim thought for a moment, "If I was them, I'd be heading to the old abandoned fort over yonder..." he pointed south.

"They said they were going back to that camp of theirs!", said one of the parishioners, suddenly realizing what the men were alluding to. "I heard them talking!" she said with a shudder.

"Lets go!" Joseph said, rallying the others as he mounted his horse.

***

They rode out to the fort and were nothing short of stunned. "There ain't nobody here." Nathaniel thought aloud.

Slim scoffed, "What was your first clue, genius?"

Nathaniel was about to give a witty response, when the imminent verbal feud was interrupted.

"GET ON OVER HERE AND LOOK AT THIS!!"

As the men fell in, they looked upon the source of the commotion. There in front of them lay the bodies of three men from the Sycamore gang. Two of them had been shot in the head, the third had lost a few fingers and had a large knife protruding from under his chin.

"Tom Barton," Joseph mused, scratching his chin. "You know him, sir?" Nathaniel chimed. Joseph gave a slow nod, "Yep, one of the most wanted here in Amarillo County."

Slim snapped his fingers, "YEAH! He was the one that robs gatherings and trains and all that! Well, I'll be damned, never thought I'd get to meet him in person. Well, maybe not like this, but..."

"Who could have done this to him?" Nathaniel questioned, fascinated with the sheer brutality of the scene.

Guns fired in the distance and Joseph looked over to the prairie. Turning back to face the others, he prepared to mount his horse, "I think we're about to find out," he said as he lashed the reins. "C'mon!"

The golden blades of the open prairie were stained a deep crimson with the blood of several men of the Sycamore gang. The Sheriff and his posse had counted a total of fifteen of them as they surrounded a dilapidated barn in the distance. The gang's number had now been reduced to ten.

"DEPUTY CROW, GET YOUR WEAPON READY AND STICK CLOSE! JENKINS, TAKE TWO OF YOUR BOYS AND ROUND UP AS MANY OF EM AS YOU CAN, ALIVE IF YOU CAN HELP IT!"

The normally quiet Sheriff could be quite loud when he needed to be. Slim and his men broke away from the Sheriff and the Deputy as Slim led his entourage to the back of the barn, Joseph and Nathan taking the front.

"FREE FOR ALL, BOYS, GO GET YOUR FILL!" Slim hollered, firing his pistol into the air, his men yelling and howling in affirmation.

One of the outlaws heard the commotion and looked to see the approaching chaos.

"LAWMEN! WE GOTS LAWMEN ON OUR TAI-!"

Slim wasted no time in silencing the first man, who had managed to fire a single round before falling off his horse.

"That'll shut your trap, ruining my entrance."

He cursed the dead man's family, friends, and general existence as bullets whizzed past, firing off a few of his own in retaliation.

"YOU WANT SOME MORE? I BET YOU DO!"

The Sheriff sighed, "Damned fool." He looked to the Deputy, "Alright son, you're going be earning your keep with this one," he said as Nathaniel rode next to him, fearful but determined. "C'MON!" Joseph shouted as he led the forward charge.

Swallowing his fear, the Deputy followed, gun drawn.

***

As he turned the dead man over with a boot, Tom Barton cursed his luck.

"Damned morons."

The leader of the outlaws picked up his revolver.

"If you want something done right."

The air was thick with tension as Barton walked into the open clearing. He briefly stood, guarding the doors of the encampment like a king would his fortress, before advancing further. With a hoarse shout, he addressed the farmhand: "YOUR GOOD, LAWMAN, BUT I BET YOU AIN'T THAT GOOD!" he waited.

"BEST GET ON OUT HERE!"

There was no response.  He knew the intruder had few options for cover, as just three decrepit buildings comprised the whole of the encampment, but the tall grass of the prairie could hide anyone. The clouds gathered on the horizon.  

"SCARED, ARE YA? THAT AIN'T GONNA BE A PROBLEM FER MUCH LONGER!" he shouted, firing off a few rounds.

Dust filled the air as the wind picked up. Barton turned around within seconds of the farmhand pulling the trigger. The bullet whizzed past as a vivid red oozed from the cut forming on Barton's face. Barton laughed. It was a cruel, arrogant laugh.

"What in the hell is this?" he said. He thought for a moment, "Oh, you must be here for that pretty lil' thing we had hereabouts," he said with a sneer. "She was FUN. I just love when they fight back."  

 The farmhand did not speak.

"What's the matter? Can't you take a joke...? CAN'T YOU LAUGH?!", his greasy black hair flying about like a matted mane as he bellowed.

A contemptuous glare was all that met Barton's gaze.

"I get it..." Barton said, "Ya wanna dance? We'll dance... But I ain't missed yet, by god..."

The two stood, facing one another. The sun shone through the clouds overhead. Their every movement deliberate, one watched the other as the seconds passed in a countdown between life and death. As the sun reached its zenith, hands moved, guns were drawn and bullets flew. The farmhand winced as he felt a sharp pain: he bled freely; the bullet bit deep into his shoulder. From his foe, he only heard a pained scream.

Barton grasped his hand, his gun lying on the ground near his foot. A stream of red ran down what was left of his fingers. "Goddamnit..." he choked back a howl as he looked up at the farmhand, "I'LL KILL YA!" he charged, brandishing a knife.

