Behind him, several of the men who had been carrying crates of tonic and aspirin up into the trees begin returning from the forest. And when they realize what’s happening—when they see the rifle held in my hands—they pull their own pistols, inching closer until I’m encircled, eyes gleaming wild.
No way out of this now.
My heartbeat screams in my ears, finger twitching against the trigger, but I force my breathing to remain steady.No matter what,Mom would instruct,if your breathing stays calm, so will your trigger finger.
“There’s no way out of this where you don’t end up dead.” Hisgray eye flutters again, separate from the other eye. Of its own command. “Samuel there”—he nods to the man with the bolo tie—“never misses, and his pistol is trained right at your temple. Your skull will be split clean open before I even hit the ground.”
I don’t blink; I don’t reply. Instead I brace the gun against my shoulder, sliding my finger against the trigger, feeling the tension. Just a subtle squeeze. I know the force will push me back, so I steady my legs beneath me—I’ll only have a split second to fire the first shot, then swing the gun to my left and shoot the man with the bolo tie—Samuel. After that, I’ll drop to the ground before the other men can fire; I’ll crawl back behind the wagon. I’ll shout to Pa, and hopefully he’ll do the same. From there, I don’t know. Maybe we can make it into the trees, lose ourselves in the shadowed dark, and wait for the men to give up. I prepare myself, finger fluttering against the metal curve of the trigger.
This is it…
I suck in a breath, clamping down my jaw, but there is a hand on my shoulder—abrupt and quick. I flinch back—but it’s Pa, right beside me. “Give me the rifle,” he says softly.
My mouth dips open, the adrenaline still surging down every vein, and I shake my head. But he’s already reaching for it, pulling it from my hands. “No…,” I say to him, my voice a hiss, a rasp, but he’s pulled the rifle free from my grip and is placing it on the ground at our feet. The air feels ripped from my ears, my lungs, the blood pumping behind my eyes, making it impossible to blink. Pa lifts his hands in the air so the men can see that he’s not going to reach for it again. The rifle is out of my hands.
We’re no longer a threat.
I want to scream, to cry, but nothing comes out. I stare at Pa, anger and fear burning up inside me like a campfire out of control.
“Your old man’s a lot smarter than you,” the man says, a smile creeping across his face, all teeth and sneering upper lip. “He just saved your life.”
My arms feel too slack without the weight of the gun, all the power gone, and I watch as the other men slide their pistols back into the holsters, then turn back for the trees. They take Odie by the halter and lead her away, hind legs dragging, wanting to dig into the ground and resist.
No!I want to shout, but still my throat feels lost of all air. Nothing left.
The man with two different eyes tips his hat at me, as if it were a secret parting gesture meant only for me—a recognition that he won. I pointed a rifle at him, finger feathering the trigger, and he walked away without a hole in his gut. Or head.
I should have shot him when I had the chance.
Samuel, the man with the bolo tie, is the last to leave, keeping his pistol trained on us until he steps into the dark of the tree line, out of sight.
I blink. And all at once, my legs feel like they’re going to give out—the fear hitting me hard. But I refuse to drop to the ground, to show Pa any weakness. I rub my hands down my face, feeling the tremble from my toes up to the top of my head.
“What the hell were you thinking, Vega?” Pa says, picking up the rifle and carrying it over to the back of the wagon. “You could have gotten yourself killed, or both of us.”
I follow Pa with my eyes, my legs still unable to move. “They took Odie,” I manage.
Pa leans the rifle against the side of the wagon. “I know. But she’s just a horse, Vega. And we’re still alive.” He climbs up inside the wagon to see what’s left.
I look to the trees where the men slipped into the dark. “We can still go after them.”
But Pa doesn’t reply; he starts hefting out things from inside the wagon. He pitches my quilt onto the ground beside the lone crate of tonic, followed by our jug of water, remaining sacks of beans and flour, the jar of honey, then his own satchel, before climbing out from the back.
“What are we supposed to do now?” I ask.
“We walk.”
I shake my head at him, the anger still hot behind my eyes—he took the rifle when it could have at least given us a chance to stop those men, to save Odie.
Pa lifts my quilt and the jug of water, handing them both to me. “Carry what you can.”
I stare back down the road, where only darkness and shadows move in the trees, the men out of sight. “Were they scavengers?”
“No,” Pa answers, slinging the rifle over one shoulder and hoisting up the last crate of tonic. “They’re worse than scavengers.”
“They had a mark on their skin.” I tuck the quilt under my arm—it smells like campfire smoke and pine. “It looked like a starburst.”
Pa heads toward the dense trees beyond the river, away from the road. “It’s their brand, their brotherhood.”
