5

"Out of bullets, but yes." Strickland closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he slowly nodded his head, "I'm too old for this... they came out of nowhere like some damned hoogly-boo's on All Hallow's Eve."

Shepard grunted. "We should see if any of 'em are still alive." He watched Strickland struggle onto his left elbow and knee, "I can see to it myself if you'd prefer to check on your men?"

Strickland scowled, stumbling to his feet and bracing his hands on his thighs to catch his breath, "I thank you kindly for the offer, but I'm not so wounded or long in the tooth I'm about to let you do my job when I'm more than capable."

He straightened and clutched his injured shoulder and side, "Damn, but nothing makes me mad as a wet hen than getting shot off my horse and having to watch Dynamite Fairleigh escape again."

Stooping with a pained groan to pick up his hat, he dusted it off against his thigh before settling it atop his head, then gathered the reins and mounted Flapjack.

"Dagblasted all... but I don't remember it hurting this bad last time I got shot." Strickland fished around in his right coat pocket, mumbling several curses under his breath and grimacing in pain until he retrieved a dented brass telescope.

Extending it to its full six inches, Strickland held it to his right eye and surveyed the direction they'd come from.

Shepard was looking down, poking at his wounded thigh, when Strickland let out a curse. "What?"

"It appears Walt's the only one of our group besides you and me who's still alive," Strickland grumbled with a shake of his head, casting the telescope in a slow sweep of the area.

Shepard looked up ahead and squinted, barely able to discern the vaguely human lump moving around that must be Walt. "He look wounded?"

Strickland pursed his lips and nodded, "By the way he's moving, I'd say that's a definite yes... but he's up and walking, so I think he'll be fine long enough for us to check Fairleigh's gang for survivors."

He collapsed the telescope with the heel of his hand and tucked it back in his pocket, then clicked his tongue and nudged Flapjack into motion.

They walked their horses to the first body, and Shepard dismounted, bracing himself against Bubbles when his vision wavered.

"This one's Scars Stroud," Strickland said, bringing Flapjack closer to the corpse lying face up. "Elmar, I believe was his real first name...."

Shepard forced down a swallow as the dizzy spell passed and wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. "He a part of that mess back in San Luis?"

Strickland nodded, watching Shepard awkwardly kneel beside the dead man and begin searching his pockets. "Dynamite's shadow, Rufus used to call him."

"Five licorice drops," Shepard withdrew the pieces of candy and tossed them on the ground, then reached into the dead man's other trouser front pocket and removed a gleaming pile of coins. "And seventy-two cents," he murmured.

He struggled to his feet, wishing he hadn't knelt in the first place. Then, sighing in disgust, he pocketed the coins and limped to Bubbles. "Elmar Stroud, you said?"

Strickland nodded.

Shepard patted his right saddlebag, "I've got a warrant for Elmar Stroud with me. Thought about going after him a couple months back but decided to pursue a higher bounty instead."

There was a slight pause, and for a second, Shepard worried Strickland would ask who the outlaw was he'd pursued before arriving in San Luis. He didn't want to think of Stanley Hastings ever again or what going after him had cost.

"You do?"

Shepard nodded and slowly exhaled, relieved the Marshal let the moment pass, and glanced at the dead body one last time, "Twenty-eight-hundred dollar bounty."

Strickland waited for Shepard to mount before leading the way over to the next body.

Shepard grimaced and adjusted his seat in the saddle, unsure of what hurt worse at the moment, his thigh or his chest. Reaching into his inner coat pocket for a handkerchief, he frowned as he withdrew the Marshal badge and roll of cash he'd stashed there before Strickland showed up several mornings ago.

He turned it in his hand, and his eyes widened in surprise at finding a deformed bullet lodged within the thick roll of paper. The paper money bloomed around the lead like an odd-shaped flower on one side and bulged out like a bulbous nose on the back end closest to the mangled badge and his skin.

Shepard pressed a hand to his chest where it had undoubtedly saved his life and winced. Stuffing the damaged roll of bills in his front coat pocket, he unbuttoned his shirt far enough to spread the material. A bloody, swollen, and angry, purplish-red bruise the size of a chicken egg stared back at him.

