Howard Hopkins: The Lone Ranger: Vendetta

That sonofabitch would pay. He’d learn what true loneliness was like—and then he’d die.

She spat a stream of saliva and tobacco juice, then dug the chaw out from between her lip and gum and flung it to the ground. The taste suddenly annoyed her; every gawdamned thing annoyed her. Especially that idjit, Trent. Where the hell was he, anyhow?

Behind her eight men sat about the fire. Some played poker while others drank bitter-brewed Arbuckle’s. One slept, hat over his face. They were as motley a crew of bastards as Butch had ever assembled and while she rightly suspected they didn’t cotton much to following a woman, they put up with it because they split the take from stage and bank robberies generously. And she’d blow anyone’s brains out who defied her. She’d lost three men that way already, though it had been a fine and deadly lesson to the rest.

The sound of slowing hoofbeats pulled her from her thoughts and her head lifted and came around. She stood, hand brushing aside a flap of her duster, then resting on the handle of her Smith & Wesson.

The men behind her came to their feet, their hands also going to their guns.

“It’s me,” a man said as the hoofbeats drew to a halt and a rider emerged from the shadows of the night.

“Jesus H., Trent,” she said, hand relaxing, though she had half a notion to shoot him just for the hell of it. “Took your own gawdamn time, didn’t you? You been gone half the day.”

The man named Trent, a young outlaw with orange-red hair cut short and a smear of freckles across a nose that showed evidence of having been broken somewhere in the past, dismounted, leading his horse to a cottonwood and tethering it to a branch. She had caught a look on his face she didn’t much care for, a measure of defiance and disrespect he’d damn well best lose if he expected to go on living. The look had vanished by the time he turned back to her.

“Took longer to find out than I figgered,” he said, removing his hat. “A-cause I saw Cooper ride into town.” His voice irritated her. It had a scratchy quality that rode her nerves and she wondered why she had hired him in the first place. Was s’posed to be fast with a gun, but he was still on trial and a hair’s breadth from being convicted and sentenced.

“What’d he do there?”

“He stopped by the marshal’s to report a brand altering, then rode out to Bryant’s Gap.”

“Sonofabitch…” she muttered. “He saw the dug up graves?”

Trent nodded. “He saw them. Filled in five of them, too. Had himself a look on his face after.”

“He knows…” Her voice came low, thoughtful.

“Knows what?” Trent asked. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything anyway. We’re wastin’ time followin’ folks around. We could be hittin’ stages.”

Her hand went to the handle of her gun again and the hard lines on her face grew harder.

“I don’t reckon you’re questioning my judgment, are you?”

The expression on Trent’s face said that was exactly what he was doing. She hoped he voiced it, because that would give her the excuse she needed. Trent apparently though better of it.

“No… no, I ain’t. Just don’t see what this is all about.”

“It’s about revenge, you stupid sonofabitch. That’s all you need to know.”

Trent stood stock still and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He wanted to challenge her authority but was afeared of her and he’d damn well better be.

“What about the marshal?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

“I overheard him and his deputy,” he said, words coming out a bit too fast and betraying his unease. “He’s thinkin’ about calling in the county marshal and his men. He reckons the storeowner’s killin’ was the work of some gang. Someone saw you outside the store.”

She rubbed a hand over her lower face, not at all pleased with the prospect. County men coming in here now would ruin everything. She’d misjudged things, hadn’t thought anyone would pay her any mind outside the store.

“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” she said.

“We ought to just ride—”

“The hell we will!” she said, her voice a whip. “Not until I finish what I came to do. Marshal Moore knew the Reids…” Her voice trailed off, thoughts shifting through alternatives to her plan. She had reckoned on hitting the marshal after Cooper, but that had to be stepped up.

“The Reids?” Trent asked.

She gazed at him, flame in her eyes, then at the other men. “We’re going to take the town, boys. We’re takin’ it tonight.”

“The whole town?” one of her men asked, voice heavy with surprise.

“The whole gawdamned town. Congratulations, Parker…” She eyed the man who had spoken. “Time we’re done hurrahing Coopersville; you’re going to be the new marshal.” She looked back to Trent. “Moore still in his office?”

The young outlaw nodded. “Deputy, too.”

“Mount up. Trent, take Hawkins and secure the saloon. Fill anyone with lead who don’t take to the notion. Rest of us will take care of the marshal and his man.”

Worried looks passed between some of her men, but fifteen minutes later ten riders tore into Coopersville, two splitting off and galloping toward the saloon. She led the charge, reins twisted around one hand, the other unleashing her Smith & Wesson and triggering shots.

The men with her did the same. Lead punched into building walls and splintered wood from supporting beams. Windows exploded with jangling crashes under the barrage, glass raining to the boardwalks. Holes appeared in troughs, which spouted streams of water. Dust from pounding hoofs wafted up in dingy clouds.

Few folks were out and about; those who were became instantly sorry they hadn’t headed for the safety of their homes a few moments earlier.

One of the outlaws took aim on a cowboy half in his cups staggering down the boardwalk. He blasted a shot and the man flew sideways, a gaping hole in his chest, and toppled over a rail into a water trough recently topped off with rain. Water splashed to the rutted hardpack.

The handful of remaining townsfolk on the boardwalks went down seconds behind him, only one getting out any kind of a yell before a bullet obliterated half his face.

The woman smiled an ice-cold smile and angled her mount toward the marshal’s office. She counted off the seconds, knowing it would not be long.

She made it to three before the office door flew open. Marshal Moore, shock twisting his worn features, stepped out onto the boardwalk, Peacemaker drawn. He raised it, tried to fire on her but she was ready for it.

“Hi-yo, Silver, you sonofabitch…” she said and punctuated it with a vicious laugh, squeezed the trigger.

The marshal stuttered in his step, a blue hole suddenly appearing in his forehead. He went backwards, slammed into the deputy just coming out of the office behind him.

She fired again; the deputy, who’d caught the marshal in one arm, dropped the lawman. He coughed a crimson spray, stood stock still, as if uncertain what had happened. He tried to say something while pawing at his gun, but blood geysered from a hole in his throat.

Gagging, he pitched forward, crashed face-first to the boardwalk and lay still.

Just like that, it was over, and a measure of disappointment washed through her at how easy it had been. Lambs slaughtered by wolves.

She reined up, her men silencing their blasts and drawing up around her. Screams from the saloon, shrill and terror-stricken, cascaded into the night, followed by shots.

The town was hers. And soon, so would be the Lone Ranger.

6

“Git’em up, Scout!” Tonto yelled and heeled the pinto into a sprint toward the left side of the house. He had been studying the window to the right of the door, certain he’d glimpsed movement behind the dark glass. That notion was confirmed the moment sunlight glinted off the barrel of a rifle. It had to be a rifle, with the accuracy and range the shooter exhibited. They had been lucky, this time, not being hit, but whoever lurked within the homestead was still firing and that luck might just run out at any second.