Chapter Two

Did a bullet just slam into Slim's chest? In one single moment, as the outlaw's words were absorbed, the air was locked inside of Slim's lungs as his chest experienced a violent thump. The jolt ran through every vein, leaving one leg prone to shake even though his position in the seat never shifted. There was no lightheaded feel, but the shock stung his temples, and if Slim had been gazing into a mirror instead of staring out into the nothingness of the roadway, he would have seen his expression at its palest. Details might have remained only at a sketch, but the clarity was full of alarm. The man sitting next to him might have just confessed to killing his family.

"The Sherman Relay Station?" The words somehow came out of Slim's mouth, and he was surprised that he could produce sound without a quiver.

"Didn't bother asking for names before I started shooting," he said, the frown working its way down into his chin. "What's it matter to you?"

"Everything," Slim replied, his voice faraway, but the fear was right there on top of him, so close, he could feel its grip beginning to pry away the layers of his soul.

"Oh, sure, I get it. You work with them and such. Curiosity isn't a bad thing, after all. I guess it's all right to tell the story since the news has probably spread by now." He gave Slim a half glance as he adjusted the rifle to one hand so he could use the left to gesture through his words. "For reasons left untold, I needed to keep my distance from Laramie, but that didn't stop me from hitting the road east of town. The trail ended up taking me right to a ranch house, which I soon learned also served purpose as a relay station. Figured I'd stick around and take in the coach, if you get my drift. But I met with a little resistance."

"What kind of resistance?" Slim asked the question, but the sick feeling inside of his gut that was growing sicker with each second that passed told him that he already had the answer, and that it could have been given as the name of one man.

"A cowboy at the relay station." His laugh and nasal snort came in quick succession, but both sounded equally as repulsive. "You should've seen him! He was loaded for bear, or considering his attitude, maybe that's what he really was. Came at me with all kinds of snarls and I could tell by the way he carried himself that he was good with the gun he wore on his hip and was willing to use it. Probably fast with it, too."

Jess. Very few men could have the same description as Slim's partner, and with the image drawn by the outlaw's tongue, now there would be no further doubt which station that he had struck. And killed, considering he had taken its very heart. Slim closed his eyes, wanting to keep them shut, but despite what was flooding his senses, there was still the necessary duty in front of him to keep the horses on the road. He blinked once, and then again, keeping his gaze centered on the road just beyond the team, but even with the swiftness that the ground was being eaten up beneath them, he could see three precious faces.

"And he was quick." Reaching for his coat, the right flap was pulled back and Slim's attention was diverted to his front, but where Slim expected to see a line of red, all he saw was the man's blue shirt, which reminded him too much of another similar colored shirt. Either it was, or Slim's mind was wreaking havoc as his eyes shifted back to the road. "He wound up putting a bullet along my side."

"He shot you?" With so much dryness clutching the back of his throat, Slim expected to cough after the words came out, but he lapsed into silence. The outlaw, however, was far from finished with his point of view, and every movement of his mouth was like part of Slim's flesh was being torn out of his body with a set of vicious fangs that wouldn't be stopped until all of Slim was eaten away.

"Yeah, just a graze though," he responded with a shrug that only partly displayed his nonchalance of the entire incident, "hardly made me grimace. But that's where it ended. I don't make a mistake when I shoot a man down, and that one was no different. Got him right between the eyes. He was dead before he hit the ground."

"Were there others?" This time there was a croak, and Slim had to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to stifle it from developing into a choking sob, tasting the blood that came with it when he released the pressure.

"Two more." He brought up the same number of fingers, holding them in the air for several seconds before moving the whole hand back to the rifle, an indication that his story was almost complete, but to Slim, the nightmare was just beginning. "I can't keep witnesses around if I want to stay out of the hangman's noose. The old man didn't bother me, but I hated to kill a kid, though. Huh. I thought a man like you would've seen it all. Like I always say, squeamish men shouldn't live out west. I guess I should've spared you the details, because you're positively turning green."

