Chapter Sixteen

"I tell you, Aunt Daisy, you shoulda seen the frogs that live in the Campbell's pond. They're this big!"

She looked at the measure of Mike's hands and raised an eyebrow. "How big?"

"Well, maybe a little smaller. But you just wait, as soon as you're better, I'll go back over there and bring you the biggest one home. Then you'll see!"

Daisy tried to frown, but looking at Mike's beaming face, all she could create was a smile. "Oh, won't that be nice?"

"Uh-huh," he answered, watching as Daisy's lashes started to flutter. "You getting tired, Aunt Daisy?"

"A little."

"Jess told me not to wear you out," Mike said, the light going out of his face in one blink. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, Dear. Having you with me has been wonderful. I've cherished every moment, even the tired ones."

"I'll go get Jess. He told me to fetch him quick if you did anything worrisome."

"Oh, but Mike, I'm not…" she said, but it was too late to stop his boots from pounding the floor. And then something strange happened, before the door produced its usual slam, the boots made a pounding return. She looked at him running into her room, his cheeks being the color of snow. "What's wrong, Mike?"

"There's a man outside with Jess."

The fear in Mike spread to Daisy's veins in one leap. "What's he look like?"

"Is it all right if I say a bad word?"

"Well, no. But that's how you'd describe him, with a bad word?"

"I think so. He looks like the devil, straight outta…"

Hand over her mouth, Daisy gasped.

"But I didn't say it, Aunt Daisy!"

"I know you didn't. Are there other men with him?"

"Yes. I counted five altogether, and they sure look like they're straight outta…"

Eyes at their widest, she gasped again.

"I still didn't say it, Aunt Daisy!"

"I know, Mike. I just know who's out there, is all. It's Rip!"

He knew the man had to be an outlaw by hearing that name spoken in hushed tones among Slim and Jess, but seeing him with his own eyes, Mike knew Rip was something far worse. And he wasn't alone. There were four more along with him that had the same kind of severity about them. And they were out there with Jess.

Tears sprung into Mike's eyes. "What'll I do?"

"Get me Jess' gun."

"The special one?"

"Yes. Hurry. And bring me a box of bullets to load it with."

The shiny pistol in his clasp, Mike hesitated before handing it over. "You sure you don't want me to use it instead?"

"I'm sure I want you to obey me."

"Yes'm," said Mike, doing as told, but as he expected another order coming, he looked toward the nearest door. "You want me to hide in your closet?"

"Yes. Get into the far corner and pull the dresses so that they're covering you. And this is the most important part. You must not come out unless Slim, Jess or me tells you to. No matter what you hear, you are to stay put. Understand?"

"I do, Aunt Daisy. And I will."

"Good boy," she said, hugging the gun close to her as Mike crawled into her closet. But then as she tucked the gun under her bedding, she closed her eyes for the beginning of her earnest prayer. "Good Lord."

.:.

There was no running, not for the house to grab any kind of firearm, not even to flee in the opposite direction. It was true that Jess wasn't the kind of man that kicked up the dust under his feet at the first sign of danger, but anyone else might take the coward's way, especially when he knew what was coming for him, and by who would deliver it. Staring at each gun and the men that held them, Jess knew he wouldn't have a chance by himself. Even as a whole man Jess hadn't been able to win against Rip and his cohorts. They beat him, shot him, stabbed him, and now they were going to finish him. Since he wouldn't run, wouldn't beg for mercy, Jess stood his ground, the very dirt that would he would die upon.

"Somebody's been lying to me," said Rip, the evil glint in his eyes pure fire. "I don't like that."

As if he were polishing a rare gem, Toombs rubbed his knuckles against his sleeve. "What's the lie, Rip?"

"Harper can talk."

"I didn't…" whispered Jess, needing to push the rattle in his throat down with a swallow before his normal voice could ease out of his mouth again. "I didn't know it myself until a minute ago."

"Likely story. So does that mean your hand is just pretending to be lame?"

Jess shook his head. "It don't work."

"Let's see if that's the truth or just another lie. And remember, I don't like a filthy liar," Rip said as he tossed his six-gun at Jess' feet. "Pick it up."

"I can't."

"Prove it to me by picking it up."

Hungry for the death of his enemy and the gun that could do it, Jess' left hand reached out, but then a rifle's slug landed so close to his toes, Jess jumped. "Dadgum!"

