Chapter 12

6:3-4

"You and your brothers have always been such idiots! I ain't quite know which of you is worse these days." The bespectacled visage of an elderly woman went on. Wrapped about her head was her usual bonnet. Her aged fair face showed many lines and wrinkles, and about her brow were deep creases and caverns. Formed from long rants and diatribes imposed upon others for their apparent stupidity or otherwise lack of expected finesse in any given situation.

"We hear you, Mama." One of the boys in the little shack, her home, spoke. There were four, all of them brothers and sons of the elder woman all simply called 'Mama.' The one who spoke had a thick blackened beard on his face and a head full of equally dark strands, he was Edgar. Edgar Watson. Sat with him and Mama were Ezra, Ethan and Elijah. All rather burly boys, all with facial hair, and all of them with heads down turned as they listened to Mama on another one of her rants.

"You hear, but none of you boys have ear enough to listen! All these years I've tried to say something, give easy instruction, but you boys keep on with your heads up in them clouds."

"We try, Mama!" Elijah, like his brother Edgar, had a face layered in hair. His of a more ruddy reddish look. He wore a sweater of red and black and he jumped at the opportunity to assuage their Mama's oft heard complaints.

Mama Watson sat on her chair cast him a pursed-lipped scowl. Her creased lines pinching together as she laid down the little cloth in her hands and the knitting needles too. Up here hidden among the trees of West Elizabeth, nestled near enough the foothills that led to the Grizzlies the Watson cabin lay in relative peace. A small coup of chickens were penned just outside with a donkey, well fed as he was, grazing on the grasses readily available around. A small trail, hardly noticeable led one off and on the property slightly elevated upon a hill all its own. The cabin was...more a shack. Shabby and not all too well kept. Years had worn away at it and it began to languish. The boys, all of them, at times fought with Mama to have her move. Get someplace nearer a town. Maybe Strawberry or even Valentine over in New Hanover. But, Mama weren't ever one to listen.

"Elijah you're damn near the dumbest of all your brothers! Don't try now and sound or act smart! I said none of you listen and none of you do! So don't try and argue with me now, ya' hear me?"

"Yes...I mean, I think so, Mama." Elijah relented. Sighing as he did. Mama gave a snooty nod.

"That's better, boy. Now, what have you boys brought me to hold onto today?" Mama, quick as she was to verbally tear her boys down, turned so quickly towards the matter of business at hand. Mama Watson, sour and little an old woman as she was and so seemed on the outside, hid from them as happened upon her the reality. She ran her boys and ran them good and proper. They did the work, them and their two friends stood outside the cabin, the Russel boys Walker and Wheeler. Meanwhile Mama Watson held on to the loot. Built up over time to quite a few hundred dollars. Robbing stagecoaches, looting safes from stores and businesses, or daring to take what they could off of trains, though that was getting harder these days with how much protection the freight magnates were paying for. Only bigger gangs were able to pull that off, and so the Watson boys and their friends did what they could, and made more than enough money for it.

Money, loot, jewels, all sorts and manner. Most of it kept in places all over Mama's little cabin. Drawers, her cabinets and cupboards or chests. Some weapons too, though they were getting rustier with age and disuse. Mama rarely needed her gun no more. She had taught her boys to shoot. Their father having been a no good fool who got himself dead one way or another...the boys weren't too sure, but didn't ask. Mama did right by them, and that's all that mattered. So they wanted to do right by their Mama.

"We and the Russel boys gone and scored us a few hundred dollars, Mama!" Ethan announced happily. Unlike his brothers, Ethan had only a thick mustache that curled slightly at its end tips. A bushy thing over his top lip, and he stood burly, maybe burliest of them all. His brow larger than his brothers, and hairline beginning to recede. He also, like his three brothers, weren't thought of as being too bright by his Mama.

"Well, ain't that a change." Mama intoned simply. Hardly readable as to what her tone inferred.

"Glad to see you boys can make some money for your poor mother. Even if not a thought lay between you. And them Russel boys? You still run with them?"

"Sure do, Mama." Ezra, quietly nodded. His beard, like Elijah's of red hue, wilder perhaps than his brother's.

"They're not too bright neither, Wheeler and Walker. You boys best watch them whenever you're out."

"We do, Mama." Edgar assured. "They was real helpful this time, though, Mama."

