Kate ran cautiously after the Stranger. She expected him to be waiting in ambush, but there was no sign of him. No sign of him at all in the pines. The morning sky was blue and the golden light of the sun came through the trees. Cracked Beak was barely visible, nothing more than a wispy cloud. He circled back around if he ever got too far ahead of her and Kate grew to trust that he was on the look-out for any surprises.
The forest opened up onto a meadow of tall grass. Cracked Beak cawed. Instinctively, Kate, still within the treeline, ducked down, creeping forward in the grass, though it was a little difficult with only one arm.
Ahead, nearly hundred yards off, the Stranger and Stick led their prisoners to a large tree. Stick dismounted. The wisp of Cracked Beak’s shape soared toward the tree. Kate could barely follow his flight around the tree. She shifted her gaze to Stick, who led his prisoners to the horses, which now were both riderless. The Stranger walked around the tree, always looking up, then after nearly a full revolution around the tree, he pointed up at a branch.
Kate’s nostrils flared as she crept as fast as she could.
Cracked Beak alighted on her back. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“I have to do something.”
“What? Get yourself killed. She Laughs at Fire, your people need you. Do not sacrifice your noble life for liars and thieves.”
“Get off me.”
Closer she approached. The horses whinnied. She peeked above the blades of grass. Two nooses hung from a branch. Stick was tying Hazelton’s and Cora’s hands behind their backs. On she crept. Only twenty five yards. She had to slow, cautious of the rustling grass due to her movements. She prowled.
Hazelton and Cora were sat up on the horses. Nooses tightened around their necks. The Stranger giggled, pulling the ends of each of their ropes till the prisoners were forced to sit tall in the saddles to ease the tight embrace of the cord. Cora laughed. “You call this a fair fight, Stick?”
“Retribution for your slights back at the saloon,” he said.
“Retribution? You’re scared of me, like a little boy frightened of his big sister.”
Stick sprang forward, ready to slap the horse’s hind end, but the Stranger stopped him.
“Are you scared?” The Stranger asked.
Stick gawked, obviously taken aback. “I ain’t scared of whore!” He shoved the Stranger, who only smiled at the assault.
“Prove it,” Cora said.
“There’s nothing to prove! I ain’t scared of a whore.”
Hazelton smiled, gagging a little as he spoke, “Guilty dogs bark the loudest.”
“I do fancy a duel,” the Stranger said.
Stick spat on the ground. “This ain’t a duel. Only a slaughter.”
“But who’s the lamb?” Cora’s noose was loosed and her bonds that tied her hands behind her back were cut. She dismounted. The Stranger returned her revolver. A grin pinched his cheek. “Have fun.”
“You’ll need to take the rope off of Bart too,” she said.
The Stranger agreed and helped Bart dismount. Twenty paces were counted off between Stick and Cora. Stick tucked the corner of his buckskin jacket behind his holster, his hand resting on the revolver. He glowered at the woman, but she stood firm. Slightly angled, leading with her left shoulder. Her pretty face was stony, set like a marble statue.
“Ready,” the Stranger said. “Then fire at my command. Fire!”
They drug iron, whipping their pistols out in deft, lightning fast movements, all at once, ratcheting the hammers back and pulling the triggers. One shot fired then the second. Cora yelped, collapsing to the ground. Stick still stood. Puffs of smoke pulled apart into nothingness within the rays of sunlight. The woman on the ground groaned, wincing at her leg. An inkblot of blood kept growing on the side of her right thigh. Sweat beaded on Stick’s paling face. He gritted his teeth, falling to his knees, staring maddeningly at Cora, before he fell at last, face first into the grass, never to move again.
“See you around,” the Stranger said. He walked over to the injured woman and offered a hand. Cora looked at it, the pale fingers, pinkish palm. She turned her face away, groaning as she stood on her efforts, staring at the Stranger, wrinkling her nose at him. He only smirked. “Such a display,” he said, and he turned around, slowly walking away from her, his spurs jangling with each step. “Magnificent draw. Speed. Elegance.” He paused by Stick’s corpse and kicked it in the ribs. “Accuracy.” Then he spun once more, facing her. “You stood like this, to the side, making yourself a smaller target. Clever. Oh, and protecting your gun hand. The genius. What a peach you are.” He flashed a smile. Took a deep breath. “I noticed that you don’t bring the pistol up very high.” He pulled his revolver, held it just above his belt, and aimed it at her. Cora’s eyes widened, then shifted to the ground.
“Pick it up,” the Stranger said.
Bart squirmed on the horse, “Don’t.”
The stranger fired his pistol. The bullet ricocheted about the horse’s hooves, sending it off at a gallop. Bart fell, the noose cinching around his throat. He flailed his feet. Cora was about to run toward him, but the stranger fired another bullet at her feet. “Pick it up.”
She hesitated a moment. And she picked it up. The Stranger holstered his pistol. The moment was quick, the sudden realization that her enemy had put away his weapon and that she held hers, aimed right at his heart. She pulled the trigger, but the man didn’t drop. He only staggered a little. “Sheath it,” he said. “I want to see if I am as fast as you.”
She fired again and again.
The Stranger growled, “Your friend is dying! A proper duel and I’ll save him.”
Her eyes were wide and white. The man should be dead. The grouping of bullets had made three holes right where his heart ought to be. Her hand shook as she holstered your pistol. Bart’s legs were growing weak. They only twitched.
“Your move,” the Stranger said.
Cora pulled her pistol and fired. The Stranger staggered back. “You are fast,” he said. He had only just pulled his revolver out, but he held it up and fired. A hole appeared in Cora’s forehead. A riverlet of blood began to stream. She fell straight back, a cloud of dust blooming into the sky when she hit the ground. Another shot, and the rope holding Bart was severed and he collapsed to the dirt and roots, gasping and wheezing.
Kate groaned where she hid in the grass. Cracked Beak placed a wing on her leg.
The Stranger turned toward the meadow. “Come out Kate, or I’ll shoot your other friend!”
“Don’t do it,” Cracked Beak said.
“I have no choice,” Kate said.
“Your people.”
“Bart is my people.” She stood up out of the grass, as Cracked Beak flattened himself to the ground. “I’m here,” she said.
“You should’ve let me die,” Bart said. His hands were bound, tied to a rope that was fastened to the knot tethering Kate’s left hand to the horn of the saddle. Another rope dangled from the neck of her horse attached to the Stranger’s horse, who led the way across the plain.
“I believe I heard that before,” she said.
The leather of the saddles creaked as hooves plodded through the grass. Stick’s scabbard clapped against the horse’s hip that the Stranger rode. Bart glanced around. Rope burns scarred Bart’s neck, leaving a purple ring. .
“You could’ve escaped,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
Up in the cloudless sky, vultures circled. Another shape circled as well, something like a puff of cloud.
“What is your plan now?” Bart asked.
“I don’t know. I want to find my father though and this man has mentioned something about a Shaman. And the Shaman is sure to know something about my father.”
“Absolutely he is,” the Stranger said, glancing over his shoulder.
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