The smoke curling out of the rifle floated over Rip's grinning face. "Nuh-uh. Right hand."

"I can't!

"Show me."

"All right, look!" Jess thrust his hand outward, exposing the scar, but also exposing the part that was the most telling, the shaking of each finger. "You oughta know I can't use it. You're the one that put the knife there."

Shucking his rifle into McKinley's clasp, Rip stretched out his arm and grabbed Jess by the wrist. Squeezing tightly, he rotated Jess' hand back and forth, finally leaving the palm up to where he could see the ugly mark, and touch it hard enough that he made his victim squirm.

Rip stared at the beads of sweat on Jess' forehead. "So I did. And it does look rather useless. Feels dead, too. All right, Harper, I believe you."

"Then let me go!"

"No."

"So kill me. It's what you came for, ain't it?"

"I did. But that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun with you first. You know what déjà vu means, Harper?" Not caring if there would be a nod or a shake of Jess' head, Rip watched the blue eyes across from him, it was when they flickered with fear's darkest shade that Rip offered the answer. "It's the sense that a body's already lived through something before. Except now, you won't live through it at all."

He picked up his pistol, making Jess expect the first blast to tear through his flesh, but it wouldn't be lead coming for him, not when the iron found its seat inside of Rip's holster. With a growing grin, Rip balled his fist and put the blow into Jess' belly. The next was even rougher, crashing with enough strength into Jess' chin that he bowed toward the ground. He would get there, courtesy of Rip's boot when the outlaw connected with Jess' ribs.

Rolling with the pain, Jess sensed Rip stepping back before he actually saw the leading outlaw's short retreat. But this didn't mean it was over. No, it was just the cruel beginning of getting beat close to death. Or maybe this time, like Rip said, they really would go all the way.

Three out of five men on him, a burst of blood shot out of Jess' nose at the strike to his face. While he would have liked to give that particular man a proper payback, there were too many fists and boots rearing up and then falling into his flesh to know which face to break. Lashing out at the closest, Jess made contact as he kicked upward, flattening one man to his back. But where two men pummeling his hide should have been easier to take than three, Jess' retaliation only made the fight worse. Now he was being tromped on by a buffalo.

The hooves were on his back, in his side, damaging each hip and then the wild animal roared back for the hardest blow of all. Toombs was aiming for his head.

"Hold it."

Up to his hands and knees, blood flowed through Jess' haggard pant. "What for?"

"Toombs should know better than to kill you. That's my reward."

"Speaking of which," Jess said, swiping at the bubbles of red around his mouth. "Whattya suppose the number over your head's gonna be?"

"Who says I'll get a poster made? Haven't yet."

"You'll get one."

Rip's hands went wide. "Only if there's a witness. So far, I see none. Do you?"

Jess shook his head, but even through the blood marring his face, the bruises swelling both eyes, he couldn't shake away the truth, the pure fear that was making a deeper imprint over his being than any wound could do. And Rip saw it, read it, and understood it too.

Turning toward the house, Rip tilted his head. "Or maybe there is one. Bisbee, go into the house. Shoot anyone you find."

"No!" Jess attempted to rise, until a rifle's tip went into his hair. "You only want me. Kill me!"

"You heard the order, Bisbee. Now do it."

"No!" The shout straining his vocal chords, the tail end of his cry turned into a squeak, or maybe it was a whimper, the prelude to his grief. Daisy had survived one of their bullets, but the second, that would be the end. And what of Mike? "Dear God, no."

Rip laughed. "I had no idea you were a praying man, Harper. You know that about him, Corbett?"

"Nope." Corbett turned with his reply, making the rifle's business end rest against air instead of Jess' scalp. "He must've changed over the years. That might be an interesting twist to add to the storytelling. How Harper fell to his knees in great petition, only for the man upstairs to ignore his hour of need."

The gunshot interrupted the laughter, shifting every gaze to the house. Jess stared the longest, lips quivering in anger, but also in terror as he waited for the second shot. There would be no other blast. Only one. A single bullet, a single death.

"Well, it seems someone was home," Rip said, putting his hat over his heart in mock remorse.

