Chapter Three
The End

He had wasted nearly two hours with Cindy, but Alex took his time getting back home, reveling in the way the snow crunched softly under his boots. It was a new sensation, vastly different from the hot, sandy pebbles of his Arizona home. As he compared the two places in his head – Virginia, his new home, and Arizona, where his heart belonged – he felt a wave of nostalgia. Out in Arizona, there was excitement. Or danger, as his mother liked to call it. Out in Arizona, there was a sort of freedom that was lost on Virginians. This Virginian town felt too small and constraining.

But it was safe, Alex reasoned. He sighed and tried to push aside his thoughts of Arizona.

He heard the sounds of struggle almost too late as he walked past the darkened alleyway between two convenience stores. He paused for a moment, straining to hear the sounds again, wondering if he had just imagined them. Walking backwards, he tried to peek in the alley casually, but the darkness blanketed the small path. Before he could stop to think, he found himself cautiously stepping into the narrow space to investigate.

He had only taken several steps before feeling a cold, hard object pressed against his forehead. His vision had not yet focused in on the darkness.

"Shouldn't be pokin' yer nose 'round other people's business, boy," he heard a raspy voice say. A thoughtful silence. "Hmm, fancy hat," the voice said, and Alex felt the new bowler hat from Cindy McDonohay being swiped off his head. He almost shuddered from the sudden wintry wind that blew through his uncovered head.

Alex was about to retort when he was interrupted by cynical laughter. A chill ran up his spine then. He knew that laugh. Desperately, he narrowed his eyes, trying to will them to see past the shadows. And as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark, his body tensed. He gritted his teeth as rage rapidly flooded all his senses.

"Well, look at what we got here." He heard the laugh again. "Muggs, get rid of yer gun. Lemme take a good look at this kid."

Alex felt his presence before he could see him.

Scar.

He sauntered up to Alex with a condescending grin on his face. "Well, look at that. Big Shot. We meet again. Been a long time. Looks like you got taller," he added sarcastically. "Bet ya didn't know we were in town?" He said in a singsong tone. Despite the little light penetrating the alley, Alex could now see Scar's dark eyes and shaggy brown hair. His tanned skin was dimpled with marks of dirty fist fights.

Scar chuckled when Alex spit in his face. He wiped the side of his face with the back of his grubby hand.

"What the hell are you doin' here, Scar? Shouldn't you be out west in your territory with the rest of your uglies?" Alex shot back intensely.

Scar actually hooted then. He enjoyed the challenge this young boy presented. This Alex "Big Shot" Clayborne had fast become known throughout the entire west as being one of the greatest sharpshooters ever to live. Better than men twice his age, men who had more experience. A sort of prodigy, people called him. He had a gift. Well, Scar couldn't have that. Scar had his own reputation to uphold. And he was not about to be overshadowed by some runt of a kid. If this Clayborne kid was the greatest to ever live, then he would just have to die.

"Don't you worry, Big Shot, we're leaving for home tonight. This town just don't have the same… air, like back at good ol' Arizona." He gave a mocking bow. "Our business here is almost over." He snapped his fingers. "Just one more Clayborne to go…"

Alex's eyes widened. "The hell--" he started when he noticed one of the gang members reaching into his coat pocket. Alex quickly drew his gun and fired at the man's hand.

"Shit!" he screamed in agony.

So rapid was Alex's movement that Scar was caught off guard – he had no idea that the shot came from Alex, not from one of his own gang. Scar took his attention off Alex when the man yelped, and Alex took that chance to dash out of the alleyway.

Panic clouded his nerves; he couldn't make himself run fast enough. Scar's last words echoed in his mind. Just one more Clayborne to go…. He was slipping on the snow. His surroundings blurred as he sped off the path and towards the trees, a flicker of consciousness telling him that it would be faster that way. He couldn't breathe. Oxygen hit his heaving lungs like icicles. He ran and hacked away at the shrubbery and branches that seemed to claw at him, tearing at his clothes. He didn't feel the scratches. All he knew was that he had to protect his family. It was his responsibility. Alex had to reach them, save them, before it was too late.

It seemed like hours before he reached his house.

