The Widow

Chapter 2

A man stands silhouetted in the doorway.

It's him.

His face looms in front of me, his grey eyes boring into mine.

All I feel is pain.

All I know is pain.

The fire pops and hisses angrily as tongues of flame lick the dry wood - the branches are white, like bones bleached by the sun. The fire shifts its weight, releasing a flurry of sparks into the night. The clear, black sky is ablaze with stars.

Henry and Coraline lay in front of me, disassembled, and I polish Henry's barrel with the soft cloth I keep tucked close to my heart. My absentminded fingers and rigorous firearm cleaning routine have almost entirely rubbed off the embroidered initials. The firelight reflects off the silver metal of innards of the two pistols.

My hands move quickly on their accord, clicking the parts back together, and my mind is elsewhere. The metal is warm from cleaning and the fire, but my hands are cold and unfeeling. I puzzle over the small part of me that had felt relieved that the gang hadn't been in town. Getting so close to the chance of killing him has rubbed my nerves raw.

I spin Henry's barrel and it whirs. With a flick of my wrist, it snaps shut. Coraline is next.

My third pistol, loaded, rests on the ground next to me. It is next to be cleaned, along with my rifle. My ears are alert for any noise that doesn't make up the cacophony that usually fills the desert at night. A coyote howls and a dozen yips answer it. Bugs chirp and buzz busily.

My knives are next. I pull the whetstone wrapped in a bit of leather from a saddlebag behind me and carefully lay out each of my knives. The smooth shhh-shhh-ing of the blade against stone soothes me. I would give anything to draw the blade across his neck. I picture the blood spilling from the slit in his throat, like a pot of soup boiling over.

I look down and realize that my hand has slipped and I've cut my finger.

I feel no pain. The cut is deep and blood drips down my hand. I stare at it for a moment, mesmerized. It occurs to me that bleeding is the only proof that I am, indeed, still among the living.

At long last, I tear a strip of cotton from my shirt and tie it tightly around the wound, which begins to pulse. I drink some water from the canteen and check my ration of pemmican. I have enough to last me a trip to another town, so I tear some off and eat it. Food and drink have long been tasteless to me - I may as well be eating strips of leather and drinking piss for all I care.

When I look up again, Luke is squatting on the other side of the fire. His eyes bore into mine over the flames.

"Marcy, what are you doing? Are you running away again?"

I shake my head vehemently. I appear to be talking to myself, and I know this, but I still answer him. "Not running away. He wasn't there. I told you this."

"He's back there. You know he is. What are you afraid of?"

My eyes narrow. "I am not afraid."

He studies me for a moment and I remember just how well he knows me. He always could read my face and know exactly what I was thinking. I spent eighteen years in high society perfecting the art of turning my face into a mask, and he was the only one capable of peeling that mask back and seeing underneath.

I look away so he doesn't see the tears that fill my eyes.

"You're afraid of something, Marcy. You need take care of that before you go one step further. You know what you have to do. Now go and do it."

When I look back up, he's gone. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and my face slowly hardens back into its mask.

I resume sharpening my knives.

He's right, I realize.

I'm afraid that I will die before vengeance is mine. Would I share Luke's fate - wandering the earth as a ghost until wrongs against me are righted? I have no one to avenge me. Hell would be a better fate for me. At least I'd have others to share my misery.

Horse's ears flick back and he shifts, tossing his head.

It takes only a few moments before I hear it too - the low murmur of voices. I pause and strain against the night, my ears practically reaching for the sound of men.

There!

Casting my knives aside, I grab handfuls of dirt and douse the fire. Only a small wisp of smoke dares to puff into the night. The moon is a small sliver in the eastern sky, so I am not terribly worried that anyone sees it. I crouch into a low run in the direction of the voices.

I had made camp on a small flat ridge on the side of a rocky formation. At the edge of the outcropping, a low valley spreads out touching the western sky. To the north, hills kneel down to the mountains. To the south is the small town from which I'd come. The dry corpse of a river winds down from the mountains and cuts a line across the valley, snaking its way south to join the Rio Grande.

Four men on horses pick their way across the red valley along the riverbed. I am too far away to hear their words, but I know it's them. My heart accelerates. They must have arrived in the town shortly after I left. They didn't stay long. Were they following me? Or was this fate's way of making up for my scars?

It doesn't matter. Seeing him nearly robs me of my breath. His black hat and black duster are slung over the rump of a piebald appaloosa. He leads the group with casual authority. There is no mistaking him for anyone else.

I back away from my perch, slide my rifle out of the smooth leather holster on Horse's saddle, and resume my position.

I have one shot before they start returning fire.

My hands shake as I sight him in the cross hairs and my blood thunders in my ears, drowning out the sounds of their laughter.

One shot.

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