Jess refused to show that there was someone else inside the house by shaking his head. He didn't even want to think of it himself, but his brain couldn't focus on anything else. With Daisy stuck in bed, she couldn't escape, couldn't even hide. If that made Daisy the victim, then where was Mike?

Rip having his own questions, he bellowed toward the open door. "Bisbee, what's taking you so long? Bisbee!"

Toombs' mouth twisted upward. "Maybe he's laying flowers over the dearly departed."

Hat back on his head, Rip tossed his point toward the door. "Go in, Toombs. Find out what's keeping him."

"You know what he's probably done? Bisbee's probably found a pot on the stove. And I'm the one that's starving! Bisbee, if you've taken more than your share then I'm gonna…"

Whatever threat Toombs was going to offer the man would never make it past his lips. A bullet screaming out of the hillside landing in Toombs' shoulder, the big hand cupped the sudden heat. Staggering toward the porch rail, it was only for the bending of his frame into the support post that the second bullet missed him.

A bullet leapt from Rip's gun, but it was obvious that it had no real aim, and no solid hit. "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know, Rip." McKinley moved his gun slowly back and forth. "Can you see anything?"

"No. But there's someone out there, all right. You still breathing, Toombs?"

"I'll live, but I'd sure like to know who shot me, so I can pay him back in kind."

"There shouldn't be anyone out there. Unless…"

"Unless what, Rip?" asked McKinley, still searching, still ready to fire.

"I downed Sherman, so there's no threat of his return. There's no doubt that Toombs knows his business." Rip's glare shifted toward Corbett. "I shoulda never sent a newcomer to do a killing!"

"He is dead, Rip. Honest! The man was nipping from a bottle so he was easy to sneak up on. I dented his skull in. I even checked for a pulse. He's dead! I swear!"

Jess looked away from the group of killers and lowered his lashes. He hadn't been able to put a name over the other guard until now. The simple act of whiskey going down his throat was description enough to tell Jess that it was Charlie Frost's grave needing to be dug. If there was any comfort in that knowledge, then Jess could think that no one was going to have to ride to the Allen's homestead today and break the news to his wife and children. But there was little comfort in any of this. A friend was still dead. And so might Daisy be.

The blur would have grown over his eyes until something hot squeezed out, but movement low to the ground dried the heavy mist. McKinley seeing the same scenery, he fired a round into the brush. The bullet not catching anything other than ground, he let another one fly. It was silent afterward, but death's stillness it was not.

Toombs slid his weight into a porch chair. "Did you get him?"

McKinley shook his head. "Don't think so."

"I didn't hear a cry out," said Rip, giving his chin a rub. "Then again, none of us heard his step in."

They were staring into the brush as if there was a ghost out there. Jess couldn't answer for the group of outlaws, but he knew not to believe in such things. It was a real man, with a real gun, and a real vengeance to put this gang into their graves. Jess only wished he knew which name to put on him.

Slim or Bill Bates. One of the two had to have escaped their death. One of the two was out there. But there was also the possibility that they really were dead. After all, Jess had watched Slim fall. It could have been someone else riding by on the road, stopping for a visit, coming over to help guard the Sherman front door. Mort Cory came to mind. A few other neighbor names, too. While there hadn't been another shot, whoever was on the other side of that gun had already invited himself to the kind of party where there were no winners. And the losers would be buried on boot hill.

Even with somebody on his side, Jess fully expected to reach that lonesome ground. There were too many guns close to him. And while Jess couldn't feel the hot breath of a gun barrel against his skin anymore, Rip, McKinley, Corbett, even Toombs moaning over his wound, they all could shift their weapons at any second toward him.

Jess figured that was why another bullet didn't come running to kill or waylay Rip or any of his team. If the rescuer sent too many bullets into the group, one would retaliate with the finality of death. Jess' death. Apparently Rip had the same thought himself. But living inside of the devil's mind, the reaction could only be worse.

"Corbett, you fool! Why'd you take your aim away from Harper? That's how the bullet was able to sneak in and hit Toombs, because you let your guard down."

"It's not far, Rip," Corbett answered, moving the gun back in Jess' direction.

"No," shouted Rip, his stride taking him to where Jess half lay on the ground. "Get outta the way, Corbett, I'll do it myself. You just might accidentally let a bullet go and wind up with the status of killing Harper. That belongs to me."

