Saving the Gunslinger

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Zachary stood outside that damned farmhouse and stared up at the porch and that black front door he still couldn't force himself to open. Samantha and Timothy would be arriving from town soon. Samantha was going to start on the cleaning today since the supplies needed for anything more would take up to a week to arrive by train.

Zachary wondered if it was all a waste of time. No matter how much she polished and shone the inside of that house, Zachary had a feeling he would never be able to step foot inside it. And, if by some miracle, he could convince his boots to walk on in, he had a feeling all he would see were the people he loved bloody, broken, and lifeless.

That farmhouse would never—could never—be his home again.

Zachary hadn't been home when his family had been murdered. He'd been out being a stupid, selfish fool—but he had been able to piece together what had happened easily enough when he'd returned.

His mother and father had been at the kitchen table eating a late supper, something they sometimes did just to have quiet time for the two of them when their murderers had come barging in the front door. His father had been on his way to the stairs, probably to get his gun from his office, when he'd been shot in the back of the head at close range. The exit wound had left none of his face intact.

His mother had been next. Zachary would never forget the look of fear etched onto her lifeless face. Her clothing had been torn from her, they'd stripped her of her modesty and forced her right there upon the kitchen floor only feet away from her husband's warm corpse. She had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the head—either one would have been enough to kill her on its own, but apparently the killers had been attempting to be thorough.

Zachary could still remember the raw terror that overrode the shock and pain at finding his parents—the terror for his sisters. Never in his life had he run as quickly as he had run up that staircase. Praying, hoping, begging that somehow, someway, the hell that had occurred downstairs had spared those angels and they would be safe and sound in their room waiting for their older brother to come save them.

Opening that door had shown him otherwise.

The room had been soaked in blood. It had been spilled, splattered, and sprayed on nearly every surface. And his sisters? Their tiny ten-year old bodies had been lying undressed upon their beds covered in so many stab wounds, Zachary hadn't even bothered trying to count them.

He'd gathered those innocent girls in his arms and simply sobbed for a long while.

Zachary had been covered in his family's blood when he had ridden into town at midday. Folks had noticed. Fearful glances had followed him. The air had filled with the hum of whispers. Rumors had swirled. Zachary hadn't wasted any time attempting to speak to anyone or explain what had happened. He had simply fetched the Marshall and the doctor—though he knew his family was past saving.

Zachary felt his hatred for Leonard Oxley grow as he remembered that day. The Marshall had been useless. He'd thrown up at the sight of the bodies and ran from the house. And when Zachary had shown him the letter that had been left by the killer—signed by the murderer's own hand—Leonard had turned completely yellow, stated it was all out of his jurisdiction and high-tailed it back to town.

The doctor had offered to send for men to come collect the bodies—that was what his family had become...bodies—and take them to the undertaker but Zachary had refused. No one else was going to see his loved ones looking the way they had. His loving, warm mama. His proud, caring pa. His beautiful, innocent sisters... No. Zachary had sent the doctor away, gotten the shovel out of the toolshed, and buried his family himself.