Horrible Harvest

“The truth is, I’m done talking. Let’s do what we come here to do,” I said.

Tate give a nod. “I do ask one favor before we get this thing started.”

“What?”

“I get to kill Mr. Miller. That cracker is mine.”

I checked my sidearm. “Fair enough.”

“I got Mr. Stockton,” Douglas said. “That sumbitch is sure enough all mine.”

“That leaves Charles,” Tate said.

“That leaves Charles,” I repeated.

“Ima shoot whatever fella presents himself as a problem,” Piney said. “You want dibs on him? You better give it a callout quick.”

Leaving it at that, I crouched and made my way around the vein of boulders with Tate, Douglas, and Piney following in a single file. We was exposed, but the town was near dead. If not for Pastor Dan now setting in a chair at the bank’s door, one woulda thought we was approaching a ghost town.

At the sheriff’s office, we pressed our backs to the sidewall and scooted to the corner leading to the backdoor. As quietly as possible, we stepped toward the back entrance. A million thoughts was going through my mind. I’d killed dozens. I was skilled at gunning folks down. Had a high-on aptitude for it. Yet, marching towards the door that’d deliver me onto one of the monsters I hated most in this world, I fount myself riddled with doubt that I could bring myself to kill him if Douglas was unable to get it done. In a lot of fucked up and twisted ways, he was a god – Mr. Stockton – To me. Mountain-sized. Cold. Devilish. Part of me thought nothing I could do would make him part this world.

I was about to step past the threshold of the door when Douglas tugged at my shoulder and stepped in front of me. He give a nod, took a silent deep breath, and placed his boot on the wood plank floor of the sheriff’s office. The sound of it was loud as all hell in my ears. I thought it unreasonably loud. He eased his second foot through the door and turnt to his right with his revolver at the ready.

I followed after, whispering instructions to Piney to remain outside. I’d’ve insisted Tate do the same, but I knew there weren’t no way in hell he was gonna listen. He stepped inside the sheriff’s office after I’d made it two-foot beyond the doorway.

As Miller built buildings go, weren’t a damn thing special about it. It was made up of three rooms. The main room was the biggest and had it a desk and safe in it. Gun racks filled with rifles hung by twos on each wall of the room. To the left of the back door was a short hallway that led to two jail cells, and the third room was shut off to us by a door.

Mr. Stockton was nowhere to be seen.

A small thud of a noise came from behind the door to the third room. We all turnt towards it.

Douglas crept in its direction, careful to give nothing but soft footfalls. Reaching the door, he turnt to us, give us a smile, and then placed his hand on the doorknob.

 A split second later, we heard us a pop, and watched wood splinter outward from the door in a small explosion. Two more pops followed, and more splinters sprayed out towards Douglas. He stumbled backwards, clutching his stomach.

I watched as he near lost his footing and then slumped to a knee, examined his blood-soaked hand, and then looked to us. Wasn’t nothing but surprise and horror on his face. ‘Fore he fell to the ground, he managed to call out for Gladys.

Mr. Stockton crashed through the splintered door and fired two more shots with nary a target in mind. When he got his bearings, he turnt to us and trained his pistol on me.

“Augustus Tennyson.” He laughed it up before saying, “And ol’ nigger Tate.”

Neither Tate nor I said a word back. We just turned our guns on him.

“Who the devil did I shoot?” He looked at the body sprawled in a river of blood. “That Douglas? The most worthless of the Tennyson’s, he is – Or was, I should say.” Turning to us, he said, “Now, we could do this nonsense and see it through. They’ll be more dead. That’s for sure, but there’s another way. There’s a truce to be worked out here. One dead is enough. I don’t want to go no further.”

“Ain’t no further for you, Mr. Stockton,” I said.

“You been a way too long, boy. You’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with.”

“Who I’m dealing with ain’t near as important as what I’m dealing with.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You fired five shots. Guns empty.”

He smiled. “You know better than most, this here’s a six-shooter. That leaves me with one bullet. It’ll go to one of you. I can promise you that. The other will get me, but not before the other is dealing with a hole in his chest.”

Tate and I cocked our hammers. “I know something else. I know you only filled five chambers.”

He give leave his smile. “What makes you so certain?”

“‘Cause I only have five chambers filled. You taught me yourself not to fill the sixth. So’s I wouldn’t shoot myself in the leg if the gun went off half-cocked.”

He give a chuckle. “You were always the smartest of the Tennysons. That makes you smart enough to know something else.” He didn’t have no confidence left. I seen it gone from his eyes.  “I hold sway over every one of the Miller men that are about to swarm this building. I stay alive and topside, I can talk them back. Give you time and space to run on out of here. You’ll live to see another day. You shoot me dead. You’re dead as me inside of five minutes. Now, you’re smart as they come. So, I ask you, do I hold more value to you dead or alive?”

Without prompting one another, Tate and I pulled our triggers. Both shots entered his chest about six inches apart.

He collapsed with a hard crash to his knees, held upright for the sweetest of minutes, so’s we could see the fright in his eyes, and then he fell stone hard to the floor face first. I ain’t never seen something so beautiful.  

“Dead,” I said.

I rushed to Douglas and placed my hand behind his head. He looked to me. His mouth opened and his tongue moved about. I expected him to say something – Hoped he’d say something, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His breathing turnt to panting. The panting turnt to wheezing. He reached up and grabbed at my collar. In as soft a whisper as they come, in between breaths he couldn’t hardly take, he said, “I buried my ma. Tell Daddy. You tell that sumbitch.” He barely got the “itch” out ‘fore he give out for good.