"I coulda been buried with moss growing into my stone the way you go at it, Rip."

"You'll get there yet, Harper. But first I wanna know who's out there."

"No one's gonna surrender to you."

"You're wrong, Harper. This gun sitting against your ear is all it'll take for whoever's out there to surrender. Watch and see. Stand up, right now! Or does Harper get triggered?"

"You ain't gonna. You know you gotta shoot whoever's out there first, otherwise the moment you kill me, you're a dead man."

Rip's eyes darted back and forth, searching for any kind of movement. The other three outlaws were likely doing the same. Jess didn't have to dizzy his gaze by looking over every inch of the hillside. There was only one place that Jess was staring into the brush. There was no outline of the man. He couldn't see size, height or even the color of his shirt. But somehow Jess had a connecting line, straight to a pair of blue. Slim.

He knew the moment Jess saw him. It was the same shared feeling as the very first attack against Jess' body. Looking at each other now, Slim saw that Jess' eyes were still holding onto their flames. Slim's had to be alive with a similar spark as he held onto his partner in the only way possible. Maybe that wasn't true. Slim had one more thing to hold onto, a rifle in his hands.

He wanted to kill Rip. At this very moment and when he let the earlier pair of bullets loose, he wanted to kill that man. But he had to make a choice, a difficult choice. Slim couldn't let Buffalo go inside. Like the others, Slim had only heard a single shot. He knew there should have been two in the house, two that would fall to the depravity of this group of outlaws. If Buffalo saw the other one, perhaps the littlest one, there would be no mercy given, only death. With the big man at the door, right before Slim pulled the trigger, Slim tried to search Jess' face, to know which man he should take down, but he didn't need to. Slim knew what Jess would tell him. Mike and Daisy came first. Always.

He might have made a decent hit into Buffalo's hide, but now Slim was stuck. He couldn't offer a piece of lead to any of the others or Jess would die. Rip was demanding him to surrender or Jess would die. But if he did lower his gun and stand, Slim knew that a bullet from one of the other men would split his body in half. He wouldn't get to see it happen, but Slim knew what would come a moment later. Jess would die. No matter what Slim chose to do, Jess was going to die.

"What'll it be?" Rip barked as he pushed his iron deeper into Jess' flesh. "I'll be killing him no matter what, so it's either right now or a minute later."

His teeth in a tight grind against his lip, Slim lowered his head and barely gave it a nod. There was truth in what Rip said. Hard and cold it sat against Slim's heart, but there was another piece of truth there too, and it had the heat of a raging wildfire. While everything that had wandered through Slim's head spoke of Jess' immediate death, there was one other thing to consider. Rip said it himself, but it would be in Slim's hand to do. If he played this right, he could prolong Jess' final breath a minute longer. Or, please God, as long as possible.

"All right, Rip," Slim said, tossing the rifle away from him and then let his six-gun go the same route. "I'm hurt so I can't stand to where you'll see me. But you saw the rifle, saw the pistol. I'm not longer a threat."

Jess' body jerked against the iron's tip. "No, Slim, don't!"

"I'm sorry, Jess. I have to."

Jess turned his face toward his enemy and offered a heartfelt plea. "Let him go, Rip. You don't need him."

"You're right, I don't. But I think Toombs would say different."

Toombs stood so fast that the rocking chair bounced against the wall of the house, and immediately crashed into pieces. "You bet I'd say different! You'll let me have him, won't you, Rip?"

"You able to fetch him down here?"

"I'll make myself able!"

Pulling his hand away from the wound to ball it into a fist, Toombs marched in a steady line to where Sherman lay in the brush. It would make his shoulder feel better to put all of his strength into that fist, pounding so hard into Sherman's skull that he would drop into oblivion and never make a return to light. But then with open fingers, he spread his hand outward and the other hand followed. It also could be relaxing to hear the coughing sputter through Sherman's lips as Toombs choked him to death. Or maybe he should just forget about using his personal strength. He had bullets in his gun. Why not tattoo each of Sherman's limbs, one by one and then finish off dead center, right between his eyes?

That last part being the most enticing, Toombs ripped the gun away from his side as he reached Sherman, but then it made a fast retreat.

"I said bring him on down here."

Toombs turned toward Rip's irritated call. "I thought you said I could have him first?"

"No. I just said for you to bring him down here."