"That's right." Ezra continued after Edgar. "Put us all onto a wagon train moving through the country up north from here. Bunch of moving folk who tried saving some money by not using the trains."

"Families? You boys gone and robbed some poor innocent mothers and children?" Mama Watson scoffed in derision.

"No! No, Mama!" Elijah offered for them four.

"Weren't no families. Just the transportation company men. Bunch of fellers we had to stick up. One tried to act a hero, had to put him down, but otherwise we left it clean. Promise, Mama. Ain't that right?" He looked to his brothers who all mumbled, grunted, and nodded their agreements.

"Well that's good enough as we'll get now isn't it?" Mama offered. Best as any of them were gonna get by way of any form of compliment. Her hands, old and aged, picked her knitting gear back up. Trembling they began the simple labor of sliding strands of fabrics together. Line over line, tied together, binding them up. A missed strand here or a mistake there and the whole thing could come undone. She fell into silence that seemed disgruntled, but to her four boys they knew Mama was more or less content. Angry, mean even, sour as she was, she was Mama. Quiet as she got, Edgar silently tilted his head towards Ezra. In kind, Ezra got up and went over to Mama. Patting her shoulder.

"I'm gonna put the stuff downstairs."

"Do that, boy. Then come back upstairs and we'll eat something. I suppose them fools outside will be needing some too?"

"You don't have to, Mama." Elijah shrugged.

"They came all this way up here with you four, didn't they? Best they eat something. Don't be discourteous now Elijah!"

"Yes, Mama." Elijah apologized as she shook her head and Ezra went into her room, disappearing at a turn and the rattling of a wooden ladder could be heard. The three boys and Mama went momentarily silent waiting on Ezra's return.

But another day at Watson Cabin, the Watson Boys and their leader, Mama Watson attending to their lives as they knew how. Were raised how to do. While outside Wheeler and Walker waited with the horses.

Come then the sound like the trampling of a thunderous hooves and a marshaling for war, and turn upon them eyes filled with fear and wonder...

Some Days Ago

The midday heat fell on Saint Denis like the Devil's cruel breath as he exhaled upon the sullen and sinful world of man. Weren't nothing but that big blob in the sky though. Sinking heat down on everyone and making the humidity push some fellers to the edge. The heat always made some people more ornery, some people just find a nice spot in the dirt or on a seat and sit down feeling sorry for themselves. Some folk, lucky as they were, worked in warehouses where massive blocks of ice maintained the cold for meats and such. There was talk even of new inventions not yet ready for mass production. Something called 'refrigeration.' But those were rumors. Best one got these days were ice-boxes.

Today was hot, but really it was no more than usual. When one was left to their thoughts though one had too much time to focus on the heat. How fair skin turned pink or red under it, how dark skin, according to them old plantation masters, was acclimated better for it. Better an excuse among them as used to keep some folks in chains of course as compared to others. As some saw it 'least.

Nate Davis thought these things. Sweat beading along his brow even as he wore a better made straw hat atop his head of bushy blackened hairs. He, like many a colored folk stood in the fields. Much as their fathers and grandfathers had. Though, as some would say, at least the choice were his to do so. Hardly choice at all for a man of his complexion where work came.

Nate tilted his head up and loosed a sigh. The Sun above boiled the air around him and he was sweating all the more from tending fields of corn. Lemoyne was a state that made its fair share of corn, sugar, sweet potatoes and soybeans. Cotton too, but Nate had never liked the idea of tending them fields. His daddy had done that and his daddy before. Weren't work he ever hoped to be forced into. Better the corn than the cotton.

The fields, well they here were hard enough work. Work aplenty for folk too. Plenty of men like him, some older and some younger went up and down the crops. Watering or plucking by the season. Now was a time for cutting them down as weren't gonna make it for potential reseeding. Saint Denis loomed in the distance, and near enough one could hear the bustle of them within the city proper. While dirt patches amounting to streets nearby showed wagons, and stagecoaches as aplenty going back and forth. With men on horses. Sometimes one fella, sometimes a whole slew of them. Today seemed no different.

Nate, for his part, worked these fields for a few years now. Taking up a canteen wrapped diagonal across his body, the man, long sun-stewed, Nate pressed the opened top to his dried lips and took several healthy gulps. Gasping for air after, lost in the odd euphoria of water entering his stomach.

