Between the Raindrops

In Response to Savagery

Dawn came, the sun rising hot over the rolling hills of the grasslands. It burned off the mists but not the smoke and cast the charred skeletons of shops in a strange rosy haze. Townsfolk staggered, weary and numb from the bucket chains. They took in the wreckage. A man sat in the dirt road in front of the burned husk of a building – once the laundry. His head in his hands. Dumb with worry.

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

Agent Andrew Milton stared at the growing row of pale, fresh-cut wooden boxes. Shrouded in smoke and the pale dawn and lined up along the grassy edge of the dry dirt street. Two so far and at least ten more were needed. No less than five young deputies confirmed. Four missing. Two bounty hunters. Four of his own men.

And a young girl. A sheet covered the ruin of her once beautiful face. Blotted red and russet and brown as mothwings.

What would Alan Pinkerton have done?

Milton shook his head. Pinkerton would have trusted his gut more. He would have moved the fight away from town. Found the thieves in their camp and ambushed them in their morning coffee.

It was frustrating, that Van der Linde might slip away. Andrew knew, with bitter certainty, where the blame lay. He had wanted too much; a perfect arrest with enough evidence and testimony to close the books. The truth so plain that any judge could give Van der Linde the noose. One hundred fifty thousand dollars; no outlaw would resist that. But what had happened next...

What kind of man... what kind of animal shoots a defenseless girl in the head?

"Mr. Milton."

Andrew pulled his gaze from the pine boxes and found Mr. Oswald Dunbar. The old chief's eyes were misted, hanging low in the hammocks of his lids.

"I'm sorry," the agent said. "I wanted Van der Linde red-handed."

The police chief sighed. "Can't be helped, I guess."

"It wasn't supposed to be this way."

The chief nodded and Andrew nodded along with him and decided that feeling sorry would not change the cards that now lay on the table. Andrew cleared his throat. "Are your men ready to ride?"

"No," Dunbar said with a sorry shake of his head. "But Brooks is rounding up a posse. He's tryin' to get every man he can muster." Dunbar stared at the coffins. Then, more softly, he said, "Never in all my life."

"We got one," someone said and Andrew welcomed the interruption. He looked to the voice and saw the stalky, purposeful walk and the dome of the bowler and the thick black moustache and recognized Agent Ross. "Mac Callender. And Skelding nabbed one too."

Finally, a break. "Which?"

"Sean McGuire. But the damn wolf won't give 'im up."

"Let's go see."

A pall lingered over the scarred city and the agents walked the few hundred yards to the Surgery in silence. They found Ike Skelding leaned against one of the white pillars of the front porch.

"Your boys insisted I explain myself," the bounty hunter said with a smirk. He lit a cigarette. Eyes shaded beneath his hat. His thumb hooked on his belt, his knuckles bleeding.

"Need I remind you the purpose of this whole endeavor?" Andrew demanded.

"We caught two. One for you. One for me."

"So hand McGuire in."

"Each one has got a fine price on their heads," Skelding explained, blowing out a puff of smoke.