If there really was color lining Slim's cheeks, he could understand the shade of nausea, but considering the emotions that were assaulting his body, it could have been blazing red from hatred or the darkest blue of depression. The emotions had no reason to battle within him, for they were shared in equal portions. The heat rose high enough to stifle the sobs that wanted to tear his heart in half, and the sorrow kept his senses stuck in a shocked formation, stopping him from reaching his hands out to strangle the man beside him. And then the sickness, propelled even further into worsening territory by the rocking of the stagecoach, threatened to bow him over and retch the entire contents of his soul, but he remained upright, by no other reason but not wanting the outlaw to see him turn even greener, or to be depicted to have one more hue, yellow.

"They're all dead." It was a statement spoken in grief, soaking up the full amount of drenching teardrops that dripped inside of Slim, but the outlaw wasn't tuned to that level of anguish, missing the sorrowful notes altogether.

"That's what I told you. Listen better next time you're told a story and you won't ask dumb questions afterward."

They were all dead. It was a repeated statement this time given in silence, but the grief contained noise, from a wail that penetrated through his entire heart. Jess. Andy. Jonesy. Each name brought a different face, but the final image of a bloodied death that flashed in front of him was the same. The admission had come out of the outlaw's lips without any noticeable twinge of remorse for his actions, saying it as casually as if they had been discussing the weather, but it hit Slim like brutal blows to an already beaten body. Yet it wasn't his outer skin that was suffering the most, as the only blood that flowed was pouring from the inside, and there wasn't any type of compress in the world that could seal that type of immense stream. A torrent like that would go on forever, or at least as long as Slim still breathed, and with a killer feasting on his own wickedness sitting next to him, that time could prove to run out at any moment.

"There's the cut off. Take it," the command came with a point to where he wanted to switch directions.

Slim wasn't certain that his ears were capable of hearing any longer with the scream that roared in his temples, but there was sign of recognition to what he had been instructed, as his hands obeyed the command. Turning the horses to a lesser used road that would eventually take them into Colorado, Slim watched everything that was in front of him in a blur, sometimes barely avoiding a rut deep enough that could make a horse stumble. Rounding a sharp corner, when he felt the coach rock beneath him as the horses raced too close to the edge of the misshapen road, the jolt was enough to jiggle his senses. Slim felt as if his life had already faded away, but there was still a level of importance to keep aiming for. Revenge, that was all that was left pumping through his blood, but there were other lives to consider, which made Slim take a firmer grip on the reins, to keep the four horses from falling under the same vile hand that took his family from him.

"These horses are beat," Slim's sternness cut through the heavy air like he had stabbed it with a knife. "If you don't let me pull them up, I'll stop anyway. And your rifle poking me in the ribs doesn't change my feelings one bit."

"All right, all right," the annoyance hung like an oversized cloak over their backs, "go ahead. You're too lily-livered to talk big enough to scare me, but I'll concede. It'll be dark in an hour, so that'll be my cover up. We can stop for the night."

That exact location wasn't prime for rolling a coach to a stop, which spread the length between the moment permission was granted from actually getting the horse's legs stilled to a large enough span that Slim thought the next words from the outlaw would be rescinding his previous statement. Glancing at the outlaw's eyes when he finally pulled the reins back, Slim expected him to deliver a retort to keep the horses in motion, since the initial appearance seemed to not be as important as Slim depicted, but he kept any irritation he held in silence. When nothing was left moving other than the shaking of a harness or two, Slim watched the rifle next to him swing toward the dirt, and his legs dropped in obedience to the threat, but there was no hesitation once his feet touched the ground. Slim's stride took him alongside the horses, his hand tracing over the back of the two closest, ending with a pat along the neck of the front left, before starting the motions to remove the team from the coach.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Taking care of the horses," Slim snapped, barely moving his head to see the outlaw directly behind him, with a straight line between his back and the gun. "If that bothers you, turn around and don't watch."

"Right," he laughed, his mouth widening enough that more than just his teeth showed, stretching his mirth longer than what was a believable span of humor, "so you can hop on the first loose mount and ride out of here? Don't try it, you're not the type. Hurry up and finish and then take a seat on that log over there."

