did. It shined like the sunrise over a lake. Glistening. New. Most guns, like dusters and hats, grew dull or dirty from wear over time. But it wasn’t even the gun that threw up the largest flag of suspicion, it was his boots.
As the clank of spurs rang in the oddly silent room, the deputy noticed that the man’s boots were worn out. Although it was not an oddity to see worn out boots on the frontier, it seemed strange that those boots were on the same person who had a new hat, a new duster and a new gun. The strangest thing about the boots was not only the wear, but also the four distinct, carved marks on one of the heels.
With all the strange clues in mind, the deputy sheriff decided to follow him and see where he might go. He stayed at a safe distance as to remain unnoticed.
(2)
Several killings in the surrounding area of the providence had remained unsolved, four to be exact. Many people believed that the same man, who the papers had dubbed "the Riata killer", had been the suspect in all four murders. A serial killer. The killer had been given the name because of the calling card that he placed next to the bodies of each man that he had killed: a short section of stiffened rope, also known as a riata.
Each victim had been killed with a single shot to the back of the skull, execution style. Other than the calling card that was left with each of the bodies, there were no other clues.
The four victims were linked together as members of a part time, pseudo-outlaw gang who seemed to wreak havoc everywhere they went. A group of dumb drunks that, because of their drunkenness, would go and do despicable acts and not remember what they did the next day. Often their ramblings remained nothing more than shooting a couple of cows in the middle of the night or lighting some farmer’s barn on fire; suspected of stealing a horse or two, but nobody could prove any of it. Other than this type of mischief, when sober, they were likeable guys. There were six of them in the group and they called themselves the “One eyed bandits”.
Of course Jeb never liked the name. Jethro thought it up. Jeb and Jethro were the only two surviving members of the gang and if they weren’t so dumb, they would have realized that they were the targets of a serial madman and stayed home.
As the deputy sheriff followed the stranger he noticed the eeriness of the night. Nights were often silent and cool in those parts, but this night proved even more silent and colder than many before. The clouds seemed to surround the full moon as if they were corralling cattle for slaughter. Its reflected light shined enough to see for miles around. The knowledge that a serial killer operated in the silence made the evening seem even creepier than it appeared.
The stranger stood off in the distance as he followed Jethro, methodic and patient in his hunt. Like a wolf stalking his prey. Jethro stumbled over something in the middle of the street, mumbled, and then laughed. It seemed to the deputy that Jethro had trouble walking and singing at the same time. Of course the man did have quite a lot to drink.
His singing grew louder and more off key. The stranger moved closer in the shadows and at an even further distance the deputy skulked as well, praying, hoping that Jethro would just shut up and hurry home. His singing drew too much attention to himself as it echoed in the eerie night.
Of course that could have been a good thing as well. Maybe others would have their attention drawn to him and the killer wouldn't be able to strike. Then again, it could cause any perspective onlooker to look away long before he came into view. Shut up, Jethro. Run. Run home and lock the door. Jethro had no clue that his life may be in danger and nonchalantly staggered home singing and hiccupping into the silence of the night.
The air grew and colder with each passing moment and Jethro continued to sing as far out of key as anyone possibly could. He was a marked man and he had no idea. With each passing moment the hunter inched closer to his prey.
The deputy stared in fear, as the moment that he knew would come and had desperately hoped wouldn’t arrive, had arrived. The wolf leaped to his prey. With the swiftness of rattlesnake he struck, smooth and complete. With one blow Jethro lay on the ground complaining about the circumstances of the situation that had just presented itself. “What in the name of...” He rubbed the back of his head and looking around before he tried to stand up.
“Shut up.” The stranger’s speech was tranquil but harsh. He pulled his highly polished gun from his holster while he placed his left boot into the small of Jethro’s back. Jethro squirmed while trying to turn and look at the face of his assailant. “You must repent!” The stranger’s voice became callous as bent to place the gun at the back of Jethro’s head.
“What do you mean, ‘repent’?” Jethro’s mind raced between fear and confusion. “I ain’t done nuttin’. I’m just a drunk tryin’ to get home before I pass out in the street again and wake up in the mornin’ with puke all over my shirt or in jail. And I don’t like wakin’ up in jail.” He struggled again, “Let me up.” The stranger put more pressure on Jethro’s back with his boot. “All right, all right.” Jethro tried to rationalize with the man. He held his arms up in a gesture of surrender. “What do you want?”
“I told you want I want.” The man seemed to speak without speaking. A ventriloquist without a dummy. Almost like he thought the words and everyone could hear them. “Blood for blood!” The stranger stepped harder onto Jethro’s back. It seemed as if he thought he could step through. Maybe that was the point. Jethro let out a harsh scream.
“What do you want with me?” Jethro had now begun to cry. “What have I done to you? Who are you?” A thousand more questions rolled through his feeble mind.
“I am the father of two and the husband of one. None of whom remain to exact vengeance upon those who have done wretchedly against them.” He released some of the pressure on Jethro’s back. “Look back at the face of your accuser.”
The deputy continued to stare at the scene before him, helpless and frozen from the shock of it all. His mind whirled. He had never witnessed anything like this before and was deathly afraid, but he knew that he had to do something. He held his breath and closed his eyes tight like a kid that was trying to force himself to eat something that he didn’t want to eat. “Courage,” he repeated to himself over and again as he stood to approach the situation before him. He had enough scruples about him to draw his gun, hand shaking, as his legs moved into a mindless run.
“I know you.” Jethro said as he had turned enough to see the face of the man behind him. The light of the moon shined upon the man’s face just enough for Jethro to recognize him.
Jethro noticed the bitter hatred on the man’s eyes and begged. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I tried to stop them. Really, I did. I begged them not to do it. I begged ‘em.” He was crying like a lost child, “then when they brought out the rope…” He turned his face toward the ground again and cried aloud, “Oh, God. Oh, God. What have we done? I’m sorry! I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t…” The stranger shot Jethro in the back of his head. With that the crying and the begging ceased and the eerie night was again silent and cold.
The deputy felt his heart turn to ice and his breath left him. He had been running, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, even the report of the gun being fired into the back of Jethro’s head. He couldn’t believe what he had witnessed. It had to have been a nightmare. He hoped desperately to wake up from the dream to find that everything would still be alright.
As the stranger put his gun back into the holster, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife and proceeded to carve another notch in his boot. Number five. Before he looked up to see the man approaching him he pulled a short section of rope from beneath his new duster and placed it next to the limp body of Jethro, lying in the pool of his own blood.
The deputy, who
had found the courage that he had earlier called for, ran faster, but he couldn’t seem to move fast enough. “Stop!” he yelled as loud as he possibly could although he knew it was already too late. Even to him, his voice seemed slow and distorted and everything about the night seemed to slow.
He stared at the growing pool of blood beneath Jethro in awe as he panted from his sprint. After staring for a brief moment in disbelief, he aimed his gun at the stranger and said in a nervous and fearful voice, “You,” he swallowed hard, “need to come with me. I gotta put you in jail so you can wait for your trial, and, most likely, the hangin’ for killin’ those five men.” To an astonishment of the deputy, the stranger went with him to the jail with no resistance at all.
(3)
A new duster, new gun, new hat, a short section of rope and a pair of old weather beaten boots with five marks on the left heel sat on top of the Sheriff’s desk. Clues left on the person of the most sought after outlaw ever in those parts. Trying to make sense of them, the Sheriff stared at the items on his desk. He clamored to find anything that would tell him why this man would do what he had done. I know those guys can be downright ornery sometimes, he thought, and