After the Ashes(101)

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Braddock hung back while members of the posse crept through Mulcahy’s abandoned hideout. The place was a ghost town. Literally. Perhaps a few of the outlaws that hadn’t been wounded in the bungled robbery had moved on, but before they had, they’d slaughtered the ones they left behind. Considering the state of things on his last visit, Braddock wasn’t too surprised. Though that and the culprits’ obvious desertion didn’t stop the sensation of danger crawling over the back of his neck.

Douglas kept his rifle poised to fire as he nudged the leg of one of the several lifeless bodies sprawled in the trampled dirt. “Jesus, looks more like an execution than a fight. What kind of animals would do this to their own men?”

Despite the gore surrounding them, others in the posse had let their weapons go slack. Langston moved cautiously to the side, fanning out to the perimeter of the camp as Douglas had instructed. Braddock couldn’t afford to speculate on the answer to the marshal’s question. He kept his finger on the trigger of his gun, waiting—for what he didn’t know.

He glanced to where Corey stood with the horses. Without a weapon, the boy presented an easy target. For once he did as he was told and stayed back. His gaze darted from the dark opening of a tent to a thatch of giant sage that caught a lone breeze. Fear shone on his pale face. He didn’t want to be up here, but he’d given little argument when Douglas had told them the plan. When Braddock, Corey and Langston had caught up with Douglas and the posse of twenty odd men, Douglas hadn’t seemed to give a damn about how they arrived or where they’d been. He was just glad Braddock was there. And he was downright thrilled to have someone who had ridden with the gang to fill them in on the layout of Mulcahy’s refuge.

Of course, Langston hadn’t said more than a few words. He’d almost swallowed his tongue when Douglas had jumped down from his horse and embraced Braddock. Though Braddock hadn’t seen Douglas more than a handful of times in the last ten years, his college friend didn’t seem to hold it against him.

The last time he and Douglas had exchanged more than a few brief words had been the night after their graduation from West Point. A group of them had laid bets on who could get the drunkest and remain standing. He and Douglas had tied. And, like that night, now only he and Douglas were still standing. All the others from their class had been killed in the war.

He moved into the camp. After finding its only occupant shot through the head, Braddock let a tent flap fall back into place. He didn’t want to know who would finally win this contest and stay on his feet the longest, he or Douglas. A few of the dead men littering the compound cradled weapons in their stiff hands. Some were surrounded by empty bottles of liquor.

Braddock rolled a man over to find a bullet hole clean through the throat. Another man’s shirtfront was thick with blood. Braddock removed the dusty hat that fell across the man’s eyes to study the bearded face. As he examined the frozen features of the fourth corpse, he realized he was looking for someone besides Archie. He picked his way to another group of fallen men. He flipped one over and discovered the man was lying on a pile of cards. None of the four in this group had guns. It looked like they’d been playing cards when someone shot them all to hell. It wasn’t hard to guess who could do something like that.

Braddock turned abruptly. The old familiar instinct for survival had just given him a hard shove. Douglas brushed back an old blanket that had been used for a door on a dilapidated shack.

“Get back,” yelled Braddock.

Douglas’s quick reflexes had him flattened against the planked wall before the cloth fell back into place.

Braddock counted every breath as he watched the moth-eaten wool sway with each slight breeze. A rifle’s nose peeked around the union   blue blanket before Mulcahy stepped out. Against the pale full moon of his face, his mouth and red hair stood out like paint. He looked more dead than alive, except for the rifles he held with each hand, their butts braced against his side. He started firing at anything that moved.

One of Douglas’s men yelped and rolled away.

“Hold your fire!” yelled Douglas above the roar of his posse’s return fire, though no one seemed to hear.

Braddock had already hit Mulcahy’s bad shoulder, and someone else’s shot had grazed his neck, yet still the outlaw stood. That was, until Douglas eased up behind him and hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. Mulcahy toppled face forward.

Douglas kneeled to turn the man over. “Shit. I wanted him alive.”

Braddock sprinted to Mulcahy’s shack with more urgency than caution. He ripped the blanket from the doorway, then stepped in with both pistols cocked. The room was empty. An overturned chair and a cot covered in tangled blankets served as the room’s furnishings. Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor, but the liquor’s strong scent couldn’t overpower the stench of death.