"Ah, you're here." Malloy exhaled as Cain stepped into the sheriff's office. The air was heavy, not tense exactly, but weighed down by purpose. Two lawmen stood by the wall, armed and waiting, their expressions somewhere between wary and determined.
Malloy gestured toward them. "Meet Deputy Harris and Deputy Colt. They'll be your backup for this one, though don't count on them to hold your hand."
Cain gave the men a nod, his eyes flicking briefly to their rifles before settling back on Malloy. "So I take it this isn't one of those quiet jobs, huh?"
Malloy's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "No, son. Not this time. Just like what's in the letters, you'll be heading for the O'Driscoll camp between Castor's Ridge and Caliban's Seat. Once that's dealt with, move on to the caves near Twin Stack Pass and recover the stolen livestock."
He paused, reaching for a map spread across his desk, his finger tracing the route with precision. "Expect resistance. Colm's men won't go down easy. But they're not expecting you either, that's our only edge."
Cain folded his arms, scanning the map. "So it's confirmed then. O'Driscolls."
"Confirmed and counted. About fifteen, maybe twenty men," Malloy replied grimly. "You won't be able to sneak past that many. A gunfight's all but certain."
Cain nodded, as if accepting something inevitable. "And the farmers?"
"They'll get their stock back, if you do your job right."
Malloy finally looked up, meeting Cain's eyes. "Do this clean, son. Quick and clean. The whole town's faith might just rest on what you pull off today."
Cain took a deep breath, his fingers brushing the grip of his revolver. "Then let's get it done."
He turned toward the door, sunlight spilling over him as he stepped out. The two deputies followed in silence, three silhouettes walking toward whatever waited between Castor's Ridge and Caliban's Seat.
The three men rode out under the rising sun, hooves crunching over dirt and gravel as the town of Valentine faded into the distance. The air smelled faintly of pine and gun oil.
Cain broke the quiet first, glancing toward the two lawmen riding beside him. "So… how long you two been working under Malloy?"
"'Bout three years," replied Harris, a tall, wiry man with a steady grip on his reins. "Ain't much else to do 'round here except keep drunks from shootin' each other."
Colt chuckled beside him. "And sometimes failin' at that."
Cain smirked faintly. "Sounds like honest work."
"Honest enough," Colt said, shifting in the saddle. "Though I gotta say, Cain, we didn't figure you for a bounty hunter. Last we saw, you were just the quiet fella runnin' errands and fixin' fences."
"Guess life's got a way of changin' you," Cain replied, his tone even but thoughtful. "Workin' the post office and stables don't exactly make you forget what the world's really like. You just learn to live with it."
Harris nodded. "Still, word's spread fast about you. Malloy says you've done more in a week than some folks do in a year. Guess we'll see for ourselves today."
Cain's eyes stayed forward, the brim of his hat shading the faint scar on his cheek. "You'll see plenty, I reckon. Let's just hope none of it gets either of you killed."
The two deputies exchanged a look, half amusement, half respect.
They rode on, the hills rolling wider and the silence returning, broken only by the wind and the faint rattle of their gear.
"So what's the plan?" Cain asked, voice low. "Three men against fifteen, maybe twenty."
Harris spat into the dust and shrugged. "Colt and me? We're steady. We open up from distance, pick off as many as we can with rifles. Spread out, take good angles. When they start returnin' fire and the shots get close, that's when we close, revolvers out, quick and dirty."
Colt tipped his head, the hint of a grin under his stubbled jaw. "We do it clean. Sniper shots first, then a rush. Don't give 'em time to form up. If we move smart, we can cut the numbers before they can use their numbers on us."
Cain listened, weighing the rhythm of it, long-range patience, then sudden violence. He pictured the ridge, the wagons, the way the light fell through the scrub. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a plan.
"All right," he said finally, palms loose on the reins. "We hold positions, pick our shots, and when I give the call we close. No heroics. Stay sharp, breathe steady."
They fell into silence after that, each man running the route over in his head, rehearsing his role until the hills ahead swallowed them up.
They rode hard but quiet, the three silhouettes melting into the low scrub as Castor's Ridge rose up ahead. The sun was a raw coin over the horizon, throwing long fingers of light across the rock and scrub. Cain felt the old thrum in his chest, the one that steadied his aim and tuned out everything unnecessary.