The farmhand tried to raise his revolver, his shoulder burning with pain. He was tackled to the ground, the gun firing off a single shot. He had managed to pull his arms up at the last minute, blocking Barton's knife as he did so. Being handicapped, both men attempted to use their uninjured arms, one to attack, the other to defend. Barton's curses filled the air as he clawed and flailed. The farmhand grabbed the arm holding the knife, twisting the other man's hand in the opposite direction. The pain was excruciating as he used his injured arm to pull Barton close to the blade. Try as he might, Barton could not break free of the farmhand's grasp in time as the curses he shouted became gurgles and gasps for air, the knife slowly sinking into his neck.

Pushing the body away from him, the farmhand retrieved his revolver and Barton's. "They're gonna be here any minute now..." he thought. He ran to the stable, his heart sinking as he came to the grim realization that the horses were gone.

"Must not have tied them down..." he said to himself, "Guess I'm hoofing it."

As he finished loading the revolvers, he heard hooves and shouts:

"I THINK WE FOUND HIM!"

Ten strong, the remnants of the Sycamore gang descended upon the barn, having it surrounded.

The farmhand sighed. "No going'back now..." he thought, preparing himself for the inevitable.

He lifted his revolvers as the pain gave way to adrenaline. "I'll see ya soon, my dear... real soon..." saying his final words as if they were a prayer, he stepped out of the barn and did his best to aim true.

***

The outlaws' number had been reduced even further. Now only six strong, they raced back to their camp, as the Sheriff and Deputy gave chase.

"Cowards took one of my boys," Slim said disgustedly, staring toward the fleeing men with contempt.

His features morphed into a broad grin, "I guess that means more for me," he said, laughing to himself as he searched for loot.

"WE GOT ANOTHER ONE HERE!" yelled his remaining cohort.

Slim was annoyed at the interruption, but decided to check regardless, "More pickings to be had," he thought.

Walking to the interior of the barn, he saw the body of a young man lying slumped against the wall, a gun held firmly in each hand. It looked as if he had been holding off the outlaws in a desperate struggle to the bitter end.

"The hell," Slim thought aloud.

He looked to be almost as young as the Deputy. Dull hazel eyes stared blankly through a mop of brown hair, bullet wounds covering his torso. He wore no badge or insignia and only sported the well-worn clothes of one who worked in the fields.

"Jus' a kid." Slim said to himself, at a loss for words.

"A farmhand." the other man attested "That ain't all, boss." the gun for hire held up one of the limp arms so that Slim could read the engraving on the handle:

"Property of Tom Barton," Slim read each syllable awkwardly.

"HOLY SHIT! This is him? This is the crazy bastard who took down THE Tom Barton?! Well, I'll be!"

"What do you think we should do?" the other man asked.

Slim thought to himself momentarily before saying "Go get them lawmen and tells them we'll be taking our pay," his voice suddenly sounded somber and subdued, not at all like his usual cocky demeanor. "You tell them what happened here too." His accomplice nodded and reached for one of the pistols the dead man held in his grip:

"You want we should take these here revol-"

"NO!" Slim's response was surprisingly harsh. He sighed and continued "This one here earned them guns; you'd best treat him with sum respect." The would-be thief nodded.

"I'll get going then."

As the other man rode off to tell the Sheriff and his Deputy of what the two had found, Slim stood in the barn, watching the prairie with a detached gaze.

"Must have had one hell of a poker face, eh kid?"

***

Six of the Sycamore gang ran back to their camp, as the Sheriff and Deputy followed closely behind. One of the outlaws had been shot and now lay dead on the prairie, the other five had surrendered, knowing the posse would soon have them outgunned and that possibly more lawmen would be on their way. They lay bound at the wrists and ankles as the Sheriff did a headcount. The Deputy was searching the area when one of Slim's men approached with the grim news. The Deputy had no trouble making the connection, as he had found another body close by, that of a young girl.

***

Nathaniel trembled slightly as he addressed the Sheriff, "I think you're gonna wanna to see this, sir." Joseph followed him and was greeted by the sight of the young girl discovered earlier, lying among the brush. Her body was bruised and battered, her dress torn; she had undoubtedly experienced vicious cruelty in her final hours.

The Sheriff's brow furrowed, his mustached face showing a deep frown as he spoke, "Poor thing. It must have' been her wedding." He turned to face the captured men "Y'all are going to hang for this." Those who remained of the Sycamore gang were pale and raving, eyes searched wildly and curses were spat as all plans of escape were useless; the rope constricting their limbs. He turned to the Deputy "You know why she's laying like that?" he asked "Like it's a funeral or something." Nathaniel nodded, "That's just it, sir, one a' them is saying that a farmhand was found in the old barn just up yonder.".

One of the captured men screamed.

"I reckon he must have done one hell of a number on these idiots. "Where is he now?" Joseph asked.

The Deputy sighed, "Dead," he said with a hint of remorse. "Must have been trying to save her."

"I see," Joseph said gruffly.

He stared out to the open prairie as a grave expression marked his features "'Damned shame... Would have liked to shake his hand at least."

He paused, keeping his emotions hidden, "'Damned shame," he repeated, shaking his head. He turned to the captured, now condemned, men once again, "'Hangman's gonna be mighty busy with five of you, but I reckon there's plenty of room for y'all."

Thunder cracked above as the sky wept.