Maybe the outlaw wasn't that far from being right. With or without a gun pointed at him, Slim wasn't in the position to make a dramatic attempt at an escape, but what could have been considered a dose of drama in his veins was the reason he wanted to stay where he was. His own hide held little importance since there was no one else to live for, but because it was this man that had carved a hole in his chest, the need for retaliation now thrived. His eyebrows working into their crossest line, Slim's gaze absorbed every inch of the ground as he lowered his body to the log, and once seated, the outlaw did the same.

"I guess you didn't have a bad idea after all. It does feel good to stop bouncing in all directions. Whew, my backend! The way you drive, are you sure you're a stage man? I bet if you wore glasses, you'd make the perfect bank clerk. Honest face, but no fortitude. No comment, huh? Oh well. You won't get a chance to change professions anyway, so there's no point talking about it."

"Sure," Slim uttered under his breath, but even though he had given an answer, to Slim, there was no point talking about anything. The outlaw had already given the only account that meant anything to Slim when he told of the deaths of his family, making everything else that came out of his mouth a worthless pile of drivel, but that was about to change.

"I must've put on a few pounds," he said, unbuttoning the shirt down to his middle as he let a rush of air out of his lungs. "Either that, or that fellow at the relay station was lighter around the front than I realized."

Slim's head snapped upright toward the outlaw, his eyes starting out wide, and then narrowing to a squint as the recognition Slim had made before finally had something real backing it. He was wearing Jess' shirt, likely swiped out of his drawer to hide the wound on his side. Why it hadn't made full registration in his mind before when the man talked of getting sliced by Jess' bullet, Slim didn't understand and wouldn't choose to dissect, for it was the present admission that made his teeth start to grind. The tightness in his jaw passed down his throat, making a noise that was too low to be audible, but it vibrated his entire being like he was a teakettle set over the hottest flame, about to erupt with a raucous burst of steam. And the explosion was boiling with a rage that couldn't be stopped. All it needed was one more pressure point before he would rupture.

"Lousy shirt from a lousy man. Oh well, he's met his end. I guess he knows now that he shouldn't have been playing with the big boys."

That was it. Slim looked down at the empty holster on his hip, but there wasn't an ounce of remorse that it wasn't there to aid him, for his body had just taken on more power than what was stuffed inside of a single bullet. He had three names poised to be ejected off of his tongue, ready to slam them down the outlaw's throat. In one swift motion, Slim lunged toward the killer, his hands outstretched, becoming the loaded weapon that could take the man to his death, but he wouldn't make it all the way to his neck.

"What're you trying to do?" The rifle was so close, if Slim would have puffed out a breath of air, it would have streamed right into the barrel. "Whatever it is, you're not very good at it. No clout. Get back where you were or you'll be less an ear."

During the steps that Slim took back to the log, he battled the back and forth debate if he shouldn't have stopped. A bullet would have taken him down, of this there was no doubt, but he could have still done damage, yet the winning argument came with an exclamation point that Slim's efforts wouldn't have been enough. As a victim of revenge, Slim knew he had jumped too soon, feeding off of the hatred instead of waiting for the proper time to let it take its course.

"Feeling less frisky?" The outlaw asked, lowering the rifle to rest over his knees, but his finger remained too close to the trigger for Slim to make a repeat of his challenge, at least for now.

"Maybe," Slim answered with a shrug, "maybe not."

"That's right. You keep trying to play a tough man," he laughed through his sarcastic jab, "see where it gets you."

"Who are you?" Slim immediately switched the subject, even though he knew if the answer was given, it wouldn't reduce the boiling level of his blood.

"Those in my business call me Rat."

Fitting name. Only someone like a disgusting rodent or a slithering snake could kill in such a manner. Repulsed, Slim slid his eyes away from the man, envisioning the boot of his heel grinding his venomous head to the ground even while the outlaw droned onward. It registered a minute later that Rat had added his entire handle while Slim's mind's sight had been at work. Kenny Ratkie. He had never seen a print up of him in any of the stacks of wanted posters that was delivered to the ranch or viewed on the bulletin boards at the sheriff's office, but if one could be made now, there would be no monetary size large enough to put out for his capture. It wouldn't have been necessary anyway, if Kenny Ratkie's death was going to belong to him.

"You better get some shuteye," he said, cutting into Slim's thoughts. "Don't worry about me, I can stay awake for the night, for tomorrow, we'll say goodbye."