"Nice boss you have there," said Slim, sarcasm so thick it dripped off of his tongue. But then his blood would make the same fall, except this came from his lips. A slap across his mouth split both top and bottom wide. "You could be your own man, you know. Make your own decisions, decide your own fate."

Hands on his shirt, Toombs lifted Slim completely off of the ground. "That hit I gave you shows you that I can. And I will do more."

"But first you have to obey Rip."

Let go, Slim's boots hit the ground, but a firm push prevented them from standing still. Walking down the remaining hillside, with each nudge into his back Slim's stride stretched longer and longer. The abrupt stop was forced by McKinley's weapon, but Slim could have said the same about Rip's eyes. They were searing into him like they were their own set of bullets, going straight into his face.

Rip stared into the steely blue for a long length before giving his head a shake. "I don't understand you, Sherman. You can stand just fine. You lied about being hurt."

"So."

"So? What did you expect to gain?"

"Time."

Rip laughed, but seeing the serious expression across from him, he quickly sobered. "Whose time?"

"Jess'."

"Then you don't care about how much time you have left?"

"I care, but I'd rather see that Jess stays alive."

Rip looked down to where his gun was keeping Jess held hostage and then back up to Sherman's stare. "You really wanna see Harper live?"

Slim nodded.

"Then that's exactly what we'll do," Rip said, the wicked grin going into place. "Toombs, grab Sherman. McKinley, hang onto him too, just like you did before. Seems to me we left off somewhere along memory lane, right where Harper was about to take his first bullet."

Gun coming away from Jess' body, Rip sensed the attempted rise and crashed his fist into the side of Jess' cheek. That would keep him down, settled in place for the bullet that would find him. Now, if he could remember which one had made the first offering, then his gun could perform a repeat. Looking into the blood that drained from Jess' cheek onto his shoulder was the only reminder needed.

"Number one is a bullet for your arm, Harper," Rip said, aligning the point of his gun. When he found the proper place, he pulled the trigger, making his victim thrash with pain. "Catch your breath, Harper. The next one's coming for your chest."

"Jess!"

He tried to lunge with his shout. With Slim's arms pinned behind him, tighter than how a calf was contained when planting a blazing brand on its hip, he didn't get far. Rolling both shoulders, Slim tried to fling the men off of his back. There might have been success in one. A thinner man, not from age, just having an extra wiry kind of body, was holding onto his left side. It was the man on his prominent right that wouldn't easily be broken free. Slim knew that he was part buffalo.

But Slim suddenly shook his head, so hard that the past wasn't controlling his present anymore. While it felt the same, looked even closer, it wasn't the same. Buffalo was injured, which gave the big man a weakness. Corbett had replaced an earlier man, and while there was definite clout about him, Corbett didn't seem to be the kind of outlaw that could scare a man of Slim's caliber. And they were down a man. Right now. Bisbee had gone into the house and never made a return. That left the thin man, now labeled properly as McKinley. But just by the feel of him against his back, Slim knew he could easily shuck him from his frame. All he needed was the right momentum, and he had it. It was right in front of him in the shape of Rip, getting ready to shoot Jess in his chest.

Balling his left hand into a knot, Slim jutted his elbow into the flat stomach, knocking McKinley backward far enough that Slim could swing his body. Turning, he landed his prepared fist into McKinley's jaw. By the volume of the crack, if Slim didn't do more than splinter his bone, he would have been surprised. But a mere fracture or a shattered bone didn't matter, the fact that McKinley toppled over did. With one down, that left Slim to face the buffalo.

He had wanted this moment almost as badly as facing Rip at gunpoint. Since Slim had been struck by Buffalo's hooves more than once, he knew what would be coming for him. Maybe his expression should already be in a tight pinch for how his jaw and ribs would feel after getting thrashed, but the lines around Slim's mouth were slightly raised. He wasn't going to go down this time, no matter how many times his jaw and ribs were struck. Slim was going to give back to Buffalo everything that was due him. And he started with a hard jab into his nose.

Slim's knuckles getting split with the strike, he shook his fist loose to release some of the blood, and then snuck his left fist in to gouge Buffalo's cheek. The hot air out of the man's mouth spoke of his fury, as did the deep punch that must have turned Slim's entire stomach over. He bent with the blow, momentarily cradling the tenderness, but as he came back up, both fists rose with his frame and swung for the scruffy chin. The man's timing perfect, Toombs backpedaled so that the doubled fists only struck air. It was only fair that Buffalo offered the same kind of strike in return. Except Toombs didn't miss.

