John wakes to the sound of Jane’s voice. A sweet melody flows from her lips. She sits in the cubby beside the windowsill with her cheek pressed against the cool glass.
John crosses the room and places his hand upon her shoulder.
“You feeling well?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
The girl smiles and motions towards his bandaged wound.
“How’s your arm?”
“It’s better. How’s your face?”
Jane rubs her hand across the bruises, wincing at the touch. Their shade has lightened, no longer dark and blue but a soft purple.
“It’s a little sore, but I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
Jane takes his hand.
“Watch the sunrise with me.”
John sits atop the perch and looks off into the horizon. Jane stares at him, never once glancing towards the rising sun.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes,” Jane says, “yes it is.”
***
Prince wakes to the warm hands of the morning sun. He stretches and stands, letting the heat flow through his form. He wipes his eyes and begins to gather grass and wood for a fire. He makes his way through the field, stooping to grab the branches that crack beneath his boots.
The rustle of wings pierces the silence. An inhuman cry echoes. Far above the vulture circles, its stench overpowering Prince, the rotten smells of old flesh torn from the carcasses of creatures unknown. The beast twists through the air and dives towards the earth. It lands upon a dead tree, talons scraping against the aged wood.
Prince turns to face the creature. His hand rests upon the handle of his revolver.
“Have you come for me? Have you come thinking I hold no fight within me? Did you think I would lie down and die? Vile creature, I am the shadow of the night, I am the blind prophet! And you, lowly beast, are nothing. I shall not fall to the likes of you nor the God to whom you serve.”
The vulture stretches its wings, head turned upwards, and shrieks to the sky.
“No help will come. You have escaped me once but no more.”
Prince draws his revolver and fires. The vulture’s chest bursts in a cloud of feathers and blood. The blind Rider holsters his weapon and approaches the creature. The vulture lies in a mass of blood and feathers, wings twisted in death. Its gaping maw stares up to the heedless clouds, eyes forever dulled. Prince stoops to claim his prize and clutches the beast’s talons in one hand. He carries the carcass towards his camp, the bundle of wood and grass tucked under his other arm.
Prince drops the pack and scoops the twigs together in a pile. He tosses the bird’s body onto the pyre and strikes a match upon the tinder. A fire soon blazes to burn away the dead beast. The stench of scorched flesh drifts high. Prince covers his face with a rag, drops to his knees and vomits.
Prince gasps and wipes his mouth. Sweat drips from his chin. He covers his mouth again, feeling the heat of the fire upon his skin, laughing in the knowledge that the black messenger is forever gone. Tears trickle down his face. An immense sadness overtakes his joy and he cries beneath his laughter, hands buried against his useless eyes.
***
“Tell me about your family.”
Jane glances up. She sits on the edge of John’s bed, absentmindedly pulling a frayed string from its side. She lets the thread fall to rest upon her lap. John stands beside the window and stares out across the land. Rays of light wash his form. His hair shimmers in the afternoon sun. He rubs his hand across the band of stubble that sticks out beneath his chin.
“You need to shave,” Jane says.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I never intended to address it.”
“Why do you hide your past?” John presses.
Jane sighs and lies back upon the bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
John shakes his head and crosses the room where he pulls a razor and a tin of shaving cream from his bag. He opens the door to the bathroom but Jane’s voice stops him in his tracks.
“I lived with my mother, my father, and my older brother. We had a house a few miles out of town. We were happy. My brother was kind. He taught me how to fly fish, how to work. I taught him to sew.”
She chuckles at the memory.
“My mother, she could have been a chef. I remember how we used to rush to the porch steps whenever she called us in for dinner. She had a small bell on a string that she tied above the doorway. She’d give us a ring instead of shouting. She had a weak voice. She taught me to cook. Now and then I make dinner for Jed and Billy. They wish I’d do it for them more often. I’m still nothing compared to my mother though. She was a good woman, but sad. She didn’t speak often, and even more rarely did she laugh, but she loved me and my brother, loved us with all her soul.”
John stands in the doorway, his lips sealed, knowing better than to speak.
“My father was a strong man, a mountain of a man. He always found happiness even in the darkest of times. He was also fond of the drink. Sometimes he would hit my mother and he would hurt so much when he became sober, try so hard to make things right. Sometimes when my brother and I came home from school we would find him on the front porch with his shotgun across his lap, sitting in his rocking chair and staring at us. His eyes would be sullen and red. Every time we saw him like that we’d fear he’d done the worst. But he was still a good man. He loved us and loved my mother, whatever hardships befell him in the past we’d forgiven.”