Slim lowered his head to rest his jaw on a closed fist and slept. How, he would never understand, but what took zero contemplation upon wakening was that the searing of his soul was even hotter. Just one glance at the poison flowing from Rat's body made Slim's hands feel like iron, but he had already made that attempt, and failed. He had no other weapon to use. Or did he? The stagecoach sat quietly, its large presence looming over him as he walked to its front, and even though the only sound it could ever make would be the squeaks and rattles as it rumbled down the road, a whisper of an idea floated into his ear. Tracing his eyes over the entire coach, Slim gave a short nod. It was possible.

"Quit stalling and get those horses hitched," Rat barked, and Slim's teeth began to grind.

Revenge, that was a heated word that built itself on hatred, but even though that emotion was pumping hard through Slim's veins, it wasn't the only thing in existence there. Love still breathed, but those that it was given to could no longer feel its comforting hold. There was still the sense of right and wrong, as the core of Slim's character hadn't been completely abandoned, but the side of right was expanding with every heated breath, as how could it be wrong to rid the world of one of its most rotten men? It wasn't, but Slim knew it was how the end was constructed, and Slim might have a way right in front of him.

Rat was evil, a cold, heartless killer that knew no boundaries. He had to be stopped before he made another suffer the pain Slim was unable to endure. The words might not have been spelled out in exact form, but Rat had already indicated that he would be finished with Slim before the day's end, which would mean his death would be next. But what did that matter, except time to exact his revenge was limited? Slim was willing to die alongside of the killer, because he had no purpose to live. The ranch, his home, it no longer had importance when there was no one left to fill it. He had nothing to lose. Nothing. But he could win the final battle for his loved ones right here. His gaze tracing the lines of the stagecoach one more time as the intensity in his heart flared, Slim's final conclusion became securely grasped within his hands. He would do it.

Rat was close, but there wasn't enough scrutiny in his eyes to keep Slim's thoughts or his feet stilled. The horses were ready to be hitched, but Slim had one action to perform first. His hand on the pull pin, Slim slid it out of its confinement and let it fall to the ground, his toe finding it a moment later to scoot underneath a bush that was well at work in releasing its leaves, giving it a proper covering. There were two bolts attached to the braking rod, one higher, one underneath the coach, and it was the lower that Slim's fingers began to wiggle loose and once released, he gripped it tightly in his hand. It was thinner, and even though it could lock in the place of the pull pin, with enough force, it could easily work out of position, separating the coach from the horses. He slid it in place with a slap of his palm and then hitched the team. It was only at that completion when Rat's rifle bobbed close, letting the weapon be his words that it was time to go. A heavy breath worked in and out of Slim's lungs as both men topped the coach, adjusting the sound of his voice into one of harshness as he instructed the horses to begin the day's course, where it would end in their safety, but in two men's deaths.

A watchful eye on the fake pin and the road in front of him, Slim let a dim smile slide across his face when Rat pointed him on a different route. Slim hadn't been on the winding road in close to a year, but that didn't mean he was inexperienced with it. Nicknamed "Nightmare Pass" for a reason, the highest point was Harry's Peak, given by the man who had first trekked over the top, but below could have been named after anyone, for it was ground that had the potential to upend even the most stalwart stomach. Where the one side that the horses now tromped rose upward with more ease, the opposite was laden with sharp turns and drop offs that would take a man to his death in one single fall, and the team had just secured the peak under their hooves. Slim looked down at what lay ahead and nodded his head. With a firm slap to the reins against the horse's backs, the speed increased with a quadruple leap and every creak and rattle of the coach turned into a scream.

Halfway down the first stretch, the severe corner in full frontal view, the bolt sprang loose and with a jump from both animals and wheels, the horses were freed, their lives spared as their joined pace rushed like the wind, but it would be a different slap of air that would hit Slim's face. Aiming for the curve, the coach's wheels continued to roll with furious speed, but only two would be touching the ground as the corner was met. Slim gave one last look to the horses and then let his eyes latch onto his fate, for the ground underneath the stage had just been completed.

The fall began with a rifle blast and a scream, both coming from one man. The plummet was done in a spiral, but while the stagecoach came to a stop, two bodies had yet to find the bottom.