Chapter 17
Rotten Luck
Decker hissed and jerked away.
Silver.
A bullet like that buried in his gut would burn worse than fire, and if it reached his heart he’d be as good as dead.
Six shells. Six shots. Whitton had used four.
The people of Ridgewater stood rapt across the bridge.
Whitton barreled down on Laurie’s chapel, the steeple like a beacon.
Decker’s breath came in short, hard gasps and he flew, the livery fences blurring beneath him as he leapt and ran, following the hoofbeats until the chapel reared in front of him.
Who knew how many people like Nathan the doctor had recruited, poisoning their minds until they turned their backs on their own people for a chance at normalcy?
Five.
A shout. The chapel door thudded shut, bullet lodging in the thick pine.
Whitton cocked the hammer, spinning his horse to face Decker.
He lurked in the shadows of the alley, the last stand between the Devil and the chapel. Here, away from the prying, human eyes of Ridgewater, he had the advantage.
Decker prowled forward.
Skin puckered between the joint of Whitton’s trigger finger, stitches rubbing against the reddened flaps of skin, and dark blood oozed and spread.
Decker’s stomach roiled and he faltered, the molasses-smooth world clearing, sharpening.
Hoofbeats shook the bridge.
Cricket, pistol in hand as he returned to Ender’s Ridge, crouched low in the saddle as he aimed.
A gunshot cracked through the street.
Smoke curled from the barrel of Whitton’s weapon.
Six.
Cricket doubled over.
Decker lunged. His nails bit into horseflesh, leather, saddle, flesh, blood—
Stitches.
A string of curses wrenched from Whitton and he struck at Decker, the butt of his gun slammingone, two,against his temple.
Decker’s fingers slipped. Whitton’s horse wheeled as he raked spurs along her side and she bolted away, trampling his rotten finger that Decker had ripped loose.
Cricket tipped to the ground and Marshal squealed, shying away from the red soaking the sand beneath him.
Whitton thundered over the bridge and Decker ran, slipping, falling to his knees next to Cricket.
Sand, hot and sticky, bit into his canvas pants as he hauled the boy into his arms and shook him. Bleary eyes opened and Cricket weakly clutched at him.
