Under a Vengeful Sky

Well, did she make you cry

Make you break down

Shatter your illusions of love?

And is it over now, do you know how?

Pick up the pieces and go home

-Fleetwood Mac, “Gold Dust Woman”

Clara

The sand glinted like gold in the morning sun. Grains floated on the crisp breeze, whirling and falling back to earth in a serpentine pattern. The dance was silent and beautiful.

Despite the glaring sun, the air was still cold. Every breath left me with a visible puff. I pulled my neckerchief up over my nose, breathing through the horse and sweat as I watched the horizon.

I flexed my fingers against the leather reins, bringing some life and warmth back into them, while keeping my gaze fixed on the horizon.

Before me, dotted with shrubs and cacti, the desert stretched in hues of golden and purple, reaching for the rising sun.

From the foothills, it was a beautiful place to watch the sunrise.

Not that anyone else was enjoying the view.

The boys were all still half asleep, leaning heavily in their saddles. They were chewing their tobacco, loading their rifles or playing in the dirt like children.

At the faint sound of hoofbeats, I looked up. A cloud of dust rose in the distance.

A calm settled over me. We hadn’t come out here for nothing.

“Reckon Crishom’s intel was worth its salt after all,” I muttered. I hated dealing with the rancher. He was foul-tempered, lecherous and quite frankly, he reeked. I was convinced he’d sell his own ma for a bottle of brandy. I was uncomfortable hanging around in the foothills for so long because of his promises. The trail of bodies we were following was scarce, and I didn’t want to lose it.

I couldn’t lose it.

Still, keeping ten hungry men moving across the desert cost money, and I was tired of sleeping in the dirt.

“Told ya,” next to me, Norman spat his tobacco into the golden sand. His blond hair was greasy, barely contained under his hat. He grinned at me when I made a face.

I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, my fingers unconsciously fiddling with the locket around my neck as a glimmer came from the hills above us. I smiled. It was time.

“Alright ladies, into position now, nice and easy,” I cooed. The boys snickered.

They all moved calmly and quietly, like a well-oiled machine. The only sounds were the thudding of horses’ hooves against the sand and the puffing of cold breath.

I gave Lady a little nudge, and she ascended slowly and gracefully up the foothill to the top of the ridge overlooking the approaching stagecoach, pebbles scattering by her hooves.

I leaned back in my saddle and took in the view from my new position. In the distance, a shiny stagecoach was making its way down the track quickly, pulled by four ponies.

With the sun warming my face, I slid my Winchester from its holster. The cool weight of the rifle was comforting in my stiff hands. I made sure it was loaded before I dismounted. I led Lady down the other side of the ridge and tied her to the bushes behind me. She happily accepted a handful of oats from me before I strode back up.

Lying on my stomach, I propped my rifle against a large rock. By then, the boys on the other side of the track were all in position, well hidden. If I hadn’t known where they were, I wouldn’t have spotted them.

Except for Hank and Faraday, who leisurely took up their positions in the middle of the tack. Hank, with his rifle swung carelessly over his shoulder, and Faraday, running his dirty fingers over his balding head, which glinted in the morning sun.

When I turned to look at the track, the stagecoach appeared more clearly. It was just as big as Crishom had told us. An old man drove it, his clothes hanging from his frail frame. Along the sides of the coach, I saw several trunks full of bounty.

It had been a long time since we’d robbed such a handsome-looking stagecoach.

Spying Hank and Faraday standing in the middle of the road with their rifles, the driver shouted for his ponies to stop. He pulled on the reins, and the ponies brought the stagecoach to a thundering halt. The golden sand settled around them as Hank tipped his hat in greeting and Faraday cocked his rifle and pointed it at the old man’s chest.

“Howdy there, stranger,” Hank began in his thick southern drawl.

He was a frightening sight, long beard, messy hair sprouting from his hat, and pale blue eyes that could belong to a wolf.

He chewed his tobacco slowly and cocked his head to look around the coach.

I had long learned that it was safer for me to stay hidden among the men, rather than show myself off. Appearances mattered. And Hank had my confidence.

Next to the driver sat a dog with a well-groomed, shiny russet coat. It gave a good bark, and Hank tipped his hat to it.

“Why don’t you save us all some time and give us the payroll, eh?” Hank continued.

The driver reached for his gun.

I didn’t let him.

I squeezed the trigger and hit the handle of his rifle, knocking it out of his hand. The shot echoed through the valley, shattering the morning silence.

The driver let out a shriek as his rifle clattered to his feet, completely useless. The dog began to bark and jumped off the stagecoach, sniffing at the ground where pieces of wood and metal had fallen.

Hank let out a low chuckle and rubbed his beard as the man stared at him in horror.

“Mister,” Hank grinned, “you won’t be needing that.”

“I don’t know who you are,” the driver growled, glaring at Hank. “And I don’t got no quarrel with yous. But I won’t let you anywhere near my coach!”

“I’d refrain from threatening the men holding the guns to your head, mister, my boys don’t take threats too well,” Hank replied, scratching the side of his face again. He must have lice. I shuddered at the thought. “I know you carry the payroll for the boys downriver building this fine corral. So, let’s make this easy. Give me the payroll and I’ll let you go on down, no harm done.”

As Hank spoke, Faraday approached the stagecoach, his rifle still pointed at the man. The driver watched him with a grimace.