Every part of his body vibrating with the hit, Slim put his palm against his head to try to still the intense rattle, but his hand couldn't perform as well as what the ground could do. The next hit making Slim sprawl to the dirt, he looked at the heaving buffalo through wavering vision. If he took another belt like that, Slim knew he would never get up again.

Slim had been in a fight like this before. He lost. But if there hadn't been a cheater on the other side of the ring, Slim would have been the one with fist raised high in the air with a saloon full of men shouting his name. Even though he had been the one the referee counted out the grueling ten seconds over, Slim had won the hearts, and wallets, of most of the miners there. If only he could bring to mind some of their chants. It could lift him back up, put a spring back in his step, and make his left jab and his right bring home the victory.

Of all the encouraging voices Slim would choose to have inside of his memory, it wouldn't be Rip's. Yet he heard him, but it didn't make Slim's mouth narrow for a lengthy spit. In that echo was his answer.

Catch his weak spot!

Looking at the bloodied shoulder his opponent wore, Slim nodded as he rose from the ground. It was his best bet, his only shot. Taking a deep breath, Slim lunged for Buffalo and at the hit to the large frame, they both crashed into the dirt.

Rolling once so that Slim was on top, he pressed his hand into the wound and squeezed. Buffalo not only looked like one, he sounded like one too. The bellow through his mouth was the added strength Slim needed. Forming a fist, Slim slammed the rock against the beard. It was the third strike that made the lashes drop, the fourth was just for good measure, but it did the final trick. Toombs' head turning into the dirt, his tongue lolled out, just like a buffalo would do at death.

He knew the big man wasn't dead, but being out was good enough. That made one less man to battle, but the next would be coming so quick, Slim would never get to count how many men were left. Seeing Corbett make a move with his gun, Slim reached for Toombs' holster and got the weapon pointed and the trigger pulled before Corbett's lead could strike him first.

It was only because of the direction of Corbett's fall that Slim's eyes found Rip. Somewhere in the ringing of his ears, in the stinging of his skin, Slim had missed the gunshot that put a circle of blood over Jess' heart. Slim's eyes leaping to Jess' shirt, he didn't see red's angriest shade anywhere but on Jess' sleeve. He had been wrong, Slim hadn't missed the blast, but in that particular glance, he did miss something.

It was Jess' gasp that brought the picture into perfect focus.

The gun that would have put the fearful hole in Jess' chest was no longer in Rip's clasp. A knife was held there instead. While he had threatened to recreate the original scene, Rip wasn't going for the same sequence anymore. No bullet in Jess' chest, none marring his cheek or stabbing inside his neck, Rip was going straight for the hand.

"Jess!"

The weapon in his hand screaming to be fired, begging to kill, Slim's thumb caught the hammer, his finger found the trigger, but then a pair of thin arms wrapped around his front. If that was all, Slim could have still put a bullet where he wanted one to go, but a rising knee caught his elbow, knocking the gun's aim to the sky. The blast could do nothing to silence Jess' scream.

Caught in McKinley's embrace wasn't enough to still him, but shock and fear were using their own strength to make Slim freeze long enough to watch Rip pull the knife free from Jess' flesh. The blood dripping from the blade, its steady fall went back to the hand that it poured from. It was then that Jess' agony must have hit, for pulling his legs up to his belly, tucking his hand into the same, Slim watched his partner writhe. There was even worse torture in this scene. Jess wasn't cupping his crippled right into his middle, he was cradling his left.

Rip had taken the change in their memories one step further. He stabbed Jess' only good hand.

"Jess!"

His fury able to throw McKinley from his frame, Slim spun in time to see the man's fingers drop to the pistol at his side. Slim didn't let it clear leather. The bullet tearing through his flesh, it grew a pool of blood over his middle, but it did something more. It gave McKinley a short step to the place where he met his Maker, and then knowing what his Maker's response would be, McKinley would take another step, a longer one, a hotter one, an eternal one down below.

There was only one left. Knowing who he was about to face, Slim took a deep breath and turned.