In these years, Nate had come to know the crops well enough. Come to know the fellow colored folk well too, as they was all called by the white folk of Saint Denis for the most part at least. The black folk of Saint Denis tended their own and minded it well too. At least for the most part. Nate did as much, but...he, like quite a few of the crop workers around here tended to get a few extra bucks from certain sidelines.

Nothing too crazy. His mother would've killed him if she done knew what he got up to. Even talking to some folk as he did was bound to get his hide tanned at his age by that old woman. Hobbled over, halfway into the form of a mean hellcat, and mean she could be! The thought alone gave rise to a few short chuckles from the man's throat as he shook his head.

"Davis!" Nate smacked his teeth low to be unheard. Overseer of the crop, a mean son of a bitch named Billy Carmichael called out to him.

"Yes, sir?" Nate turned. Seeing the white boy stood between several stalks of corn, hands on his hips, dirt on his white shirt and a black simple and cheap vest opened down the front. Looking as rundown as any colored man in this here field. Yet, stood and acting all superior for it.

"What you doing there, boy?"

"Taking a break, Mr. Carmichael, sir."

"A break?"

"Yes, sir." Nate replied. Both of their drawls coming on strong and thick as the miry air that surrounded them both. Hot and mixed up as though they were in a corn kettle. Mister Carmichael eyed Nate with a long lingering eye. Seeing the canteen in his left hand seemed to slow his restrained tirade.

"Go on then, boy! You got another minute or so before you best get gone, you get me?!"

"I do, Mr. Carmichael, sir!"

"Alright then." Billy threw his arm back and down. All but silently dismissing Nate entirely. But, for his part Nate gave the man a silent sneer as he turned his back on him. He'd get damn well back on to work in just another minute.

Life was hard, sweaty, and no great fun when tilling fields. Watering them, seeding them, cutting and shucking corn. All of it a damn too much work for what you got from the bosses sleeping all pretty in their houses. Same plantation homes, different generations of masters, but no slaves. Not but for them as slaved away for wages without a whip this time and all.

Nate took another swig of his water canteen. As he did, and he let his mind think of all that come before he heard...something strange. Familiar, but strange all the same. A big ole' sound like a trampling stampede of cattle. Hooves or animals galloping for sure.

He turned his head left. Facing north before he looked toward the main road that led in and out of Saint Denis proper. Crops and a few scattered shacks, houses and such lay there on the other side before you entered the bayou and swamps that were made all pretty like for city folk. Before you got deeper into true swamp country.

Besides the point, though, Nate dared ignore the prior order to get himself on to working, and drove himself to the edge of the field. Weren't nothing but a few paces anyway. A small and simple fence separated the crop from the road, and a whole heap of dusty dirt was now thrown up in the air coming from the south.

Nate weren't alone neither. More colored folk from the field were moving to see the ruckus. While on the others side a few farm hands, white and black, as well as crop managers and overseers showed themselves. Turning from stoops or their own patches or cattle barns. As Nate watched with them.

The first horse slammed by. Beside it another. Horse after horse after horse after goddamn horse. Neighing, huffing and snorting with the power of their great nostrils sounding like furnaces revving from coal power. They slammed their beating hooves down and drove up dirt that made Nate and the rest cover their eyes and noses some. Squinting while atop them horses sat better more well dressed men. All of them of a lighter color than he, though some did get quite dark he thought.

Dozen upon dozen flew on by! Like a stampede or some war band from days of old, or maybe not so old? Nate weren't sure. They atop their horses showed guns, some wielding rifles, other shotguns. Holding them at the ready in right or left hand, angled towards the sky. While others simply clung to their horse reins and pushed the steeds forward. The whirling dirt didn't stop the final sight. Following after the men came another sight; following after a dozen, two...three and four, maybe five even? Nate didn't catch all so cleanly. Nevertheless, a wagon, a big wagon roared after the columns of men on horseback. Itself driven by a man, another sat beside him gun at the ready, with a third hanging onto the side and a fourth on the opposing. While a final fancier red stagecoach led by two horses, clean and well kept came after that, and around it was surrounded by four or so men on horseback.

"Goddamn…" Nate intoned to none but himself. Some of the men gave little passing glances as they rode by. Toward Nate, toward everyone else. Even superior old Billy stood near the fence a-ways and watched with a confused, bewildered, and all too concerned look in those eyes of his. As the wagon passed, them boys on it could be heard yapping to one another, or maybe to boys on the single horses and their riders. Nate weren't too knowledgeable on languages, but it surely wasn't English, and he surely knew Italian when he heard it, especially these days.