“You’re a rotten bunch,” he decided to tell Hank, who was playing with his suspenders.

“Looky here! She’s a plump one,” Faraday snickered, running his fingers along the bulging sides of the coach.

“You’d best stay sat, old geezer. Come on down, boys, help us unload,” Hank waved his arm, and I watched as the boys began to slide down the foothills, swarming towards the stagecoach.

I gritted my teeth. I didn’t like it. I always preferred the gang to stay in position. Hank was a good right-hand, except when he decided to take charge. I glared, preparing to give him a good tongue-lashing when it was all over.

“Pray I die soon, boys, or I’ll spend what time I got left makin’ sure you swing!” the driver snarled. He kept his eyes on Hank as the gang approached the stagecoach, grinning like idiots.

I stayed in position, my rifle following the driver’s movements. It seemed too easy.

Faraday grabbed the side of the coach and tore it open with a triumphant yell.

My eyes had shifted back to the driver when I heard the first shot. Behind the stagecoach, Faraday’s body jerked backwards and slammed into the dust. A gaping hole bled through his chest.

My stomach sank.

I couldn’t hesitate. I squeezed the trigger and dropped the driver from his seat, his body crumpling into the dirt.

Chaos erupted.

Lawmen poured from the stagecoach, guns blazing. The boys closest to them fell before they could turn. Horses screamed. Men shouted. The quiet desert morning shattered into blood and noise.

My muscles tensed, breathing shallow, I braced my rifle against the rock, narrowed my focus and fired.

One. A lawman crumpled behind the coach.

Two. Another staggered, clutching his gut before he fell.

Three. The third collapsed before he could get a shot off.

But there were too many. At least fifteen, and they were picking us off like buzzards on a carcass. A cold sweat broke out across my back.

“Damn,” I growled, rolling up from my position and running along the ridge. I had lost my advantage; the fighting was on the other side of the stagecoach.

I saw Hank firing wide as he retreated. Hamish and Pete ran back up the foothills, three lawmen hot on their heels. Gunfire snapped and popped through the dry morning air, bullets slicing past my ears and pinging off rocks behind me.

A flash of movement as one of the lawmen vaulted onto the top of the stagecoach in one smooth motion. His lean body crouched into position, as he fearlessly began methodically shooting at each of the boys escaping up the foothills.

My pulse thundered. I dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired.

The lawman turned at the last second, my bullet missing by inches.

A pair of steel-grey eyes locked onto mine, cold and calculating beneath the brim of his black hat, seconds before his bullet hissed past my ear, burying itself into the dirt inches from my skull.

I jumped back up and aimed, but the lawman had slipped from his horse, his black cloak billowing as he moved behind the stagecoach, out of my range.

I swore again and quickly aimed and fired, taking out every lawman I could see. The sharp crack of my rifle echoed like thunder off the canyon walls; each shot answered with a deafening volley.

Down below, the gang was crumbling. The lawmen had cover; we had open ground. The boys who weren’t dead were pinned behind panicked ponies. Those ponies reared and shrieked, hooves tearing into the dirt, reins flapping like whips.

“Up there!” the grey-eyed lawman pointed at me.

I ducked down immediately as the rain of bullets thundered where I had been standing.

My heart raced.

I heard Lady whinny, and when I looked down to where I had tied her up, Norman was sliding onto her back and taking off.

God, I’d shoot that man off my horse if I didn’t owe him my life.

I watched him ride off on my horse, spurring her wildly to get away as fast as he could.

Fucking coward. I should have shot him. I raised my rifle to shoot him when a bullet hit the dirt next to my knee.

I yelped and rolled back, looking over my ridge at the massacre below. The bullets whizzed back and forth in a hideous, deadly dance.

With a practised motion, I quickly loaded the bullets from my bandolier into my Winchester, never taking my eyes off my new target, a lawman’s crouched feet behind the stagecoach. I took aim, squeezed the trigger, and heard his scream. Almost immediately, the three remaining lawmen’s heads appeared, all shooting at me.

I ducked. Not fast enough.

A searing pain in my shoulder threw me backwards. I gasped and rolled down the back of the ridge, rocks and dirt flying banging against me. My heart thundered, and I scrambled, clutching desperately at the crumbling rocks to keep from falling too far. Seconds dragged on as my body rolled, my shoulder screaming in pain.

I hit the bottom with a thump that reverberated through my body. I shuddered. Hot blood gushed from my wound, quickly soaking my buckskin jacket, trickling, pooling on the golden sand, steam rising from it. My breath came in shudders. My head spun. I tried to pull myself up. I looked up at the top of the ridge, letting out a breath of relief when I didn’t see any lawmen following me down. I could hear the shouting and the guns, but there were far fewer of them now. A thundering of hooves as the coach and ponies pulled away.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my breath began to come in short, visible gasps. I put my hand to my wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding, but the hot blood oozed through my fingers.

Head spinning, I could only stare at the single cloud in the sky above me as my vision began to darken, my breath catching in my throat. My shoulder didn’t even hurt anymore; my whole body was focused on taking my next breath, which wouldn’t come.

For a split second, I saw his little face. Little Jamie, crying in his cot, reaching for me. I felt the warmth on my cheek and clenched my teeth, unable to move my arm, unable to breathe as the darkness seeped in.