The man had watched two of his companions die, another one get knocked into darkness, but by the grin he was wearing, it appeared that Rip loved every moment of this, and what was to come, loved it even more.

The way Slim held his gun toward Rip's chest, the same description could have been printed over Slim's name. With Slim's cheeks glowing, his tongue close to performing an excited pant, there really was no questioning the reason of the sudden change in his demeanor. It was only natural since he knew how it felt, that Rip would point out this very detail.

"You should see yourself, Sherman," Rip hissed through his teeth. "You look just like me. Maybe that means you'll act just like me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Rip raised his arms in the shape of surrender. "Kill me."

"Oh, how I'd like to."

"Then do it. Pull the trigger. Murder me."

The gun stretched a few inches closer to his target with the straightening of his arm, but that's as close as the bullet would come to striking Rip's flesh. He had been here before, mostly during one of his dreams, but with each longing to be the one to put Rip inside of his grave, he hadn't murdered the man. There was always a fight, a proper fight. It was only Slim's hatred mixed with his sincerest wish that always made Slim come out as the winner.

But if Slim pulled the trigger now, he would live the rest of his life at the same low-lying level as the man that was daring him to shoot. He wouldn't pull the trigger, at least not this way.

The head across from him starting to shake, Rip's hand started to lower. As he watched the honesty, the goodness that built Slim into the man that he was, Rip had his chance to lower it all the way. Pulling his gun, he landed a bullet along Slim's wrist and the iron grew wings as it flew away from his clasp. Since there was no honesty, no goodness that built Rip into the man that he was, he thumbed the hammer back to ready his weapon for the next blow, the final bullet between them.

"Now." Rip nodded, stepping toward Slim, raising the gun to eye-level. "I'll do this right."

The gun from Slim's hand quickly giving up its flight, somehow it landed just beyond the tip of Jess' nose. Startled by its clank, Jess' muscles jumped, but then he went completely still. All that moved was his breaths as he stared at the pistol, but with every push out of his parted lips, the air grew hotter, the intakes came faster, the heaving swelled larger. Rip's death was right there in front of him. But in one blink, Jess' gaze rose. So was Slim's.

There hadn't been enough practice to call Jess' left hand good. Decent, maybe, but not where perfection mattered. The knife's entry and swift exit would reduce any learned skill to zero. But he had to lift the gun, drop the hammer and pull the trigger. He had to! Slim was about to die.

Reaching for the iron, Jess' teeth ground together. Pain was already trying to stop his effort, but Jess' hand continued its stretch until he put his fingers around the handle. They worked, but not well enough to put a strong grip into his palm. And then there was the blood. Flowing over Jess' knuckles, he couldn't make his finger find the trigger. He had to! Slim was about to die.

Desperation, or maybe it was hope that made Jess look at his right hand. It was shaking, he could see it, but it wasn't dead. He knew it could work. After successfully picking up Doctor Sweeney's tongue depressor, in secret Jess had tried objects with more weight. While he hadn't found the bravery to pick up a gun yet, he had held a fork, used his razor, he had even put his finger through the handle of a coffee cup and lifted. Through the pain that lived with his scar, it was calling him to pick it up, to put the iron inside of his grip. But maybe it was doing more than shouting its desire, his hand was proving it all on its own. Like Doc had observed with the involuntary movement of Jess' fingers, they were doing the same now. Stretching toward the gun handle, his thumb rose to be in the exact position to drop the hammer, his finger that held the trigger was making the proper curl. Every part of his crippled hand was ready to grab the gun. Every part of his being was ready to kill Rip.

His fingers reaching the gun, the handle slid into his palm. The hammer going down, Jess' finger spread around the trigger. Raising the barrel away from the ground, all that was left in this battle was what every gunman needed to walk away when the smoke settled. A level head, a steady hand, and a good measure of dumb luck. Jess would add one more thing to this list. Calling out his enemy.

"Rip!"

Every breath held, Jess waited for the turn, and the moment he saw the gun's point change from Slim's flesh to his, Jess' finger pulled the trigger. At the explosive blast, Rip's back went rigid as the bullet slammed into his chest, but there would be no sudden fall. Staggering, Rip's mouth widened to a grin, but there was a difference in the expression that made everyone that met the man fear him. The evil glint that lived inside of his vision was gone. It was as if the man's eyes had already died, but his body had yet to catch up. His gun hand, too. That part of him refused to give in to the grave.