As the stage passed on by, there inside was one passenger. It was a beautiful red coach. Well tended, clean and with lamp posts with lamps swinging about, inside looked like fine leathery seating of some kind. At least Nate thought by the quick look. More, his eyes were drawn to the brooding and darkened scowl that met his gaze. Within it sat a man of light skin tone. His countenance, as it were, a wicked thing. Like some gator ready to pounce on you for getting to close to its watery patch. Eyes watching you, seeming like they were simply watching. While their minds ran unknown and they saw you as nothing but a meal if you made the wrong choice and didn't leave well goddamn enough alone.

It was just a quick glance, but it was enough to make Nate recoil from the fence. Even as the whole unholy horde like host drifted up north, further, and further. Until it was all but out of sight. Hardly a person said a word worth remembering, but what murmurs Nate heard then and later made clear to him some of what he already knew. He weren't dumb, and all those around him, well some at least, knew that such a big goddamn gathering of Italians only meant bad news was afoot for some kind or other.

"Son of a bitch…" Nate had heard big ole' Mr. Billy say as he turned away. Hardly minding his crop folk not tending back to business immediately. He, maybe even more than some of the coloreds, was uneasy about that business. Whatever it may have been or was gonna be.

"Hmm." Was all Nate grumbled to himself. He had a side line, as he noted to himself in idle absent thought but before. Being a Negro of Saint Denis, his place, his home was made in the East Side. He worked the crops, like lots of folks from them parts of the city. Though, unlike most he knew in this crop, at least, Nate knew of some folk from the neighborhood, and 'ghetto' who knew other folk who'd be real interested to know that a big caravan ready for war had stampeded on by his plantation. Maybe they already knew? Maybe they'd like to hear it again? A few bucks his way for being so ready to share what was said and seen in these here crops was worth it.

"Guido Martelli. Recognize that face anywhere." Nate mumbled to himself. That face, that ire, that cool brooding vinegar in that fine stagecoach? He knew Martelli, big bad, when he saw him. Them boys back home would like to know what he saw, and them boys down the docks working for that Magliano boy would like in kind.

Whomever had pissed them boys off though...Nate felt some kind of sorry for them whoever they was.

They, on their horses, went forward while that red coach followed. Like...a scene from the good book. Something Nate couldn't quite recall, but for the visage of a red horse.

"Whoa there!" Wheeler Russel called out. He and his brother wore matching blackened coats that ran down to their ankles, their shoulders double padded and puffed out over their arms. They both wielded carbines and tended to the horses that were hitched to the side of the cabin where all their ill gotten and shared goods were store. Here with the old Mama of the Watson boys, longtime friends of them both.

Walker cocked the lever on his carbine and aimed it down the lone path to the cabin. It was a somewhat feeble endeavor by sheer look alone, and didn't do a heap of helping. As trotting with a thunder of many hooves came no less than ten men on horseback. They all came to wild stops diverting left or right before they ran into either Russel boy. Wheeler now also aimed his carbine, but both he and his brother exchanged confused glances. Both understanding the inherent feeling both was feeling. Deep pits like the abyss of the seas forming in their stomachs. Whilst the men on horseback all called to one another in low tones, but with words neither man instantly picked up. Some English...and some other kind.

"Who you boys?! What you want?!" The northern country drawl that Wheeler bore came out with a nasal hiss. Walker moved himself back some and nearer the chicken coup where both the chickens and horses were now agitated as the men jumped from their own and formed an incomplete crescent. Ten men give or take one or two all wielding repeaters and shotguns. All of them stood in relaxed posture. Weapons aimed up, some letting them lean back along one shoulder or the other, and a few holding the grips at ease in one hand, their fingers anxiously slipping along the triggers in the other.

"The hell going on out…!" The door to the cabin slammed open. The Russel boys didn't turn. Their guns remained trained and at the ready. Whole the voice of Edgar Watson sounded. The trudging of his heavy frame on the wood sounded like a little but of relief for both Russel boys. Especially as they heard the unmistakable clamor, clangs and cocking of guns their own.

