The Mort Cory Gang: The Final Battle
Chapter One
She pulled open the paper, an article that had been read, stared at, seethed over and wadded up on multiple occasions. Glancing at its front for perhaps the hundredth time, and then with a forcefulness deemed unnaturally strong for feminine hands, she crashed the paper between both palms, rolling it together until it looked like a crinkled ball. But unlike all of the other times when it would get dropped into the wastebasket beside her bedside, only to be picked up later in the day to receive the same harsh treatment, she bounced the wad once in her hand before chucking it across the room where it landed in the fireplace. The dimming coals wrapped its heat around the circumference for a minute, the gasping breaths of the previous night's fire trying to grow enough of a flame to devour its latest fuel, but the tightly rolled paper would only darken in one corner, barely enough to create a wisp of smoke as the red sparks underneath were snuffed out.
The flames inside of her chest were several notches redder, and in thorough disgust, she yanked the blankets off of her legs, her nightgown sliding around her ankles as she slid off of the bed, giving the floor a sampling of her fury with each stomp that it took to reach the fireplace. Thrusting the poker into the coals, she stirred until the ashes swirled up around her, drifting over hair that was already turning gray, but her attempts were only making the last of the fire grow colder, and her anger hotter. Taking the poker into hand, the appearance now as if she were brandishing a sword, she thrust the tip into the balled-up paper, the next reaction being not what was expected. Like a pool ball had been struck with a cue, the paper bounced off the back of the brick wall, rolled across the bedroom floor, coming to a stop near the wastebasket that had housed the abused paper for nearly two months.
"What's it going to take to make you die?" She shouted the question at the lifeless paper as she picked it up in her hands. Quickly unraveling it, she stared at the wrinkled name on its front, muttering it to herself before her voice found a similar volume she had used before. "You're supposed to die!"
Unable to leave the paper in an open state, her hands crumpled it back into its round form, letting it slip out of uncaring fingers to the floor. She then began to pace, the intense fury in her core needing release, but she knew that the back and forth motion across her bedroom couldn't completely cure her deeply embedded wrath, even if she repeated it a hundred times. She had reason to hate, reason to let it fester to a point where it embittered her, and reason enough to see that resentment all the way to its end.
A knock on her closed bedroom door made her head whip around toward its knob, the frown on her face intensifying at the unwelcome disturbance on its other side, making the response through her lips a harsh trio of snapping. "What is it?"
"Pardon me," the quiet voice on the other side answered and not without a tell-tale quiver from a frail body that was also doing its fair share of shaking. "But you have callers. There are two gentlemen out front to see you."
"Send them in," she raked a hand through her waist-length hair and then took up the lilac-colored negligee that was draped over a chair, tying it around her middle as she exited her room.
Hearing the voice of her maid welcoming the visitors made her pause at the top of the stairs to look down at the two men as they entered through the front door, and even though a smile didn't form at her mouth, a satisfied look settled over her features. Although they were men that she had never met, she was as grateful to see them as if they were a couple of friends from her childhood coming to call. She had been waiting for them, for far too long it seemed like. Her feet on the stairs as she descended made both hats come off of their heads, and one was heavily scrutinizing her appearance, in a positive way, she noted, even if she was old enough to be his mother. He wasn't half-bad to look at himself, with dark hair, haunting blue eyes and a chiseled jaw that likely matched what was hidden underneath his shirt, except, this wasn't why they were here, even if she was a widow with no attachments.
When the lilac lace ruffled around her feet as she came to a stop, she gave a distinct look to the maid that sent the petite white-haired woman scurrying off to the kitchen to hide behind its secure wall. Her focus now complete on the two men in front of her, the handsome one offered his hand, but she refused it, using her hands instead to clasp onto each other. She let her dark eyes absorb both men, and not just by their attractiveness, but from the way they were dressed, their guns attached to their hips, and the non-disheveled look about them, even though they each wore a layer of dust from shoulder to toe. On them, it was viewed as natural, not appalling. They would do.
"I was told you're the best," she said, her voice lost of its earlier sharpness, now coming out as if honey could drip from her tongue.
"We are," the answer didn't come through lips coated with fire either, but as the tone was soft, there was still the dark undertones that backed up the statement.
"Good," she nodded, her feet making a move for the desk in the corner. She took a chain off of her neck, the sunlight through a partly curtained window catching the glint of a key before she inserted the small design into the top drawer. Inside, her fingers found an envelope, and for the first time since the woman had entered the room, the two men's gazes were changed, now wrapped fully on what was in her hand. "Now, you understand that this is only the first part of what you'll get."
"Of course" and "sure" came out in an almost unison reply.
"The largest portion will come when the job is finished," she said, handing the envelope to the man that had immediately won her favor, "and maybe more if it's handled more brilliantly than I expect. I do expect that it will be, you know. I've suffered too much and have waited too long for this to happen and it must be perfectly orchestrated."
"It will be," the confidence from the tallest man's reply seeped into the air and curled around her frame and she tightened the soft fabric closer as if she were hugging its comfort to her middle.
"When will you get started?" She asked with the first hint of authority in her voice that made it quite clear from that moment who was the boss. She was, all the way, and not because she held onto their final allotment of money.
"Today," the smile across from her made her heart thump extra hard, but she couldn't allow a glimpse of sparkling teeth disrupt her quest.
"Very well," she answered, her steps taking her toward the stairway, a clear sign for the men's dismissal.
"We'll be in touch," the same voice that spoke of their quick response said as the hats were replaced on their heads. "Good day, Mrs. Monroe."
When the door sounded its closure, she produced the first smile that her face had seen in a lengthy time, keeping it in place as she climbed the stairway to her bedroom. It was about to be done. Her weeks of planning, searching, and waiting were about to find fulfillment. She stepped toward the bedroom window, her fingers pulling aside the curtain far enough to see the retreating frames of the two riders. They were being true to their word. Starting today. It was made obvious by the direction they were heading, as the faded trail from her lonely house in the hills wound southerly, connecting to the road that would lead to Laramie. When the two men turned to dots in the grassy knolls below, she turned away from the window, her eyes immediately finding the wadded paper on the floor and she took the few necessary steps to stand over its ill presence. Bending slightly, she picked it up in her hand, its fragility showing as she pulled it out of its tight crumple, little tears stretching wider across the creases as the paper spread open.
"Finally," she said to the paper's faded print, her voice quiet, but thick with the animosity that lived in her veins, "you're going to die."
Releasing it from her fingers, the paper fluttered to the ground, its tattered edges spread apart far enough to reveal its contents. There might have been some wrinkles across the entire page, a tear or two that marred some of the bolded lettering, but it couldn't disguise its purpose. It was a wanted poster, and underneath the sizeable sum that had once been offered was the printed text of her target, the very subject of her abhorrence. Now that the hiring had taken place, it would no longer be the paper itself that would see her wrath, but the name, and even more than that, the very men behind it, were now destined for a grave.