"You'll die with me, Harper," he said, searching through his growing darkness to put Jess inside of the same ground as he. "I will not go out without the final say!"

Slim's hands knotted together, he dropped them against Rip's skull. "Not when I'm here."

Wearing a bullet, a bludgeon, Rip bent toward the ground, his head nodding even further. While the pain had reason to do this and more, the folding of his flesh was only a ruse. Sensing a step go backward, watching the opposing gun lower, this would be his last attempt to have Jess' life end before his. The bullet prepared, his finger went for the trigger.

Jess was faster, but before Rip opened death's door and stepped inside, Rip's gun would still offer the final strike.

"Jess!"

His partner's call pulled him away from darkness. Feeling death's weight so close it was suffocating him, Jess pushed upward, trying to keep the tombstone away. He couldn't do it alone. Slim's hands digging into Rip's shirt, he rolled the dead body off of Jess.

Opening his eyes, he found the color that expelled all black. "Slim."

"Easy, Jess."

His hand stretched for his temple. "What happened?"

"Rip's gun hit you in the head," Slim answered, staring at Rip's lifeless frame. "Not a bullet, though. Only the iron. Wait, don't try to get up yet."

"I gotta. I gotta know that you're all right."

"I'm fine, Jess. You're the one that's shot." Slim looked to the blood on his sleeve, but then his eyes dove to the blood on his hand. His heart sank just as fast. "Your hand!"

Opening it wide, Jess then folded his fingers down. "It ain't nothing like the other, Slim. My hand was balled into a fist when he struck it. Rip couldn't to more than cut me."

"Are you sure? You're so pale."

"It ain't nothing but memories. Trust me. My hand ain't stabbed all that bad. And the bullet in my arm, dadgum, I reckon I won't remember it tomorrow. So lemme up, will you?"

His hands on Jess' shoulders, Slim helped his partner rise. "You sure you're all right?"

"Dadgum, how many times do I gotta say it?"

"As many times until I'm sure."

"Well, I'm sure about myself, but I ain't so sure about you. How in all this dadgummed world didn't you get shot when you rode in here? I saw you fall outta the saddle."

"I heard your voice. You warned me in the nick of time. You know, he's not a very good aim when it comes to headshots. Rip's bullet took my hat off, nothing more."

"Dadgum."

"Jess, did you know you could talk above a whisper?"

"No. I've been stuck in a raspy tone so long, I reckon I never thought to try anything louder until I had to."

"Thanks, Pard."

He was whispering within a month and shouting within two.

"Thank somebody named Woodruff instead."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Say, Slim. When you told Rip you wanted time, what were you waiting for anyway?"

"The stagecoach," answered Slim, looking up to the ridge. "But wouldn't you know? It's overdue."

"Good thing. There ain't no coffee on."

The thought making both men's eyes grow wide, it was only natural that their voices cried in unison. "Daisy!"

With a moan coming from the ground, Slim put his borrowed gun in a precise aim all over again. "You go, Jess. I'll keep Buffalo from making another scene."

Jess ran into the house, skidding to a halt at Bisbee's dead body lying in the doorway of Daisy's bedroom. "Daisy!"

Her voice was quick assurance. "I'm all right, Jess."

"Daisy!" His shout took him all the way in and he fell to his knees beside her bed.

"Oh, Jess. I was so afraid!"

"I was just about to say the same about you!" Jess buried his head into her hair so she couldn't feel the rain, lest a drop or two fell from his eyes. "You're all right?"

"Yes. A little out of breath and a lot more than that in shakiness, but I'm all right."

Pulling back, Jess looked at the Bible lying across her lap. "You thump that fella out with that?"

She laughed. "No. Believe it or not, I shot him. But he didn't die right away so I felt sorry for him. After awhile of hearing his haggard breaths, I read Psalm twenty-three over him. I had just got to the part about goodness and mercy when I heard you scream. I stopped so abruptly I never finished. I think Mr. Bisbee died right about then. I'm afraid he never got to receive his goodness and mercy."

"No." Jess held up his hand, his right hand that had been declared dead, but then had been granted the kind of mercy to pick up a gun, aim and fire it again. "But I did."