Edgar came out the cabin, a dumbfounded expression on his hairy face. He had in hand a simple cattleman revolver aimed down to the ground. His brothers came out onto the very narrow stoop. Edgar slowly moved down them few steps to the grass while Elijah, Ezra and Ethan all came out. Their huge frames blocking the doorway. Ezra had a pump-action, Elijah a carbine and Ethan holding two cattlemen.

"What's all this damn noise on my lawn?!" An older woman...the great and terrible Mama Watson demanded as she all but shoved Ethan and Elijah aside in spite of her sons best efforts to keep their Mama unseen, unheard and unknown as their eyes took in the sight of a whole host of well dressed; looking like city-folk, men all stood in vests or fine tailored suits. Upon some hats laid bowlers or a few caps otherwise, and they bore observant and readied expressions. Their legs swaying like they was readying to charge the field from some old battlefield. They wall all feeling it, and none could deny it as it was.

"What the hell if all this?" Mama Watson demanded with her hands on her hips. Her pursed lips creased and ornery. Totally seemingly oblivious of what they was all taking in the sight of.

"Get back inside, Mama. I'll-"

"Shut your hole Edgar! These fools come onto my property and you tell me to go back inside?! How gutless is you boy?! You and your brothers!"

"Mama!" Edgar began defensively, his eyes wide in fear, but weren't for her.

"Wheeler, what's going on?"

"I got no idea!" Wheeler replied to Ethan's stupid question. Both Russel boys still aiming and jittery. Swaying like trees in a bad storm's wind.

"Excuse us." One voice called. It was one of the unknown fellers. All of their horses were moved by two men side to side. One group to the left and the other to the right. Tied to trees about.

The feller who talked had fair skin, and he bore a serious expression. He trudged near with his right hand holding a carbine at its center.

"Sorry for the interruption, but our boss would like to have a word with you...fine people."

"What now? What he say?!" Mama demanded as Edgar dared ignore her a moment.

"Who's that? And why?" The man in kind shrugged.

"Couldn't tell you. He's coming up the path now."

"What?" Edgar intoned absently. But, as said and seeming as though on cue, up the path came a renewed sound of stamping hooves on the soil. This, time, however, there were horses drawing in a red carriage. It was a fine looking one too. All well made and otherwise clean, but for what soil and dirt was thrown up by fact of its movement.

"The hell do you boys want?! Get off my property now if you know what's good for yourselves!" Mama howled even as her burly boys all stood at attention. Their bodies primed for something they could all sense as though it were sight of its own. None made a move though. There was ten or so fellers and six of them. Near even, but they was surrounded by all these city boys by the looks.

Nevertheless, the stage came up the path and the horses whirled and whipped their heads as the driver atop the coach yanked back hard on the reins. Bringing them to a combined stop. Sat beside him was a second feller who also wielded a rifle it seemed. More important, though, the driver jumped up and then down off the coach. Rounding to its right from forward facing, he plucked the door open with an audible wince of hinges.

The men all gathered remained stood at attention as it were. While from inside the coach stepped out a man. Strong he looked, built with an imposing frame. His shoulders were pronounced and he showed a strong chin. His expression was in a flash quite the darkened thing, but as he turned to face the Watsons and their Russel friends he suddenly showed a thin smile upon his fair face. Lightly darkened hairs atop his head whirled as a breeze fell across the cabin from the mountains to the north. He wore a dark gray suit, a flower oddly placed at his breast, with a red thin tie at his neck, and an otherwise olive vest down his body. He was best dressed of them, and by his stagecoach their 'boss.'

With his smile still on display, he passed by his driver and doorman who stood like a statue. The others forming the incomplete crescent hemming the Watsons and Russels in stepped to give him greater room down a sort of center. He didn't have no visible gun on him, and he raised his hands in placating and calm demeanor.

"I apologize for the intrusion!" He began. Some kind of foreign accent tinging his voice. Some of his men began to whisper to each other. Which did nothing but make Ezra, Elijah and Ethan hold their guns more at the ready. Edgar eyed the well dressed feller and spat to the ground.

"Intruding you've gone and did. Don't have no idea who you and yours is, feller, but you ain't wanted here. Now this is private property, and we expect you to go on and get! You hear me?"

"I hear you, sir." The man carried on. Coming to a stop some feet away still. He placed his thumbs into his pants pockets and stood without a sign of any form of fear or intimidation. Itself throwing Edgar some as his brothers also looked...unsure by the response.