The first tear falls from her eye.
“It was night when they came for him. He’d been a captain in the war and abandoned after the massacre at Fort Pillow. They dragged him out into the dirt and shot him through the head. The Tall Man watched him die. Then they grabbed my mother, held her down and took…took turns.”
She struggles with the words.
“My brother managed to get me out of the house. He hid me among the crops. He tried to save my mother but The Tall Man gunned him down, shot him in the knees, and made him watch. Then they slit his throat.”
John crosses the room and takes her in his arms.
“I remember sitting in the field late into the night watching our house burn. Because of the light from the fires I could just barely make out the glow of the fireflies as they flitted through the grass. I loved fireflies. At night I would run through the fields with a glass jar and catch as many as I could. I’d never keep them though, could never let something so beautiful be locked inside a cage. Every night before bed I would release them and watch as they twinkled and scattered back to their homes. Jed found me a day later. He was my father’s best friend and business partner. He knew something was wrong. My father had missed work that day. My father never missed work. Jed found me and took me into the tavern, raised me as his own.”
John clutches the girl to his chest and smoothes her hair. She shakes against him.
“It hurts when I talk about them, John. It hurts so much. Don’t make me talk about them again. Please,” she says.
John nods and holds her close, comforting her through her tears.
***
John and Jane make their way down the wooden staircase. Below, Jed and his son stand beside several bar tables pushed together into a single dinner table. An early dinner sits laid out for each of them. Steam rises from the food and a sweet smell permeates the air. John glances to the corner where the piles of broken glass and wood have been swept, the blood from the fight the night before washed away.
Billy pulls two chairs back, their feet groaning against the hard floor, and nods to the guests. John and Jane take their seats. Several once fancy but now chipped plates lie with gracious bounties of food piled atop. Jed whispers a short prayer and the four begin their meal.
John stares at the two men, smiling and nodding to each in turn. Thick bandages wrap Billy’s arm severely hampering his skill with a fork and knife. He grumbles as a slice of meat slips from his utensil to the safety of the floorboards below. A white pad covers his cheek. Thin lines of blood blotch its surface.
“You did well on your son,” John says to the tavern owner.
“Thank you.”
Sunlight stretches through the tavern’s front door to spill across the tabletop. Jed sets his fork down and looks to their guest.
“How long?” he asks.
“How long what?”
“How long until he arrives?”
“Sunset,” John says and continues eating.
“You could just leave.”
John shakes his head.
“No I can’t. He’ll know where I was staying and he’ll kill all of you simply for housing me. Then he’ll hunt me down. I have to face him.”
“Please, John.”
“No.”
Jed grits his teeth. He grabs his fork and resumes eating, pausing between bites to speak his peace.
“You’re a stubborn man. A quiet, kind-hearted man, but a stubborn one nonetheless. Why do you do this?”
“Someone has to, otherwise the Riders will never stop.”
“And you think killing a few will end the slaughter? Violence only begets violence.”
“Someone has to try.”
“But why you?” Jed asks, “Why you, John?”
All eyes lock upon the young man. He shifts against his seat and wipes his lips. He sits for some time staring down at his bruised hands.
“Because I was chosen.”
John stands. Jane rises with him.
“Thank you for the meal. It was excellent.”
“John—” Jed calls out, but he’s already made his way up the stairs. He does not reply as he fumbles with the keys to his room. Jane follows close behind.
***
John is back inside the bloody room. The bed lies matted and torn but several seams are haphazardly stitched together. The hanging bulb remains dim as ever but the dust that once engulfed it has been washed away. Several picture frames hang again upon the wall, the photos within covered by a black film. John’s reflection enters from the shadows.
The reflection remains broken yet healed. Its legs no longer sag beneath the crushing weight, twisted in frame, its face no longer deformed, instead pieced together like an unfinished puzzle. Its arms remain mangled and shattered, hanging limp at its sides. Small pieces of glass dribble from its lips as it speaks.
“Hello, John.”
“Hello.”
“Do you know why I am here?”
John nods.
“Prince is nearly upon us. Now is the time to strike. Do not fear, for I will be alongside you. You can defeat him.”
