The last golden rays of the retreating afternoon splintered into sharp needles; the last remains of the shards still above the horizon casting reflections of burned crimson and copper into the grayness of early evening sky. Dark clouds streamed lonely trails above, announcing the coming of crisp nighttime air.
Jace Carlin lay flat on his stomach in the high grass on top of a ridge overlooking the trail below. He held his head low, keeping concealed but raised just enough to see the trail. He arms were outstretched forward and a Winchester rifle was held firmly in his grasp: the stock pressed firmly into the hollow of his shoulder. His hands felt sweaty and clammy. Perspiration dripped from his brow and trickled into the corners of his eyes. Occasionally he would release his grip on the weapon and wipe the eyes clear. He felt a sickness in his gut and he fidgeted uneasy in the grass.
He had never cold bloodedly shot anyone without giving them a chance, much less an out and out bushwhack. What had happened to him? He tried not to think about it. Had he finally crossed over that line and become a killer, after all? No better than the men who had enraged him to a life of vengeance and violence.
He had been here in the grass for almost half an hour. As planned, he waited for Duncan Holt’s buggy to appear. Jenna was to convince Duncan to drive her to town for a church function. Jace would ambush him from the ridge and then ride to town. Jenna would wait awhile to give Jace enough time to get to town ahead of her. That way Jace would have an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the shooting. The assumption would be that someone from the Diamond 8 was responsible.
Jace hated to put the blame on Stacy Merritt or any of her riders, but it would keep him in the clear. Besides, it would be difficult to prove anything anyhow. He told himself it didn’t matter. But why did it nag at him? Why did he hate Jenna Holt so much for conceiving such a plan? And why did he hate himself for going along with it?
For his home, he told himself. It belonged to him. Duncan Holt was only getting what he deserved.
The last remains of the sun were settling below the horizon. Dusk was setting in and the air became cooler and fresh. Crickets and locusts began their nighttime songs of loneliness. Jace strained his eyes to see into the distance along the trail Waiting. Heart beating excitedly. Beads of sweat standing out on his brow, yet not cooling him in the evening dampness.
Minutes ticked by and still no sign of the carriage. He slapped at hovering mosquitoes and punkies were biting his skin. Maybe, Jenna had lost her nerve, he thought. No. Not a chance. She was too cold. What had he seen in her years ago, he wondered. How could she be Alice’s sister and be so different?
Maybe she had failed to convince Duncan to drive out tonight. Maybe Duncan was smart enough to know Jenna had something planned. After all, a lot of townspeople had seen them riding together that day. Maybe word got back to Duncan somehow. Maybe……..
Then there it was. A dark shape was moving along the trail. It seemed to grow larger as it approached until finally, Carlin could make it out as a carriage and a team of horses. His pulse started to race even faster and his sweaty palms slipped on the rifle barrel and trigger housing.
He could hear the wheels of the carriage crunching on the gravel trail and he could hear the harness and trapping of the team creaking, plainly now. They were almost directly below him. He raised the front sight of the muzzle and placed it on Duncan Holt’s head. His hands started to tremble and the sight wavered off and on his target. He must calm himself, but why couldn’t he? For once in his life he pointed a gun at a man and did not feel vengeance in his heart. For the first time he felt fear. Not the fear of another man, another gun, or of death itself. He felt the fear of himself and knew now what all the others who had gone down by his gun, had felt in their last moments of life.
Before him, he saw the faces of the men before him as his gun barked time and again; bodies left where they fell. “I’ll kill you, when I grow up! I hate you! I hate you!” A little boy’s voice rang in his head. He saw a woman holding her dead husband in the middle of the street and crying; her son hugging her desperately about the neck.
Jace’s body was shaking uncontrollably, now and his strength seemed to evaporate. Desperately, he tried to pull his weapon under control; his sights still wavering. His trigger finger squeezed against the trigger and it seemed to take all of his energy to pull it back far enough to take up the slack. Slowly, it moved into place. Only a slight pressure more and the rifle would explode sending a deadly lead projectile into Duncan Holt’s unsuspecting body.
But then his body went limp and he released his grasp on the weapon. He fell flat on his face in the grass and tears streamed down his cheeks and he sobbed convulsively while the carriage containing Duncan and Jenna Holt continued uneventfully along the trail.
Jace lay there for several minutes; his face buried in the tall grass, as if hiding from shame. He listened to the steady clip clop of Holt’s team and creaking of carriage wheels crunching in the gravel as the sounds steadily faded away until they could be heard no more. Only the lonely sounds of the night remained.
Then, suddenly, panic swept over him; his mind racing with confusion as he finally realized the full extent of what he had almost done. With a burst of energy he loosed his grip on the rifle, bent his arms beneath him; palms flat on the grassy ground, and pushed himself to his feet. He turned and ran blindly toward his rented horse that he had left tethered in the bushes at the bottom of the hill. He vaulted into the saddle, landing heavily on the animal’s back, yanking on the reins and twisting the horse’s neck savagely and raking his spurs cruelly into his sides.
The horse shrieked shrilly and snorted in pain as it turned almost completely around in place; its iron shod hooves digging clods of turf from the ground and sending them spewing out from under him. Carlin pulled the animal straight, loosened the reins and kicked the horse forward into a fast gallop. Across the meadow below, up a low ridge and down into the next valley, Carlin pushed his mount at full speed; lashing the animal with the trailing ends of the reins. The horse gasped with laboring breath. Lather flecked and then foamed against the animal’s withers, sides and haunches. Carlin didn’t seem to care. He just kept pushing the horse mercilessly forward without purpose, not even aware of where he was going or why.
The horse began to slow. Carlin lashed at him with the reins, urging him on, but the animal was just too worn out. He began to falter, then stumbled, and fell forward on his knees. Jace flew forward over the horse’s head and fell clear as the animal rolled over on its side; his legs flailing with the fall until his strength was totally depleted and he lay still, save for the heaving of his sides and the gasping breath. Jace rolled across the hard packed earth, his wind knocked out of him. The blow seemed to bring him back to his senses and he sat up in the grass; breathing heavily. His eyes seemed blurred at first and then as he brought the scene before him into focus. Remorse washed over him as he realized what he had done to his horse. He saw the foamed lather covering his hide and he saw the bloody scratches his spurs had left on the animal’s flanks. He listened to the labored breathing and cursed himself for his brutality.
After several moments, the horse began to breathe more normally. His sides no longer heaved and the foam was drying in his hair. Eventually the horse stirred , rolled over and put his feet beneath him. In another moment the animal was on his feet. He shook his head and his hide rippled.
Jace came to his feet and approached the horse, reaching for the bridle. The horse threw its head high and backed away warily.
“Steady, old boy,” Jace said softly and reassuringly. “I’m not gonna hurt you anymore.” He slid the palm of his hand over the horse’s muzzle and patted his neck. The horse steadied and accepted the pats. “I was a danged fool for treating you that way. I had no right to do that to you. Let’s get you some water and some fresh grass. Then I’ll see about getting you someplace where we can get some salve
for your scratches.”
Gently, Jace took the reins and walked off into the darkness leading the horse behind him.