"Me and my men will go. But…" The feller smacked his teeth, shaking his head.

"I've come a long way, me and my friends here. We're looking for folks. Some folk in this country robbed a wagon train some time back moving down from St. Louis. Moved just on the other side of those mountains down between the pines. I was told-"

"We can't help you, boy!" Mama butted in again. "You calling my boys robbers and thieves you son of a bitch?!" Elijah held his Mama back. The man cocked his head with a wry smile forming across his defined face. Darkened eyes twinkling even from afar with some kind of knowing mischief or other.

"Your boys, ma'am? Your boys are the Watson Boys, no?"

"What's it to you, feller?!" Ethan dared speak up.

"It's a lot to me. Had to learn quite a bit of who was and was not known in these parts." The feller answered dryly.

"The Watson Boys and their friends the Russel Brothers run a gang." He began pacing to his right with a few idle footsteps. Recounting something or other. Sounding real 'law-like' for anyone's liking.

"Known collectively as the Watson Boys, you...six, is it?" He asked without needing reply. "You six hold up stagecoaches, and wagons. You steal safes, you rob people who you find on the road who look good enough to rob. Though...you all hardly look like what I am after…" The final sentence weren't nothing better than an intone. Meant solely for himself even if some heard it. None of the Watson brothers cared to know what he meant by it neither.

"Either you boys get these bastards off my goddamn property or I'll go and do it myself!" Mama Watson commanded stamping her feet. The burly boys she ordered about seemed uneasy. Though the well-dressed feller who talked to them seemed...oddly amused by the matriarch. He cast a more toothy grin.

"I don't want to trouble you folk any further than necessary, I assure you." He swore with his accented oily voice.

"But...that robbery I mentioned. You boys wouldn't have anything to do with that, now would you?"

"Ain't no robbery being done around here, feller!" Wheeler Russel assured aiming his carbine on the talker. "You heard the lady, now! Go on and get yourself gone, or this ain't gonna end well for none of you fools!"

"Really?" The talker wondered.

"Yeah, really." Edgar backed his friend up. As Ethan, Ezra and Elijah aimed their weapons. Angled just a little. A final show of unwillingness to escalate this. The talker's eyes fell onto Mama Watson. Something in his glance showed he knew of her too. Or, something like that. There was...something. He knew these boys weren't lighting up more or less because of that old woman.

"I see we have worn out our welcome." The talker declared. Again raising his hands and flexing all ten fingers to show he meant no harm. He took a few paces backwards and kept on.

"I apologize for the intrusion again, my friends. We have business elsewhere."

"Go on and get lost!" Ezra chided, ignoring the pleasantries. The talking feller bowed his head and turned on a quick heel turn.

"You boys...wasting time on this nonsense!" Mama Watson chided on. Many hearts were beating rapidly, and many weapons remained at the ready. Though some of the strangers turned away looking about ready to get back on their horses.

"Get inside, Mama." Edgar ordered.

"Don't tell me what to do, Edgar." Mama scoffed.

The talker slowly meandered by the one feller who had introduced him when his coach was coming up the way. He paused for a second, and gave a single curt nod. The feller nodded back. The talker rounded the carriage to the left side, out of immediate sight...strange-

"Mettile giù!" (Put them down!)

A shot rang out! Ezra was thrown back, blood spurting from his chest and a heave. Both Russel boys jumped back! Loosening shots from their carbines. An exchange erupted in chaos.

"Son of a bitch!" Edgar raised his revolver and fired at random into the crowd. Them fellers all began cursing and yelling in that unknown language. One to Edgar's right raised a shotgun, and the boom of it shook his teeth. The pelting shot scattered over the cabin.

"Owe, shit!"

"Get down!" Elijah cried as Ethan whirled around himself. Pellets from the blast lodged into his leg.

"Ezra! My boys!" Mama howled as the firing continued in a blaze of instants. Edgar ran to his right firing. Running through his revolver's rounds easily. One of the fellers flew backwards as a revolver round slammed into his forehead. Blood spurted freely and he whipped down dead. While another beside him hunched at the impact and death. Turning to Edgar who fumbled for rounds in his pocket.

"Figlio di puttana!" (Son of a bitch!) - a repeater round shot out, and echoed the trees around. Pop, pop, pop! Edgar's right shoulder threw him around, as two more round slammed into his neck and back, and he fell down gurgling.