Glancing up, he found Strickland watching him, his brow puckered and eyes full of remorse. Shepard quickly buttoned his shirt and nudged Bubbles into motion.

"That one," Strickland nodded to the corpse at their feet with a bloody bullet hole where his right eye used to reside, "is Newmie Wardell. And the one over yonder," he pointed to a man lying an arms span away on his left side with wounds in his throat and chest, "is his brother... Buster."

Shepard's gaze flew to Strickland's before landing once more on the dead men.

Whatever he'd expected when picturing the ones responsible for leading his brother down his path of destruction, these two homely yet ordinary-looking boys weren't it.

"Newmie was known as Knuckles, and Buster the girls in town called Squirrel Tooth—both apt monikers for 'em too if I say so."

Shepard grunted, dreading the thought of dismounting to search through their pockets with his leg on fire. He clenched his eyes shut when another wave of dizziness threatened to overtake him.

"You hear that?" Strickland asked, frowning as he scanned the area around them.

Shepard straightened and strained his ears. A gentle breeze whistled through the dry grass, birds called overhead, and a man moaned in pain less than fifty yards away.

Both Strickland and Shepard nudged their horses into motion, directing them over to the outlaw, attempting to crawl across the field, and leaving a thick blood trail in his wake. He glanced over his shoulder at their approach and rolled onto his back with arms raised in weak defense. "Kill me," he pleaded, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth with every word.

Shepard took a fortifying breath before dismounting, favoring his wounded leg and grinding his teeth against the stabbing pain. Withdrawing his revolver, he flicked out the cylinder and emptied the spent shells, then turned and studied the dying man.

Bullet holes riddled the man's torso and arms, all of them survivable except for the two in the man's midriff.

"You're already a dead man, mister, by the looks of you." Shepard reloaded and flipped the cylinder back into place, motioning to the swath of burbling blood covering the man's abdomen.

He walked up to him with slow, methodical steps, "But if you tell me where I can find that leader of yours that ran away like a coward, I might show you a little mercy."

The man shook his head, allowing it to fall to the ground with a soft thud. He swallowed, but blood seeped from the corner of his mouth with his next gulp of air. "I ain't gonna tell you nothing."

Grinding his teeth, Shepard rested his left hand on his hip and braced his weight on his right leg. He stared at him for a moment and cursed, then flicked a glance at Strickland, "I'm gonna have to take a knee again, aren't I?"

Strickland nodded, "Looks that way... my bones are aching so fierce, I'm liable to expire on the spot and never ride a horse again if I do it."

Shepard aimed his gun at the man, "You have a name?"

"Arden... Thatcher," the outlaw gasped as his eyes closed and his hands fell limply to his sides. He coughed, and foamy blood sprayed from his mouth, landing on Shepard's boots before he could move out of the way.

"Well, Arden," Shepard growled, his lips curled in disgust. "This here's fair warning, one wrong move from you, and I'll make sure you regret it." Biting back a groan of pain, he knelt and pressed his gun barrel to Arden's chest as he rummaged through the first pocket.

He emptied his findings on the ground, scoffing at what he saw. "Seems you and that other fella have a weakness for licorice." Then, shaking his head, he reached over and shoved his hand in the other pocket, frowning when his fingers curled around a metallic object on a chain.

Strickland leveled his rifle at Arden and cocked the hammer when the man moved from the force of another coughing fit.

Gathering the few coins residing in the pocket along with the other object, Shepard struggled to his feet and stared in confusion at the gleaming metal trinket resting on his open palm. His vision wavered, making it appear as though the tiny hummingbird etched into the locket's face flapped its wings.

His heart pounded dully against his ribs; the blood rushed in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him. Visions of the last day he saw Hazel and gifted her this very same locket flashed before his eyes. His gut twisted, and his limbs trembled.

"Did you find something?" Strickland asked, leaning forward.

