Western Wednesday 7 2
Jedediah let the man drop. The bandit landed in the dust with a grunt, his leg buckling under him. The sound of his own breathing was loud in Jedediah’s ears, a ragged counterpoint to the bandit’s wheezing laughter.
“An old circus trick,” the man, Cole, gasped, wiping a smear of bloody spittle from his lips. “Taught Ghost how to do that myself. Lure in a Good Samaritan. Best pack mule there is.” His eyes, no longer milky with pain but sharp and cunning, flicked to Cinder. “You saved me a hell of a walk. My partner’s waiting just north of here. Figure you’ve earned a share for the trouble.”
Jedediah stared at the empty space where the wolf had vanished. The whole world had tilted on him. He was no longer a rescuer; he was a fool, an accomplice after the fact. He drew the Colt again, the weight of it familiar and solid in his hand. “You’ll be walking to the sheriff in Prineville. Or crawling.”
Cole just grinned, a bloody, broken thing. “My partner, a fella named Hobbs, he’s not the patient type. He sees you hauling me toward town, he’s not gonna ask questions. He’s just gonna start shooting. He’ll shoot my horse, then you, then probably me for gettin’ caught. Your choice. A bullet in the back, or a few gold eagles in your pocket and a clean ride out.”
The threat settled in the air, heavier than the evening chill. Jedediah knew the type. Hobbs would be perched on some rock, invisible, a rifle cradled in his arms. He was caught between a law he had no part in breaking and a man who would see him dead without a second thought. The gold was a lie, he knew that. They’d kill him the second he was no longer useful.
“Where?” Jedediah’s voice was flat.
Cole’s grin widened. “An old line shack. By the Black Creek wash.” He pointed with his chin. “Not more than a mile.”
Jedediah shoved the Colt back in its holster. He heaved the bandit up and slung him over Cinder’s saddle like a sack of feed, ignoring the hiss of pain. He took the reins and started walking, leading the horse into the deepening twilight. The calf was forgotten, a ghost in the alkali basin behind them. Every rock, every shadow looked like a man with a rifle. The silence was absolute. Cole had stopped talking, his head bouncing against the saddle leather. Jedediah’s mind raced, turning over options like worn-out coins. There were none. He was walking into a trap, and his only hope was to find a way to spring it on his own terms.
The shack was a dark slash against the grey earth, half-collapsed and desolate. No light. No horses. Cole lifted his head. “Hobbs? You in there?”
The silence that answered was wrong. It was a dead, empty silence.
A cold knot formed in Jedediah’s gut. He yanked Cole from the saddle, using the bandit’s body as a shield, and stumbled behind the crumbling wall of a nearby livestock pen. A rifle cracked, the sound echoing flat and hard across the wash. A puff of dust erupted from the ground where Cole had been moments before. The shot hadn’t come from the shack. It came from the ridge behind them.
Before Jedediah could move, a voice rolled down from the rocks, calm and carrying. “That’s far enough, Cole. Tell your friend to drop his weapon.”
Cole let out a string of curses, his face pale in the gloom. Jedediah peered over the wall. A figure was descending the ridge, tall and broad-shouldered, a rifle held loosely in one hand. A five-pointed star glinted on his vest. A real one.
Relief washed over Jedediah, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He stood up slowly, raising his hands. “Marshal,” he called out. “This man, he’s a bandit. I was forced into this.”
The Marshal didn’t slow his approach. His face was granite, his eyes sweeping over Jedediah, Cole on the ground, and Cinder standing dumbly nearby. He came to a stop ten feet away, his gaze hard as iron.
“I’ve been tracking you two since you left that canyon,” the Marshal said, his voice devoid of warmth. “Saw the whole performance. Drop the act. You’re both under arrest.”
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