John draws his revolvers, checking the chambers. He snaps the cylinders back in place with a snap of the wrist. He steadies the gun without shaking and breathes clear.
John sits on the bed. The reflection approaches and takes a seat beside him. The two men, mirror images of one another, one shattered, the other whole, stare out across the room. The reflection places its misshapen hand upon John’s shoulder.
“Wake now, John.”
The reflection does not burst into shards of glass. Instead its form is yanked back into the darkness like a rag doll on a string, hands outstretched and beckoning.
***
A figure stands over John. He wakes in fury, revolver drawn, pulling the person down across the bed and shoving the barrel of his gun beneath their throat. Jane lies frozen still, her arms raised in feeble defense, locked in his grip. John releases her and leaps back. His breaths come in sharp gasps. He lets the revolver fall from his hands.
“I…I’m sorry,” he says, struggling to speak.
“Don’t be.”
“I am.”
John glances out through the thin curtains. From beyond the desert sand Prince emerges, riding his black horse through town, head raised and twisting from side to side. He rounds the corner and approaches the tavern.
John snatches his shirt off the bed. He hastily pulls it around his body, doing up the buttons in a blur of motion.
“He’s here.”
“The Rider?” Jane asks.
“Yes.”
“The man who hunts you?”
“Yes.”
Jane watches as he checks both revolvers.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,” she whispers.
John matches her haunted stare. The words hang in the atmosphere.
“What?”
“It’s from a poem my father read to me when I was a little girl. It tells the tale of a boy pleading with his father not to surrender to death’s cold hand. Do not surrender, John, you do not have to die.”
“This is my fight.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
From the first floor a gunshot issues. A scream follows. John snatches up his hat. Jane takes hold of his hand.
“It is not your fight,” she says.
“Yes it is. It was made my fight, our fight, when they took everything we had. Don’t you see? They’ve orphaned us. We wander the world searching for hope only to find heartbreak and pain. It must end.”
“Please.”
A second blast rises from below with the shatter of glass. John turns but Jane holds him in place, both hands now locked around his wrist.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
Jane begins to sob yet her grip does not loosen. John pulls her close. A third shot resounds. The screaming continues. A second voice rises.
“Look at me, Jane. Look at me.”
Jane looks up. Her face shines from fallen tears.
“I will be fine. I will come back for you.”
“I want to believe that," Jane replies.
“Then believe it.”
Three more shots. The tinkling of broken glass.
“I must go.”
John flings the door open. A hectic confusion of voices spews forth. Jane calls out to him, her words piercing the chaos.
“Do not go gentle.”
John replies, his voice calm and without fear.
“I won’t.”
With that he turns and speeds down the steps, revolver raised, ready to face Prince, the hunter who has finally cornered his prey.
***
Prince enters Haven. His horse slows to a trot as he navigates the twisting roads. He breathes John’s scent, taking in the aromas of the town. He passes an empty butcher’s store. The harsh smell of dead meat, rotting and fresh, meets his nostrils. He trudges on.
The town is empty. No one roams the barren streets. It’s as if they foresee the violence that shall soon spread throughout the land, smell the blood not yet spilt. Prince takes a left and approaches the tavern. John’s scent is strongest here.
Prince dismounts and guides his horse to the hitching pole. The sun has begun to set, slipping beyond the horizon. Hues of wild color splash across the evening sky. Prince knows that he will never again see a sunset, has known for many years, yet the memory of their beauty still haunts him. He mounts the steps and shuffles his way into the tavern.
Billy waits behind the bar wiping down a shot glass and studying the new arrival. An extensive row of liquor bottles stand behind him carefully arranged with their labels facing out. The individual odors of each container reach out to Prince. He breathes their intoxicating aroma, mixed with the faint scent of dried blood and soap, and pulls his Stetson down over his eyes as he makes his way to the bar. He takes his seat and taps his finger twice upon the counter.
“What can I get you, mister?” Billy asks.
“Whiskey.”
Billy nods and disappears under the bar. He comes up with a bottle of clear yellow liquid. He pops the cap and pours the liquor into the dried glass, then pushes it towards the stranger.
Prince sloshes the whiskey in the cup. He places it to his cheek and shudders, eyes closed, the glass cool against his skin.
“Looks like you boys had a fight here not too long ago.”