Shepard ignored him and the pain in his leg as he fell to his knees beside Arden and demanded, "Where'd you get this?"

Arden's eyelids fluttered but failed to open as more blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, "On the road."

"Where?"

Arden shook his head and groaned.

Shepard grabbed him by his shirt and shook him, "Where, damnit?"

Arden coughed and forced his eyes open as his bloody lips curled in a lewd smile. "It mean something to you?"

Shepard dropped him and shoved his revolver against his stomach as he cocked the hammer, "So help me... you think you're suffering a miserable, slow death now... it's about to become a whole lot worse if you don't answer my question." He nudged him with the barrel until Arden grimaced. "Did you steal it or find it?"

Arden sighed, each breath growing more labored and shallow than the last, "Found it... a couple days ago."

Shepard's gaze narrowed, "Where?"

Silence.

Shepard uncocked and holstered his weapon, grabbed Arden by his shoulders, and shook him, wanting to rattle the answers lose. "WHERE?"

"North a ways...." Arden coughed, "of Fort Garland, ain't worth... a penny."

"What'd you find, Shepard?" Strickland asked with a frown as Shepard released Arden's still form and stumbled to his feet with a feral growl.

Shepard stared unseeing at the Marshal and clenched the locket in his fist. His thigh screamed with pain, and his limbs prickled with pins and needles. Strickland called out to him, but his voice sounded distant, echoing within Shepard's mind as though he stood at the end of a long tunnel.

Without answering Strickland, Shepard limped to Bubbles and hauled himself into the saddle. He sat there, staring at the field and the road beyond where Walter sat beside his cousin Daniel's corpse with a lost look on his face.

Turning to a scowling Marshal as he rode up next to him, Shepard tucked Hazel's locket in his coat pocket with the damaged money roll. "You know of any doctor around these parts?"

Strickland studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded, "There's one that settled in Coyote Run two years ago or so."

Shepard clenched his eyes shut against another wave of lightheadedness and forced his mind to focus on the immediate issue at hand instead of the locket. There were dead to see to and wounds to tend before getting wrapped up in what came next.

Once they had Elias, Dan, and Robert's corpses each draped and tied to their mounts, they left what remained of the dead outlaws for the wolves to scavenge, hauled their weary and wounded selves onto their horses, and set out toward Coyote Run.

Despite doing what he could to staunch his wounded thigh, blood-soaked Shepard's pant leg and sock, making his toes stick together in his boot. The miles dragged on at a torturous, slow pace until Shepard feared they'd all be dead by the time they reached their destination.

Flies buzzed around him in an endless swarm until he was tempted to pull his revolver and shoot them all—the fact he'd run out of bullets didn't matter.

Sweat beaded on his skin, soaking his hatband and shirt and rolling down the sides of his face. Strickland gave him a sharp nudge at one point, and Shepard awoke with a groan to find he was perilously close to falling off Bubbles. He mumbled his thanks and adjusted his seat, not knowing how much longer his weakened body could hold out before collapsing altogether.

The sun slipped behind the mountains as they rode into the small town of Coyote Run. Shepard forced his heavy eyelids to remain open and directed Bubbles to follow Strickland and Walter's horses toward a small house nestled in a dusty lot occupied by the post and telegraph office.

A lanky, bespectacled middle-aged man with neatly combed brown hair appeared with a dog at his side as Strickland started talking, motioning to Shepard moments before he toppled off Bubbles and landed in the dirt with a moan before everything went dark.

Shepard awoke the following morning to brilliant rays of sunlight streaming through a mullioned window, shining directly in his eyes. He groaned and rolled to his side, immediately coming face to face with one of the droopiest-faced bloodhounds he'd ever seen in his life.

Hooded brown eyes studied him for several long minutes, eyebrows arching and falling as though the dog quietly took his measure and wasn't surprised to find Shepard lacking.

"Tater," a man called out in a thick southern drawl as footsteps sounded in the hallway approaching Shepard. The door creaked open further, and the bespectacled man popped his head into the room.

"Tater," he hissed with a muffled chuckle, "get on over here and leave my patient be."

