Page 57 of West Wind

The outlaws’ pistols blazed wildly, but Shelley fired only two shots. Two silent shadows fell, one after the other.

The Ugly One snatched Annabelle to her feet, his strong arm around her waist pulling her roughly to his side. The derringer was in her hand, but she couldn’t pull the trigger. Her hands shook, her palms were damp with sweat, and her knees felt as if they might buckle if he loosened his hold.

Shelley remained on one knee, his Colt aimed at the man who held her up. He didn’t fire. Was he afraid he’d hit her instead?

Annabelle’s derringer pressed into The Ugly One’s side. The heavy steel of his pistol touched her temple.

“You wasn’t asleep after all. That’s not exactly fair, now is it?” The man who restrained her chuckled, low and menacing, and swung the pistol away from her head and toward Shelley.

“Shoot him, Annie,” Shelley commanded.

“If you do, Annie, I’ll shoot your husband,” The Ugly One promised, cocking the pistol. They stood at the stalemate for what seemed like several minutes.

If she’d been hesitant to fire before, she was now incapable of pulling the trigger. If she did, he’d shoot Shelley.

The arm at her waist tightened. “You drop your little toy pistol, sweetie, and I’ll think about letting you live.”

“Don’t lie to her, Winston,” Shelley said, no emotion evident in his voice. His aim never wavered. He was like a statue lit by pale moonlight, calm and motionless.

“I didn’t give you my real name. How do you know who I am?”

“Let’s just say I’m observant, and a mug like yours is hard to forget.” There was no fear in Shelley’s voice, and that seemed to unnerve Winston a little. A tremor shoot through his arm.

She refused to drop the pistol. The threat of the derringer kept Winston from shooting Shelley. Annabelle wanted to push herself away from the horrid, stinking man who held her so close, but she was afraid a struggle would cause him to fire.

After what seemed like an interminably long time but probably wasn’t long at all, Shelley broke the strained silence. “Snake!”

Annabelle went boneless and dropped to the ground. Shelley and Winston fired almost simultaneously. She screamed loud and long to drown out the sounds that reverberated around her, and she didn’t stop until Shelley was beside her, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her. He smoothed her hair as she sobbed into his chest, until the panic faded and she pulled away from his embrace.

“Snake?” she shouted. “Is that all you could think of?”

“Yes, actually,” he said tiredly. He looked down at the body at his feet. The round hole in the center of Winston’s forehead was black in the moonlight. His eyes were open as he stared blankly at the heavens.

The other two had fared no better. The Fat One had a hole in his forehead similar to Winston’s, and The Skinny One had a hole in his chest. Also dead center.

Annabelle started to cry again. Violent death in such a beautiful place. It was wrong, as if the world had broken.

The sky turned a shade lighter. Morning would soon be upon them. She didn’t want to see what remained of their campsite by the light of day. She turned and started for her mare.

“Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance?” Shelley followed her, irritation in his voice. “Jesus! He could’ve killed us both.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered.

“What?” He almost had to run to keep up with her.

“I couldn’t!” She shouted. “I couldn’t pull the trigger.” She handed the derringer to him. “You keep this. I can’t fire it, not ever.” She’d never forget the sight of those three dead bodies, dispatched so quickly and easily by a man she thought she knew. “Can we leave here? Now?”

“Not just yet. We’ve got to load up the gear, and I need your help with something.”

“Help with what?” she shouted. “It can’t wait?”

The sun’s promised light appeared on the horizon, and in that light she studied the man who was so comfortable with his gun. Shelley was pale, his eyes narrowed slightly. He held one hand over his left arm. “I was hit. I need you to…”

Her anger dissolved. “Hit?” She peeled his fingers away from a spreading bloodstain. The sleeve of his shirt was torn and bloody.

“Don’t look so terrified,” he admonished her as if she’d done something wrong. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch?” She led him as if he were mortally wounded to sit on the flat rock near the remnants of last night’s fire. “Shelley… it could’ve… he could’ve… It’s all my fault.”