Billy glances up from the bar and meets Prince’s off center gaze.
“How’d you know?” he asks.
“Call it intuition.”
“Intuition."
Prince nods. He tips his head back and drains the glass in one smooth motion. He gasps from the strength and wipes his lips, taking a moment to recover.
“I’m looking for a man,” he says as he sets the empty glass down.
“Everybody’s looking for something, mister.”
Prince chuckles.
“Cute, but I am not in need of company. The man I search for is an outlaw. His name is John. He’s here, I’m sure you know that.”
Billy swallows hard. Thin beads of sweat dot his forehead.
“No one here by that name.”
“Don’t be coy. I’ve searched the roads, every inch of this piss water town, and I have found his scent. He is here. Now for your own safety I suggest you hand over the keys to his room lest I take them by force.”
Billy’s hand drifts below the bar, reaching for the shotgun hidden behind the whiskey bottles. Prince smiles and raises his head. He removes his bullet shredded hat and tosses it on the adjacent barstool. His dead eyes lock upon the bartender.
“Don’t do it.”
Billy grasps the handle of the weapon. Prince draws his revolver and fires through the top of the bar, sending forth a haze of splintered wood. The gunshot’s power is matched only by the intensity of Billy’s shrieks as he stumbles back clutching his bloodied hand. A large, ragged hole bores into the center of his palm. Blood fountains down his arm. His cheeks drain of color. He pulls a rag out from a nearby cabinet to wrap his wound, grunting and spitting forth a slew of unintelligible curses.
Prince stares down at the powerless dog, his manic grin wide.
“Where is John?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about—” Billy mutters.
One of the bottles above the bar bursts with gunfire in a cloud of liquor and shining glass. The alcohol drips down over Billy’s body. He covers his face with his hands, protecting himself from the falling shards.
“Where is John?” Prince repeats.
“Go to hell.”
Prince fires again, shattering a second bottle in a spray of warm whiskey. Billy sputters as the liquid stains his clothes. Blood mixes with alcohol in a pool beneath his feet. Prince lets out a harsh, cackling laugh.
“Pray,” he whispers.
Billy stares up at the wrath with confused eyes.
“Wha…what?”
“Pray for your salvation!” Prince shouts, pulling the trigger and sending down another torrent.
The Rider draws his second revolver. Billy huddles against the bar, his pale, trembling form turned away from his tormentor. Blood drips from the crimson soaked tourniquet. He slowly recites the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our father, who art in heaven—”
“Louder!”
“Hallowed be thy name—”
“Pray!”
Prince fires three times. Three more containers burst in a spray of glass. Billy weeps through his words.
“Thy kingdom come!” he screams and stops, unable to continue, paralyzed by fear.
Prince holsters his empty revolver. He removes a matchbook from his breast pocket and pulls out a single match, striking the head into a steady blaze. He smiles as he listens to the cries of the cowering man. Billy glances up at the flame. His eyes open wide. He stares down at his whiskey soaked hands and mouths a quiet plea for mercy.
“Thy will be done,” Prince says, raising the match high.
“Stop!”
Prince turns toward the familiar voice. Jed stands beside the bar with rifle raised. His gnarled hands clasp tight around its trigger. He shakes with age and fear and rage.
“Drop the match, Prince. Blow it out and step away from my son.”
The blind Rider glances from the bleeding bartender to his father.
“This worm is your son?” he asks, motioning to the whimpering man.
“Enough.”
“This sniveling creature is the fruit of your loins? God, you must feel so much shame.”
“He turned out a far greater man than you.”
Prince’s smile fades. His voice deepens, lost of its former glee. The tip of the match flame meets his fingers but he pays it no heed.
“I remember you, Jed. I have not forgotten. You cared so much for me. Compassion was always your weakness. It is nothing but a curse. You would have made a great Rider, a strong man.”
“Strong? You call yourself strong? A murderer of the innocent?”
“That’s enough—” Prince spits.
“A worthless byproduct of sin.”
“Enough.”
Prince lifts the match. He trains his revolver upon the father.
“Mark my words, you will watch your son burn.”
A shot rings out. No blood spills. Jed and Prince’s weapons remain untouched, their hammers still cocked.
John makes his way down the steps with weapon held high. Chunks of wood rain down from the hole in the ceiling where his warning shot struck. Prince’s smile returns.
“John, my boy, I thought you’d never make it.”