The dog turned to the man, then back to meet Shepard's gaze before heaving a beleaguered sigh and lumbering out of the room. "Good boy," the man murmured, laughter tinging his voice, "but you know better than that."

Shepard bit back a chuckle and groaned as he pushed onto his left elbow and tried to sit up. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. By the time he sat with both feet planted on the floor, he gripped the edge of the mattress in both hands and hung his head, trying to catch his breath. Damn, but he was weak as a newborn calf.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, wishing he could fall back into bed and sleep the day away. But, instead, he stood on legs as wobbly as the noodles in his mama's chicken soup and limped to the chair currently occupied by his washed and folded clothing.

His gun belt and knife hung from the back of the chair above his polished and shined boots. Getting dressed took more effort than he cared to admit, and he had to sit in the chair halfway through pulling his pants on to rest, but as he buckled his gun belt around his hips, he grinned at the deep sense of accomplishment in fulfilling the task.

"You're looking a mite better this morning than yesterday, Shepard," Strickland said, stepping into the room while combing his gray hair. "Glad to see you're up and dressed; I thought for sure you'd still be resting."

Shepard braced a hand against the tall dresser to his left as he ran his fingers through his hair. "You and Walter get patched up?"

"Sure did. Doc Riley dug the bullets out of both me and Walt and sewed us up real nice. Got me several new scars for Bertie to fuss over when I get back home." Strickland winked, the right corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided grin. He handed Shepard the comb before stepping into the hallway, motioning for him to follow.

Chuckling, Shepard held his injured thigh while he limped out of the room and fell in step beside him as they walked down a narrow corridor to the kitchen where Walt sat at a table, shoveling fried potatoes and scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Walt looked up and nodded in greeting at Shepard, swallowing his mouthful before saying, "Mornin,' Shepard. Get any sleep?"

"Enough," Shepard murmured, taking a seat across from him. "You?"

Walt nodded and resumed eating as though he hadn't had a square meal in months. "Did Jeremiah tell ya...? " he swallowed and looked to Strickland, his left eyebrow arched in silent question.

Strickland scooped a heaping spoonful of fried potatoes and eggs onto his plate, then picked up his fork. He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, mumbling a little prayer to himself a moment before glancing up to find Shepard and Walt watching him, waiting.

He shrugged and settled into eating as he said, "Walt here's decided, and I have to agree... he oughta take the boys home today. He's due to set out after breakfast." Strickland swallowed and chased it down with a long guzzle of milk before continuing, "You and I will pursue Dynamite," he paused, poking a piece of potato around his plate with his fork before stabbing and eating it. "Go on, Shepard; the rest of this food is for you."

Shepard scraped the remaining portions onto his plate as he flicked a glance at Walt in some surprise. "You feel up to it? You looked pretty rough yesterday."

"Compared to the damage done to you and Jeremiah, I'm relatively unscathed... " Walt fell silent, his eyes taking on a melancholy, far away look as he picked up his steaming mug of coffee and settled against the back of his chair with a wince of pain creasing his face.

After a moment, he added quietly, "Doc Riley stitched me up good... time will take care of the rest."

Strickland and Shepard finished eating in silence as Walt stood, pausing as he clutched his side with a pained grimace before gathering his plate and utensils and walking them to the sink.

"You ever plan on telling me what you found in Arden Thatcher's pocket yesterday?" Strickland asked quietly as he leaned back in his chair and pushed his empty plate away. "Or are you expecting me to guess?"

Shepard sighed and carefully adjusted his seat as he reached into his pocket.

Walt returned to the table, his brow creasing in a frown as Shepard opened his hand to reveal Hazel's locket resting in his palm.

"That's Miss Hazel's," Walt murmured, his tone full of surprise. Then, he looked at Strickland, "As long as I knew her, she ain't never gone anywhere without that locket 'round her neck."

Shepard frowned and tried to ignore the pang of jealousy and heartache that pierced him at Walt's words.

Strickland nodded, his lips pursed. "That's what Arden said they found on the trail?"