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Novelo Rectangle

The high plains were cold enough to stiffen a man’s fingers even under gloves. Frost crusted the sage, crunching faintly when the wind pressed it flat. Overhead, a pale moon rode low between drifting clouds, casting silver across the ridges and draws. Eli Warren reined in on a rise, studying the faint scuff marks in the grass where horses had passed single file.Six days ago, three men had boarded a Union Pacific coach between Medicine Bow and Bitter Creek. They’d taken the strongbox and gunned down Eli’s uncle when he stood to block the aisle. The sheriff’s posse had turned back when the trail bent west.Eli didn’t.—•—They rode good stock — a big bay with a paddling gait, a paint with a crooked blaze, and a scar-hipped dun mare. They weren’t masking their sign. Eli figured they didn’t think anyone was close enough to matter.He followed at a hunter’s pace, skirting ridges to avoid skylining, using low draws when he could. A willow sapling with bark rubbed raw showed where they’d paused. Mud cracked along a creek bank told where they’d watered. The cold air carried no scent of them yet, but the trail was fresh enough to read like a printed page.That night, he made camp in a hollow, eating cold biscuits while he mended a stirrup strap. Sleep came in fits, broken by the shifting wind. Somewhere after midnight, the breeze changed, bringing with it a thin thread of woodsmoke.—•—By moonlight, he ghosted forward, leading his roan on a long rein. Twice he stopped to let the night settle, feeling the air for movement, watching the shadows breathe. The smoke thickened, tinged with coffee. Somewhere ahead, a horse stamped and snorted, hobble rope scraping against stone.Through a gap in the ridge, he spotted their camp: a small fire banked low, two bedrolls near it, and a lone figure fifty yards out tending the horses. The other two lay still under their blankets.Eli tied off the roan in a cut and eased forward, Colt Navy in hand. The wind was in his favor, but the horses caught a scent. The paint sidestepped, ears flicking back. The bay whickered sharp, stamping once. The man with them turned toward the sound, frowning.Eli stepped in close, angling the Colt’s barrel straight up under the coat, just below the ribcage. One pull of the trigger sent the heavy lead slug climbing through heart, lung, and spine. Chambers jolted as if yanked by a rope, then collapsed boneless into the dirt.The bay jerked hard, hooves striking stone. The sharp clatter carried down into camp. One bedroll came alive, the wiry shape scrambling up, rifle in hand. The other — a big-shouldered man — was already crouched by the fire, eyes sweeping the rim.Eli knew the quiet approach was over. He slipped back into the shadows, moving fast for higher ground.—•—They moved quickly for men just out of sleep. The wiry one angled toward the horses, crouching low, rifle cradled. The big one worked upslope, using rocks for cover.Eli circled high, keeping basalt and scrub between himself and their rifles. When the wiry man stepped into the open, Eli snapped a shot that kicked dirt at his feet, driving him into a shallow wash. Return fire cracked back, chipping stone and hissing past Eli’s ear.The wind flattened the sound, but the smell of black powder hung sharp in his nose. He shifted position after each shot, working the Colt’s cylinder with a thumb made clumsy from the cold, the action growing heavier with fouling.—•—The wiry one made a dash for the horses. Eli waited until he cleared the wash, then fired. The slug took him in the thigh, high and inside. The man went down hard, yelling, clutching at his leg. Eli didn’t stop to study it — another rifle was still hunting him.The big one kept working for higher ground. Eli dropped into a cut, moving quick to flank him. Shots cracked in the dark, muzzle flashes blooming like sparks in a coal stove before vanishing.—•—They ended up behind opposing rocks, thirty feet apart, each trying to see without showing too much. The cold made breath into white ghosts drifting over the stone.“You took one of mine,” the big man called, voice low but carrying.Eli kept his eyes on the sliver of shadow where the man might move. “And I’ll take another if you keep at it.”A pause. “Could be you won’t.”Eli heard the scrape of a boot on stone and fired twice. One shot sparked rock, the other hit meat. The big man’s rifle clattered down the slope.—•—When it was quiet, Eli worked downslope, Colt ready. The wiry man lay on his side in the dirt, eyes half-lidded, hands slack. The ground beneath him was soaked nearly black, the dark patch stretching toward a trickle in the wash. From the wound’s location, Eli knew the artery had been cut. He’d bled out in minutes.The big man lay farther up, flat on his back, breath gone. Eli checked once — no need for another round.Beside the fire sat a dented Union Pacific strongbox, lid sprung where they’d pried it open. The coins inside caught the pale light. Eli shut it, tied it down behind his saddle.By first light, all three were buried in the draw. The only other thing he took was a silver hunter-case watch from the big man’s vest — his uncle’s — still ticking. He wound it once, slid it into his pocket, and mounted up.—•—It was near midmorning when he rode down Bitter Creek’s main street, the strongbox glinting in the sun behind him. The sound of his roan’s shoes on the hard-packed earth echoed off the false fronts. Folks stepped aside, some nodding, some watching without a word.The sheriff came to the door of his office, hat in hand. His eyes went from Eli to the strongbox, then back again. There was weight in the silence — the kind that comes when one man has ridden the miles another wouldn’t.Eli swung down, untying the box. “Yours,” he said, setting it at the sheriff’s feet.For a moment, the lawman’s jaw worked like he meant to speak, but nothing came. Eli tipped his hat, stepped back into the saddle, and turned the roan toward the edge of town.The wind shifted, carrying the thin, lonely wail of a train whistle somewhere to the east. Life was moving on. Eli figured it was time he did too.

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Blood on the Tracks

Erin

E.S. O'Connor

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Blood on the Tracks

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Erin O'Connor

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