Tim Curran - Skull Moon

It all depended on how smart Gantz was.

Longtree could see part of the man's elbow sticking out from behind the tree. At this distance, hitting it was unlikely, but worth a chance. At the very least, it might scare the bounty hunter out into the open for a split second…long enough to put a bullet in him.

Longtree took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet missed its mark by a few inches, gouging free bark and making Gantz dart for fresh cover. The next bullet Longtree fired caught Gantz in the leg and solicited a howl of pain from him. It probably wasn't much more than a flesh wound, but it was something.

Within seconds after the bullet had hit, Longtree came charging from his hiding place, both pistols drawn and firing, slugs ripping apart the brush Gantz was hiding in.

But Gantz was no fool.

He saw what the marshal was doing and he wasn't about to let it happen.

Dragging his injured leg, he hobbled from the trees, bullets zinging past him, shotgun held out and firing. Longtree hit the dirt, felt the first burst of buckshot scream over his head, the second erupt snow and dirt in his face. He rolled and came up firing. The first and second bullets punched holes in Gantz' stomach, blood gushing from the wounds. The third and final bullet ripped into his chest.

Gantz staggered forward, dropping the shotgun, trembling fingers reaching for the pistols at each hip. His bearded face was pale, compressed into a rictus of agony and hatred. He tried to speak, but blood sprayed from his mouth and froze on his beard, his gasping breath frosted in the air. He staggered and went down on one knee, his eyes rolling back white. With a final coughing, gagging wet gasp of air, he fell forward into the snow. His blood steamed in the chill temperature.

He was dead when Longtree reached him, the crunchy snow red with his fluids.

"Shit," Longtree said, flipping the dead man over with his boot.

He'd wanted very much to take Gantz alive. He wanted to ask him why he'd let this happen, why he'd been pushed into such action. These were questions Longtree never tired of asking and the answers were often less than satisfying. But he always asked them, good or bad.

With a sigh, Longtree turned away.

He'd killed more men in his time than he liked to think about. And each time, death left him feeling the same-empty, hopeless, physically ill. There was never anything to be gained from violent death, only pain and suffering and guilt. But that was the way of this land; it respected nothing else.

Longtree went up into the treeline and retrieved Gantz' horse. He slung the dead man over the saddle and roped a blanket over him. That done, he broke camp and packed up all his things and led Gantz' horse into town.

He wouldn't be coming back here again. Tonight he would stay in town and every night after. Next time when a gunman came after him, he might not be so lucky.

But, ultimately, it wasn't men that worried him.

"You should've known better than to be up there, " Sheriff Lauters said to Bowes. "You should've known better than to listen to that damn breed."

Bowes hung his head. "That's not important, Sheriff. Because what happened up there-"

"Enough!" Lauters snapped. "I ain't listening to your goddamn ghost stories no longer. Christ, Deputy! What's come over you? Before this you were the most level-headed man I knew!"

"I saw what I saw."

Lauters sighed and popped the cork from a fresh bottle of rye. He upended it and gulped, stopping only when he began to cough and gag. " I don't know," he gasped, "what you and that marshal are up to, but it had better stop. Monsters rising from the grave… shit!" Lauters pulled off the bottle again, his hands shook and he made gagging sounds, as if he could barely hold the liquor down.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff, that you think I'm a liar, but I saw what I saw. And the last thing I'm going to say on the matter is that these murders are more than we can handle."

"This country can't throw anything at me I can't handle," Lauters insisted. "Not a goddamn thing.''

There was a blast of cool air and both men turned to see Longtree standing in the door. "Nothing a bottle can't help you with, eh, Sheriff?"

"You sonofabitch," Lauters growled, his hand sliding down to his gun. "You started all this mess, you-"

"I wouldn't draw that unless you wanna die," Longtree said calmly. "Never met a drunk in my life I couldn't outdraw."

Lauters hand stopped. "You threatening me, breed?"

"No, sir, I'm warning you," Longtree said. "I'm warning you that if you ever again try anything as stupid as you did yesterday, I'll fucking kill you. And be within my rights."

Lauters clenched his teeth. "Maybe we ought to settle this out back."

Longtree opened his coat, fingers tapping the butt of one of his Colts. "If you've got the stomach for it, Sheriff."

"All right now," Bowes said, stepping between them. "None of that here. You're both lawmen and you're both doing the same job, so knock it off."

"What do you want here, Longtree?" the sheriff asked.

"A fellow by the name of Jacko Gantz tried to kill me today," Longtree announced.

Lauters just stared, his eyes bulging. A touch of color spread into his cheeks, then fled. He said nothing. He touched his tongue against his lips.

"That's the fellah you were telling me about, wasn't it?" Bowes asked.

Longtree nodded. "His body's outside."

Lauters licked his lips. "You killed him?"

"He didn't give me much choice."

Lauters pushed past him and went outside.

"If I didn't know better," Longtree said, "I'd think the sheriff was disappointed Gantz didn't succeed."

There was a light, cool mist in the air by the time Lauters made it out to Mike Ryan's ranch. Ryan had one of the largest ranches outside Wolf Creek and he was, without a doubt, the richest man in that part of the Montana Territory. He had some seven hundred head of cattle at present and twice that amount in another ranch near Bannack. He owned several hotels in Nevada and Virginia Cities as well as a variety of dance halls, saloons, and gambling halls. He was a major stockholder in several copper and silver mining companies and sat on the board of directors at the Union Pacific Railroad.

Ryan was waiting for Lauters as he rode up.

"What happened, Mike?" Lauters asked.

"Hell broke loose, Bill."

Ryan had dispatched a rider to fetch the sheriff. At the time, Lauters was at Spence's undertaking parlor with Longtree and his deputy, having a look at the man Longtree had killed. He was glad to be called away. He had an ugly feeling Longtree knew damn well that he'd had something to do with Gantz' attack.

A ranch hand brought the two men mugs of steaming coffee as they walked through the grounds. The ranch was like a little city. Ryan's huge white house sat serene and omnipotent on a hill overlooking everything, its great carved pillars and fancy latticework gleaming in the weak sunlight. Below, was a sprawl of buildings-bunkhouses for the men, livery barns, log barns, outbuildings, a fine insulated ice house set in a low hill, a smithy's shop, a cookhouse twice the size of Lauters' home, and an intricate network of working corrals stretching off towards the horizon.

It was all very impressive.

"Tell me what's been happening in this town, Bill," Ryan said. Ryan had only arrived back in Wolf Creek the day before after some six weeks spent touring his various holdings.

Lauters laid it all out for him. About the killings and the inhuman nature of them, putting special emphasis on who the murdered men were. He spoke of Longtree and Bowes and the death of Gantz.

"That injun's gonna be trouble, I take it?" Ryan said.

"More than you can imagine, Mike."