I can see Pa’s face tug together, stiffen. “I already have a horse.”
The man smiles again, a menacing arch to his lips, the wad of tobacco pressed to his teeth, and he walks to Odie, running his broad hand along her mane. She blows air from her nostrils—sensing he’s not someone she should trust. “No you don’t,” he answers, looping his hand around her halter. “We’re short on horses, and it’s difficult to find ones this stout and well trained.”
I feel the stone rising in my gut, the fear tasting like bile on my tongue, knowing what’s about to happen next.
“We need the horse,” Pa says, desperation catching in his voice now. “Without her, we have no way to pull the wagon.”
“Seems you won’t need a wagon with hardly anything left to trade,” the man counters with a dark, raised eyebrow.
“Please.” Pa shakes his head, a tremor in the word. The jars of tonic, his supply, Odie—it’s all he has.
The man’s mouth grinds to one side, like he’s chewing over an idea. Then, like a hawk scanning a prairie for mice, his gaze snaps to me, head tilted. “Fine,” he says with a snarl, his eyes still on me. “We’ll take the girl instead.”
With a quick nod from his boss, the bolo-tie man yanks me up, a filthy hand braced around my neck. I wince at the pain in my ribs, at my neck, but I hold down the cry in my throat and tighten my shoulders back.They haven’t seen the tattoo on my neck; they haven’t noticed the mark.But if the man adjusts his hand, if he looks close enough, he’ll see it.
“No!” Pa barks, sidestepping closer to me.
“She’s worth more than the horse anyway,” the man in charge says, pushing the brim of his hat up just slightly, a sinister lilt to his voice, a clicking in his jaw. “We could sell her easily. Or maybe we’ll keep her.”
No, no, no. I start clawing at the man’s hand around my throat, tearing away skin, blood under my fingernails, but he only squeezes tighter, and the air is cut from my lungs.
“Take the horse,” Pa says desperately, flashing his terrified eyes from me to the man. “Please. Leave her.”
The man with the scar along his throat lets out a small sound, maybe a laugh, maybe a sound of disappointment—I can’t be sure with the pain in my lungs and the ringing in my ears. His eyes fall closed, considering, a clicking in his teeth again, before his jaw locks shut. Air hisses from his mouth, eyelids lifting to meet mine. “Fine.” He watches me, clicks his tongue against his teeth, then says, “We’ll take the horse instead.”
The bolo-tie man immediately releases his hand and I drop tothe ground, coughing into the dirt, feeling like I might be sick.
I don’t know why he’s let me go—decided I’m not worth the trouble, maybe—but I turn my head, sucking in the cold night air, fury boiling up in my gut. The man with the scar gives me one last look—a strange glint in his eyes, like he knows he could drag me away too if he wanted, kicking and screaming. He could change his mind. He could take everything—Odieandme. He has the power here, not us.
But the fury rises up into my chest now, heat sparking behind my eyes.I won’t let him take Odie.Without her, we have no way out of here.
I feel my hands pushing me upright before I’ve even thought it through. I feel my legs catapult me toward the wagon, the adrenaline pounding in my chest, eyes watering, throat still burning where the man dug his fingers into my flesh. Behind me, the bolo-tie man makes a sound, startled by my sudden movement. “Shit!” he says—and I’m certain he’s reaching for his gun, but I don’t look back. I brush past Pa and sprint toward the wagon. I know where the rifle is hidden, I know exactly where it sits, and I slip my hand into the back of the wagon. Thankfully, my finger locates it on the first try, and I swing it out in front of me, dropping the lever and hearing the cartridge pop into place. My ears ring, my eyes stop watering, and I aim the barrel directly at the man with the scar cut lengthwise across his throat.
And I feel the power shift.
I’m in control now.
His eyes go wide, mouth caught open like a black, bottomless well, and I see for the first time that one of his eyes is blue, the other gray—lost all its color.
I swallow, hardening my stance.
But the man doesn’t reach for the pistols at his waist; instead he lifts both palms toward me. “Easy, young lady.” His eyes flatten, sharp, ruthless—not the first time he’s stared down the barrel of a gun. “No need to be pointing that thing when you don’t know how to use it.”
“I know how to use it.” The words are swift, without hesitation, and I raise the barrel of the rifle so it’s leveled at the man’s forehead, right between his miscolored eyes—my finger fluttering against the trigger, itching to pull it back and wipe the smile clean from his face.
To my left, I can see the other man with the bolo tie draw his gun—aiming it directly at me. There is no waver in his eyes, no hesitation. He’s fired his gun at more than wild animals and an old stump that sat down beside the river in the valley that we used for target practice. He’s seen bullets tear through human flesh, rupture lungs and hearts and skulls, and lived to tell stories about it.
But I don’t show how frightened I am—adrenaline surging through me—and I steady my eyes on the man with two different-colored eyes. “Leave our horse,” I say through clenched teeth, temples thumping.
A wind stirs in the trees, creaking limbs, while behind me, river water bubbles up from the ground, every sound sharp in my ears, and every movement of the man in front of me, shifting his weight from one foot to another, is like thunder. He tips his head toward me, watching me like a fox watches trout jumping at the surface of a river, calculating if it’s worth going in to get a meal. “Go ahead and shoot me, little lady. Because even if you’re a good shot, which I’m starting to suspect you might be, you’ll only get a couple shots off before you’llneed to reload.” He nods to the rifle, his throat quivering along the scar. “And my men have enough bullets to finish you and your old man off ten times over. I might be dead, but you won’t be far behind.”
I keep my eyes flattened on him. “You’d give your life for a horse that isn’t even yours?” I ask, betting that he wouldn’t. That he’d rather leave the horse and spare a bullet in the chest than see how far this standoff will go. What I’m willing to do.
His jaw slides back and forth, his gray eye twitching, before it settles again. “I like this girl.” He flashes a look to the man with the bolo tie, one corner of his mouth rising. “She’s got more grit than most of you.”
The bolo-tie man’s eyebrows stuff together—he doesn’t like the comment—but he keeps his gun trained on me.
“But that doesn’t mean she’s smart.” He wheels his eyes back and steps closer to me, only a few feet from the barrel of the gun—daring me to pull the trigger. “And I doubt she’s ever killed a man.” He shakes his head, confident, eyes darkening.