They left the horses where the ground sloped shallow and crawled the last hundred yards on hands and knees, breath shallow and slow. Harris took the left flank, Colt the right; Cain moved to the center, feeling the cold metal of his repeater and Schofield against his thigh.
Each man found a shallow depression or a tuft of grass to make a blind out of, peering down into the small hollow where the O'Driscolls had made camp. From their vantage they could see the wagons, the men stretched like lazy dogs around the fire, rifles propped in easy reach.
They took stock, fingers pointing with the quiet of men who'd done this before. Targets numbered in Cain's head, two by the fire, three by the wagons, a lookout on the ridge, the rest lounged and careless. Colt clicked his tongue once, low and decisive. "When you give the word, we pick the ones that'll make the most noise first. Headshots, then let the panic do the rest."
Cain's mouth tasted of dust and hot metal. He scanned for wind, checked the angle of the sun in case a flash would betray them, and adjusted the aim of his sight. "We take distance first," he said, voice a thread against the wind. "We slow their reflexes, make 'em think ghosts are shooting. When they scramble, we close. Keep your breaths long and your triggers ready."
Harris breathed out, and the world narrowed. Then Cain moved: a soft, practiced click of bone and leather as he shifted the repeater, sighting the lookout first. His finger feathered the trigger.
The rifle spoke, a clean, tearing bark that smelled of hot brass, and the lookout's head snapped forward, a slow, terrible bow. For a breath there was nothing but the drumming in Cain's own ears.
Chaos answered the shot, as planned but still wild. There were shouts, the rattle of men scrambling to shoulder rifles, the thud of feet. Colt's rifle cracked from his right, dropping a man who'd reached for a shotgun. Harris's shot sang from the left and another body slumped. For a handful of seconds they were ghosts, accurate, distant, surgical.
Then the uglier part: the return fire. Sparks struck the earth around them, stinging grit into their faces. Cain cursed under his breath as a round chipped the lip of the rock by his shoulder.
"Close now!" he hissed, and it was the signal he'd promised. Harris and Colt kicked up and ran low toward the nearer wagon while Cain swept the line with the repeater, one-handed now, lever snapping rhythmically as men fell where they stood.
They hit the dirt behind an overturned crate with the force of momentum and fire. Revolvers were out, up-close and personal. Colt's face was set like flint, Harris moved like a man who'd been born to this work.
Cain's Schofield boomed through the battlefield, men went down screaming or silent, the difference indistinct. Leather and dust and the acrid stench of burned powder filled Cain's nose. He moved between cover and open, a living hinge of metal and intent.
When the smoke thinned and the last man who could reasonably stand to fight was either down or fleeing into the rocks, they sat back just long enough to count breaths and bodies.
They were bruised, Cain's shoulder throbbed where a splintered crate had struck him, Harris favoring a knee, but the field had stopped moving. A thin, terrible quiet settled over the wreckage of the camp.
"Dress wounds, then gather what we can," Harris panted, throat moving as he swallowed. Colt, jaw clenched, spit and spat a curse that was half-laughter. Cain wiped his cheek with the back of a gloved hand, tasting metal and the faint salt of blood, then looked up toward the ridge where the sun cut like a blade.
The plan had worked, but none of them moved like boys who thought the day was over. The caves near Twin Stack Pass still waited, and somewhere up the chain, Colm would learn that his men were dead and his stock was vulnerable.
Cain pushed to his feet, steadier than he felt, and called softly, more to himself than to the others. "Let's move before the others come sniffin'. Bring what's useful. We'll send Malloy the proof." He clipped a cartridge into the Schofield and slung a bag of rounds over his shoulder. They'd bought the farmers a fighting chance; they'd better get the animals home.
They worked quickly, methodical and efficient, men not yet jaded enough to wander or gloat. The harsh business had done its work, the O'Driscolls' camp lay quiet, the wagons still, the desert wind already trying to reclaim the smell of blood and smoke.
Cain felt the familiar shift in him as he slid in about 15 dollars by looting the camp. This was what he'd chosen now, the hard, clean work of fixing wrongs in a world that rarely asked permission. He slid the Schofield home and mounted up, Mabel whinnied as if asking whether he was all right.
"Alright then, on to the caves...."
To be continued.....
(Money:$647)