REVENGE
The man sat against the jagged rock, his fingers still stained with his wife’s blood. The sun hung low, and the dust stirred around him.
In the distance, smoke spewed from the house he once called home. Where the boy lived. His son. The one he would see hanged for her murder.
The man spat in the dirt. ‘I’ll burn it all,’ he said. ‘Even you, boy.’
His wife’s blood branded him the most dangerous of men, one who had nothing to lose. His grip tightened around the rifle as he stood and reread the telegram.
He gathered his gear, and a fleeting thought of his wife flashed through his mind. Her smile was like the last ray of sunlight before a storm.
He thought of the boy. Those eyes are empty of fear and filled with hate.
The horse was as thin and worn as the man. They stood as ghosts in a dusty wasteland. The wind kicked up, slicing through his tattered coat. He knew there was nothing left of him but revenge billowing through his veins.
He mounted the horse and rode through the night. Hours passed. The land stretched on.
When the town crept into view, a strange heaviness settled over him.
The wind howled through the street as he made his way to the square. And there, waiting, stood his son.
The boy’s hand rested on the hilt of his revolver. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t flinch.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said.
His father’s breath steadied. This wasn’t the child he remembered. This was someone forged by hands that had struck too hard, too often.
‘You murdered her,’ the man said, spittle dripping into his beard. ‘Shot her down like a dog.’
‘I tried to save her,’ the boy said. ‘All those nights she begged you to stop. All the times I tried to pull you off her. I begged her to leave. Tried to drag her away that night. But the gun went off.’
The boy’s eyes drifted past him, as if his father no longer mattered. ‘I killed her, yes,’ he said. ‘But it was an accident.’
‘You can’t barter your way out of this, boy.’
‘I knew my fate when I watched my mother die.’
The man looked into his son’s eyes and, for the first time, saw himself. The quiet rage. The resolve. The inevitability.
The man raised his rifle.
The boy pulled his revolver.
Two shots rang out, almost simultaneous. The father felt the impact. The boy staggered. His gun fell from his fingers.
Neither moved.
A red trail trickled from the boy’s left eye like a single tear. The father’s bullet had passed clean through it.
The man brought a shaking hand to his face. His blood seeped through his fingers, pouring from the wound in his right eye.
The father dropped to his knees.
The boy collapsed with him.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
In the distance, smoke spewed from the house he once called home. Where the boy lived. His son. The one he would see hanged for her murder.
The man spat in the dirt. ‘I’ll burn it all,’ he said. ‘Even you, boy.’
His wife’s blood branded him the most dangerous of men, one who had nothing to lose. His grip tightened around the rifle as he stood and reread the telegram.
He gathered his gear, and a fleeting thought of his wife flashed through his mind. Her smile was like the last ray of sunlight before a storm.
He thought of the boy. Those eyes are empty of fear and filled with hate.
The horse was as thin and worn as the man. They stood as ghosts in a dusty wasteland. The wind kicked up, slicing through his tattered coat. He knew there was nothing left of him but revenge billowing through his veins.
He mounted the horse and rode through the night. Hours passed. The land stretched on.
When the town crept into view, a strange heaviness settled over him.
The wind howled through the street as he made his way to the square. And there, waiting, stood his son.
The boy’s hand rested on the hilt of his revolver. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t flinch.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said.
His father’s breath steadied. This wasn’t the child he remembered. This was someone forged by hands that had struck too hard, too often.
‘You murdered her,’ the man said, spittle dripping into his beard. ‘Shot her down like a dog.’
‘I tried to save her,’ the boy said. ‘All those nights she begged you to stop. All the times I tried to pull you off her. I begged her to leave. Tried to drag her away that night. But the gun went off.’
The boy’s eyes drifted past him, as if his father no longer mattered. ‘I killed her, yes,’ he said. ‘But it was an accident.’
‘You can’t barter your way out of this, boy.’
‘I knew my fate when I watched my mother die.’
The man looked into his son’s eyes and, for the first time, saw himself. The quiet rage. The resolve. The inevitability.
The man raised his rifle.
The boy pulled his revolver.
Two shots rang out, almost simultaneous. The father felt the impact. The boy staggered. His gun fell from his fingers.
Neither moved.
A red trail trickled from the boy’s left eye like a single tear. The father’s bullet had passed clean through it.
The man brought a shaking hand to his face. His blood seeped through his fingers, pouring from the wound in his right eye.
The father dropped to his knees.
The boy collapsed with him.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
