Death's Horse Throws A Shoe

Part 13

Night had fallen. Barrow had drawn some cool water from the well and was trying to wipe away the grime of the day. He had made himself some stew and biscuits and sat down to eat. Both were awful. Maybe it was time to hire some help. The plowing would get done quicker and maybe one or two of the hands could actually cook. He only continued to eat because he was hungry. It certainly was not for the taste.

He pushed his empty plate away and leaned back in his chair sighing deeply. He ached and he often wondered why he decided to be a farmer after all. Then he remembered-farmers did not have to dodge bullets. It seemed that no matter what he did, he would still have to live by the gun one way or another. His mind turned to Harris and his strong arm tactics. The man was capable of just about anything when it came to money. Barrow had known plenty of men just like him. Their single-mindedness and dogged determination was something he once admired. Now he saw it for what it was-the all consuming desire, the want, ate a man from the inside until there was nothing but an empty shell desperate for something to fill it. For most it was money, for others it was just things or women. There were even those that developed an unquenchable blood lust. None of things filled that hole. It never had for Barrow so now he was trying his hand at creating something and making it grow. A divine experiment for redemption for the lives he had taken.

Barrow reached behind him and took the whiskey bottle off of the shelf. He poured a measure into his tin cup and kicked back again. He sipped at it and closed his eyes. His other senses reached out and that was when he heard the nicker of a horse. It was too close to the house and his horse was in the barn. Without trying to look too urgent he sat up, drained the rest of the whiskey and turned his kerosene lamp down and off. He saw a shadow pass through the moonlight through his front window.

The life of the gun had reared its ugly head again. He drew his pistol and backed towards the stone fireplace. He sat on the floor and took of his boots. Another shadowed moved at the back window. Barrow reached up from where he was and grabbed his rifle from the mantle and chambered a round. He could now hear some hoarse whispering.

The front door burst open throwing splinters through the air. Barrow shot the man dead with one shot and moved against the wall just beneath the front window. Bullets shattered the glass and slammed into the fireplace where he had just been. A face appeared in the window opposite him and he fired, putting a bullet in that man's forehead. Barrow quickly slid to just inside the door and stayed low. Another gunman ran in aiming at the spot under the windows not seeing Barrow below him. Barrow was close enough that he drew his buck knife and stabbed him under the ribs and into the heart. The gunman shuddered, dropped his gun and hit the floor in a heap. Barrow picked up the fallen pistol and stashed it in his belt.

Barrow took a chance and took a peak around the door jamb. The wood next to him exploded as a bullet slammed into it right by him. They had a rifle and a pretty good distance and in the dark he would not be able to get a bead on him without exposing himself and getting shot. He stood up and ran to the back window and dove head first through the shattered panes. Shards cut at his neck and shoulders. He hit the ground and rolled just as more bullets poured into his home. He heard his lamp and bottle explode into pieces and wished he had brought the bottle with him.

He pressed his back up against the cabin and scooted sideways. The moonlight was on his side as from where he was anyone coming around the house would cast enough of a shadow for him to see it coming. Barrow came around the corner as he heard someone going through the wreckage that was his humble home and ran straight out for the barn. There was no report of a rifle, no debris flying up from bullets raining down on him, and he thanked the Lord for his favor.