“Blow out the match, Prince, or I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.”
“Such a hard heart you have, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It died long ago, now blow out the match.”
Prince sighs, staring down at the shaking bartender with a forlorn expression, and blows out the match. The head sizzles in a plume of smoke. He lets the blackened stump fall.
Jed drops his rifle and races to where his son lays, gathering him up in his arms, removing the soaked rag and replacing it with another. Prince listens to the man comfort his son.
“Such sweet sentiment,” he mocks.
Prince passes through the tavern exit, the small door swinging in his wake. He calls out to John from the empty street.
“Come now. Let this end.”
John nods and approaches the door. Jane exits John’s room and runs down the stairs. She overtakes John and pulls him back, beating his chest with her delicate hands.
“Don’t do this,” she begs, hair tangled and eyes red.
“I must.”
“Please don’t. I can’t lose another person I love, please!”
“I must.”
“If you do he will kill you. You will be lost in the dark!”
“I will be with my Rose.”
Jane’s eyes leak silver tears. Her body shakes with emotion, voice wracked with harsh sobs. John tries to comfort her but she pushes him away in her desperation, still keeping a firm grasp on his wrist.
“Please.”
“I’m sorry,” John says.
John turns. His hand slips from Jane’s grasp. He watches sand drift outside along the empty road. Wind howls. He hurls the memories of loved ones aside, clearing his mind, and rests his hand upon the shaky door handle.
John exits the tavern and steps out towards the falling sun. The wane moon shifts overhead as the last rays of sunlight die. A chill blows through the town. John marches to the center of the road and faces Prince.
The two men stand a short distance from each other. Prince watches him with shallow eyes.
“Are you ready?”
Prince stares at his rival, his dead eyes focused intently upon the slow shudder of John’s heartbeat. He shifts against the loose dirt and raises his head to the clouds. He breathes deep, feeling the soft breeze ruffle his tangled hair. His hand drifts slowly down and comes to a stop beside his revolver, hovering inches over its handle.
John remains steady. His eyes lock upon the tortured soul. Tumbleweeds drift lazily behind him, bouncing across the road, the sole sign of movement in the street. The world is silent. His mind clears, blocking out all sound. His hand rests upon his weapon. The cold steel burns against his palm. His eyes are ready, ears deaf. He doesn’t hear Jane approach. She bursts through the tavern entrance and stumbles down the porch steps towards him.
The wind dies. The two draw. Prince squeezes off a single shot.
Jane’s body rocks with the impact as she reaches John. She clutches his frame, arms locked around his shoulders. Her back spasms and she stiffens against him, breathing in a harsh intake of air which she lets out in a slow burst. Her eyes cloud and she falls limp in his arms. John holds her close. He hears nothing. He can’t hear Billy and Jed as they shout from the doorway, can’t hear his own cries
Prince feels the heartbeat fade. John raises his weapon and fires. Prince stumbles back as the bullet buries itself in his chest. He gasps for air that will not come. His revolver drops to the ground. Blood spreads across his shirt.
John sinks to his knees. Jane’s body lies limp in his arms. No breathes issue from her slender frame, her bright blue eyes now dull, the blinding light they once held forever faded. John kisses her forehead and lays her in the dirt, closing her eyes with his hand. He casts his gaze upon Prince, his eyes silver caverns in the shadow of the new moon.
Prince turns from him and traces the path back to his horse. John follows. Prince does not draw his second gun. He has no tricks. He is beaten. He undoes his belt and lets his holsters fall, nearing his horse.
Prince strokes the horse’s side and unbuttons the saddle bag, pulling the china doll from its depths. He smiles and clutches the doll to his chest, breathing in wet, choking gasps. He removes the reins and saddle from the horse’s back. The creature blinks stupidly, neighing and nuzzling his shoulder, unable to understand its master’s pain. Prince smacks the animal’s side and it takes off, disappearing around the corner. Prince places his hand against the tavern’s side and slides to the ground, his back to the hard planks.
John stands over the Rider. He lowers his weapon. No fear remains. The blind man stares up at him, dead eyes focused not upon the boy’s heart but meeting his gaze. The two watch one another, speaking without words.
Prince breaks the connection. He holds the doll to his chest and slides his bloodied hand across its perfect, untouched eyes.
“I am man. Noth—nothing more.”