Wheeler Russel jumped to his right, loosing repeater round after round. Hopping to the side as one of them fellers...the one on the stagecoach leveled a bolt-action, and then boom! Wheeler flung back. His body sprawling wildly and letting off another round as he fell back into the chicken coup fence and broke it under his weight. Moving no more as the chickens and nearby donkey and the horses all began to squawk, howl, and neigh.

"Wheeler!" Walker howled as he knelt on the side of the cabin's ramshackle excuse for a staircase. His brother falling to his right. He spat curses and jumped up. Aiming down sight firing repeater shot after shot. One flew and one of the attackers screeched! Falling over and rolling as his knee was blown out. One of his friends dragged him back, and the coach driver pulled a pistol from under his coat. Firing bullet upon bullet while running straight at Walker. The Russel boy turned, and then...snap, slap, thud! Left eye, left breast and his gut, he fell into the cabin, blood spurting.

Ezra lay against the doorway, halfway fallen into it while Mama Watson cradled her boy.

"Kill them! Kill them sons of bitches!" She screeched like a damned harpy. Elijah fired another carbine round and this one blew a hand off one of the bastards who fell back screaming. He and Ethan stood alone. Ethan with both revolvers drained. Having made his way back into the cabin and shooting around the corner.

"Elijah!" He called to his brother, but he was too busy, or too deaf by now. His body was sprayed in but an instant after. His gut hit twice, his chest by buckshot, and he flew back with force enough to lift him off the stoop by an inch and he cracked broken flesh into the wood. Blood pooling and joining his dead brother's.

"NO!" Mama howled. Her eyes wide and crazed. She crawled over and snatched dead Ezra's shotgun while Ethan reloaded his revolvers.

"Stay down, Mama!" Ethan cried feebly. Shot after shot pelted, ricocheted and reverberated around and through the wood! Dancing bullets slammed through the door and popped off of metal boxes, and vegetable cans. The glass on the windows inside shattered either from someone firing from the side at odd angles or from bouncing rounds.

"Damn you!" Mama Watson gave as feeble a battle cry as possible, yet hard enough and growling enough to set men on their toes. She grabbed her son's fallen shotgun, his eyes now vacant and blood dripped from his open maw. She rose up and fired a slug that tore through the open door. Men outside scattered and cursed. While the rifle wielder atop the coach stood on the seat. The horses were shivering, shaking and neighing, bound by cart and rope.

He aimed down sights and fired a shot as Ethan came around the corner.

"Shit!" He howled as his right arm swung into the cabin. Blood splattered across his shirt and instantly began to drench down his now torn sleeve. A bullet hole had damn near ripped his arm off, and his forearm hung by shreds of flesh.

"Oh shit! Shit, Mama!" Ethan's eyes bugged while Mama Watson cursed. Her body almost thrown back by wielding the shotgun. She pulled back on the slide, and the 'shlack' sound it made sounded.

"Here's some for you son of bitc-" The whir of a round sounded and Mama Watson's head snapped back with brutal gore. Half her brow torn away and brain now cast to the dust of her cabin. She fell back with a strange shivering of her body...until she moved no more.

"MAMA!" Ethan mewled as best he could. Wild eyes widened further, his heart raced as pain had yet to reach his mind as he swung about an arm that no longer functioned. Spittle slid down his chin, and frenzied as a cornered buck in the hills, he raised up his left hand and what rounds he had left in his revolver. Turning out the door he gave a cry and fired! Pop, pop, pop! They rung free, and then clack...clack...clack. Empty.

The sound of the men staring...the silence of it was deep. Deep as the thunder of gun battle before. Smoke rose in the air. Black powder and joined with iron, the scent of death. The men, several, four at least were rolling on the ground. One of them ain't moving no more. Ethan's mind was too far gone to know quite what or who...but the men all raised up rifle, carbine and shotgun.

"Aspettare." The talking feller called out, and the men stopped themselves from unleashing a hellish hail of bullets and fire otherwise.

He moved back around the coach. A cigarette between his fingers, and left hand in his pants pocket. A content look on his face and smirk about him as he trudged through muddy earth, turned up soil and some blood from his own men.