As he neared the Claybornes home, he was shocked to hear faint shouts. Orders. Cries. A column of black smoke rose over the treetops. He knew in the back of his mind that it was coming from his family's house. But hope placed him in denial.

No, it can't be, he thought desperately.

"Alexander, Alexander, thank goodness you're all right," he heard. Alex shifted his head towards the voice. It was his neighbor, he couldn't remember his name at the moment.

"My family --" Alex managed between breaths.

"It's too late, I'm afraid --"

Alex ran towards the house before the old man could finish his words. It wasn't too late, he kept repeating to himself. His brothers had been outside, they weren't inside the house. They weren't inside the house. His family was strong. His brothers were strong. Trey…

He was grabbed and stopped by several people when he tried to force his way into the burning building. "It's too late!" came the cries. Finally, a pair of hands seized his shoulders and shook him roughly. "Godammit, Alexander Clayborne, look at me!" It was the same neighbor. James. Mr. James. How could he have forgotten a name so simple?

"Come on, Clayborne. Look at me, all right? Look at me! You can't save your family, godammit - they're dead. They were shot before the house was set on fire… see? You can't save them," Mr. James tried to explain as he tried to hold the boy still.

"I'm so sorry, dear," a woman sobbed.

"Such a tragedy," came another whisper.

Alex stood frozen. Dead. He considered the word, turning it over in his mind as though it were foreign, as though he didn't know the meaning of it. His family was so full of life. His brothers had all met his eyes before he left, laughing. They were supposed to be content here. Secure and away from the ruthlessness of the West. He looked dumbly at Mr. James. "Shot?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, m'boy."

Images flurried through Alex's mind until it rested on a single, blemished face. Scar. The bastard had hell to pay. Alex struggled free, twisting himself out of the chain of hands that held him. He sprinted away from the house.

"Clayborne!" came a shout from behind.

Alex heard nothing but his own fury roaring through his veins. All he knew was that Scar and his gang would be heading back west that night. And that meant he would find them at the train yards. He was not thinking about what he would do if he found the gang. All his energy were focused on just finding them.

He felt the adrenaline rushing through his body. It only took him several minutes to reach the garage of trains. He jumped over the fence and searched for any sign of Scar and his followers. He violently pulled open train car doors. There was nothing but cargo. He was sweating and panting despite the bitter winter wind. He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was now wet from perspiration. It had begun to snow again.

Alex was so hell-bent in finding the murderers that he did not realize he was being followed. He felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around.

"Lookin' for me?" Scar sneered.

"You bastard. You'll pay for --" Alex began heatedly, reaching inside his jacket.

"—for what? For your family? If I ain't mistaken," Scar leaned in close to Alex's face. He whispered, "you killed your family. You killed the Claybornes." He laughed cruelly.

Alex lost his intensity then. His green eyes widened and his hands dropped helplessly to his sides; a puff of air escaped his lips, stunned, like he had been hit in the stomach. Scar had played on the child's weakness. And he took advantage of his opponent's momentary confusion.

He swung a club directly at Alex's head and laughed when he felt it connect with his target, resounding in a loud thump.

Alex fell limply to the snow covered ground. Scar cocked his head to the side, a half-smile crossing his face. He relished in his victory and kicked the boy in the stomach for good measure and to satisfy his own ego.

"Nice job, boss. What we gonna do with him now?" Muggs asked, coming up from behind Scar. The gang member looked down at Big Shot's motionless body.

Scar thought for a moment. "Pick him up and toss 'im in that train," Scar ordered. Like the garbage that he is, he thought. He pointed toward one of the train cars when the gang hesitated. "Now!"

"All right, all right," Muggs complied, waving for the others to help him.

The members picked up his body and threw him into the train car. They slammed the door shut and turned to face their leader.

"All right, boys. Let's go," Scar said, his tone gruff, commanding. "That boy don't got a chance in hell." He led them to the opposite tracks heading westward.

No one knew about the legendary young man aboard the train - no one knew about Alex "Big Shot" Clayborne laying crumpled in the cargo car. The train was off, sputtering to life and slowly gaining speed as it chugged along the tracks heading north. The train horn blared.

"To New York!" the conductor shouted.