A small smile splays across Prince’s face. He closes his eyes and finally embraces the darkness that has hunted him for so long. His hand falls to the ground and the child’s toy tumbles from his arms.
John stares down at the dead Rider. Jed and Billy call out to him. They kneel beside Jane’s lifeless body crying out for some sense of hope. John holsters his revolver and turns away from Prince, leaving his corpse behind, ready to comfort the grieving tavern owner and his son.
***
The Tall Man stands still, his weapon trained upon the pitiful runaway. His breath flows out and he wipes his eyes. He feels a sudden weight lifted from him, like an anchor snapping away and plunging to the bottom of the deep sea, leaving a boat to tremble before the might of a coming storm.
Prince is dead, The Tall Man knows it. He feels his general fade from this world, his golden string at last cut. He’s lost not only a general, a right hand man, but also a friend. The one man who knew him, knew what he truly was, the full extent of his being, is now lost. The Tall Man stares with glazed eyes through the porch entrance at the desert beyond.
The man below him moans pitiful pleas. Tears and snot spill down his face. He weeps with ragged, choked sounds, hands held up in useless defense. He looks to the compassionless faces of the Riders who feast upon his torment. Only The Tall Man averts his gaze.
The runaway lunges forward and grasps The Tall Man’s shirt in his filthy hands.
“Please,” he begs, “please don’t kill me. Please, I beg you.”
“Go.”
The runaway stares up at the Rider.
“What?”
“Go,” The Tall Man repeats, his face set in stone, voice absent emotion.
The runaway leaps to his feet and scurries down the hallway, pushing his way through the crowd of men. He turns and takes one last glance at the mangled bodies of his brother’s family, the people who took him in out of the goodness of their hearts, then scrambles out the front door and down the porch steps.
The Riders stand motionless, eyes locked upon their leader, struck dumb by this act of mercy. A foolish guard breaks the silence. His brilliant white teeth sparkle in the glow of the hallway light.
“That’s it, sir? You’re just letting him go?”
The Tall Man turns in one smooth motion, drawing his revolver without warning, and fires. The Rider’s shining teeth shatter in a burst as the bullet exits his temple through the mouth. A gurgle escapes his lips and he plummets to the floor, body convulsing. The men watch until he lies still. A long puddle of black blood spills across the floor.
The Tall Man holsters his revolver and steps over the Rider’s corpse, pausing a moment to observe. The dead man’s eyes are flung open, his face frozen in a look of humorous shock. His front teeth are missing, their remains implanted in the wall beyond. The Tall Man turns and makes his way through the hallway and out onto the porch. The runaway has vanished. The Tall Man mounts his horse and takes off, his men watching him from the doorway, frozen where they stand.
***
John kneels before a wooden cross. His shirt flutters under his vest, holding fast against the savage wind. Jed and Billy stand over Jane’s grave, the clothes they don mismatched, hastily thrown together in search for something appropriate. John crosses his heart and whispers a prayer beneath his breath. He grasps the crucifix that hangs from his neck and pulls it away, laying it in the dirt where Jane rests. He leans forward and rubs his hand along the cross planted in the soil, then stands.
Jed and Billy follow in his wake as he passes through the field to where his horse waits. His hands brush the leather satchel and he pulls the straps tight. He sets about tying the knots, immersing himself in his work.
He does not weep. He does not flee from the memories. Instead, he lets the woman go, lets her embrace the light beyond. Jed approaches from behind John and places his hand upon his shoulder.
“She was proud of you. You made her happy. In all the years I’d known Jane, she’d never been so alive as when you were here. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, I couldn’t save her.”
Jed shakes his head.
“You’re wrong, John. You touched her, just as you touched our lives. We owe you.”
John smiles and faces the withered tavern owner. He grasps Jed’s hand in his own and shakes, taking Billy’s in turn.
“I’ll miss your company,” Jed says.
“And I yours, but we'll never forget one another so long as we walk this earth. Let can't forget Jane, the woman who sacrificed herself for us. It's the best we can do, the least she deserved.”
John pulls his hat down and returns to his horse. He pauses beside Jane’s grave, speaking his respects, then continues on. He mounts the steed and looks down upon the tavern owner and his son. He may not have saved his own family but he has saved another. His horse takes off at a steady gallop. John glances back and watches the two figures until they fade from sight, disappearing into the darkness beneath the evening moon.