"Hmm!" He took a drag of his cigarette, motioning for his driver to come. Pistol at the ready. Dully Ethan's mind made out it was one of them M1899 pistols. The driver, younger than some of the men present and still stood ran over. Without word, and with right hand planting the cigarette into left, the feller waited. The driver placed it into the waiting right hand. Ethan's breathing became staggered, labored, and he neared vomiting from sudden pain.

"Grazie." The feller thanked in a mumble. Taking aim the feller sniffled and aimed down sights of the pistol.

BOOM! A shot rung out and Ethan fell back. Gagging, gasping, gurgling. A hole in his chest at near center mass.

"Hmm...here." The man, Guido Martelli gripped the pistol's muzzle and handed it back to his driver.

"Grazie, Signor Martelli!" The man bowed his head. The rest lowered their guns and gathered up the wounded. Those as could be helped. While those as could not be were given slugs of whiskey and told they'd be fine.

"Dead?!" Martelli wondered.

"Three, Signor." Agostino called out.

"Mmm." Guido nodded and threw the remainder of his dying cigarette to the wet grass. He waved absently and derisively at the cabin. The strong stink of iron was beginning to overwhelm the area as the men paced unsure what to do as those who did not attend to the dead, dying or wounded.

"Tear the cabin apart! Look for anything, papers, ledgers! Anything and everything I want brought to me. Anyone of you keep something from me and...well…" Guido trailed off with but a smile and charming chortle from his throat.

"Go!" Agostino backed his boss up and the men all broke into little jogs. Throwing rifles and guns to sleeves or around their backs. Idle laughter from those as lived and made it through unscathed.

"Agostino."

"Yes?"

"Gather up all the bodies. Once the men have cleared the cabin we're going to make an example for these...hill people. Cow fuckers...sempliciotti." (Simpletons.) - Guido clicked his tongue. An all too content countenance to him in the sight of ravages.

"Of course, boss." Agostino nodded. Calling to some in Italian to begin dragging the dead, and drag them they did. Lining the dead Watsons and Russels. Maybe some of them weren't quite darkened to the world around...

But...they would be.

…

Down the trail from the Watson Cabin upon the main road more men had waited. Hearing the chaos up the hill, they had been told to remain in place unless otherwise called up by Martelli one way or another. They had guns ready, but when it all went silent one of their fellow men on horseback came back down the path. More of them had only after the blood and bullets been called up for work. Gathering now riderless horses and the dead. Placing them in sacks to be tended to later.

More came down that path dragging the dead. Ropes had been attached to the bodies of the Watsons and the Russels, to skull-opened Mama Watson herself. All of them dragged through mud and made filthier the corpses in their deaths. Men threw the ropes, disconnected from their steeds over strong tree branches and then together they pulled. Hoisting high decorations with placards placed upon breasts.

'Thieves will not be tolerated!' In plain simple English for all to bear witness. The vision as some medieval warning for all to see. Before, in time, items were strewn across the land, torn from the cabin. The chickens were slaughtered, the horses stolen, and the donkey killed, and smoke rose up high. The cabin burned and whispers began across the land.

The Watson Boys and their Mama leader slaughtered, hung up like lamps for all to see.

A nearby ranch to that carnage was filled with men. They had heard the commotion and would see a vast army of well dressed men upon the distant road. Them as lived on it had come to claim the ranch. Made it into their own. Many of their fellows as were part of their gang would come and go, this was a sort of safe place for them as needed to rest up and head back out to their small camps or do their jobs as was called upon them to do.

Those who occupied this ranch weren't aware that these well dressed strangers were looking for them of their lot. Where the name 'O'Driscoll' was readily spat. They didn't know, even with guns at the ready and unease at the rising smoke of a clear fire. They didn't know as a whole goddamn army of them came down the road. On a collision course for them and theirs too...

L's Note: Another quicker update for this tale. Good to see more folk following it! The author, Lord Kun, is on a bit of a Red Dead kick these days. The next chapter was actually going to be a part of this one, but it was a little too congested. So, fear not, another chapter is near too. A lot written up already.

Regardless, thanks to all watching and reading this fic. Especially to any who feel inclined to review, as it does help boost enthusiasm for the author to write. And, a big thanks again to badkidoh for your reviews! They're always welcome. :)

Again, I will review this again another time, and fix any grammar or structural issues I come across. If you find any let me know and I will attend to it ASAP.

Till the next,

-L

Edit Note: Edited/Updated: 12/29/2024