Mark M Bulmer

Oh, my Wren, I hate that woman.

Sheriff, she called herself upon riding into town a few months ago. Not really named herself so much as announced.

“I’m Sheriff this here town!” she’d yelled, climbing from her mount in the dirt of the crossroads.

Her horse looked the strongest animal I'd ever seen. Dust drifted from its coat when it shook, but when it was done shaking, the beast planted its feet as if daring the world to move it. Gotta say, I had to bet, I’d put money on the horse.

She was a different story. I saw it in how she moved. She wore her dust and grit and dirt. Every grain, every stain, every scar, they were proudly hers. The long leather coat she wore did little to hide her gear given how fast she flicked both sides out to clear her pistols. Her kit was top-notch, magnificent. If I found her in a dark alley, I’d move to another town and set up as a gentleman when I was done.

I watched her eyes look around, side to side, window to window. She’d held the reins in her left hand and kept her horse, looking as unpleasant and raunchy as her, at the side.

I met those eyes when they passed the window I stood behind. I didn’t tremble, didn’t look away. I met them with my own. I’m not one to shy from a gunfighter and sure as shit not from some woman says she’s Sheriff. Maybe she saw something dangerous in me. Maybe she saw the immediate hate. I think something she saw scared her, at least a little. Her gaze passed on to the next building, the next windows.

“The hell you are,” the Sheriff at the time, Cold Webber, hollered after kicking the jail’s door open from inside. “I’m Sheriff since three year ago.”

I remember it sharp as daybreak. Cold walked into the road, eyes on the woman the whole time. Yeah, his coat was tucked back round his shooter. Yeah, six deputies followed him and lined up on the porch, but he didn’t make sudden moves. He was steady.

There was something on his face I never seen on him. Most men, I’d call it fear. A pants-pissing fear to shake your bowels. On Cold, it was just mean. Mean as a man could get.

We had our clashes, him and me. Three years and he cost me enough dollars to annoy, but not enough to raise the ruckus of killing him. I always figured someone would draw faster and pop him. Gut shot would be best. Solid one with no chance of surviving. It’s a slow, agonizing death. Maybe not as bad as being staked out for fire ants, but close. Good enough for Cold.

“You here to challenge?” Cold said, hands steady at his side.

He’d shot three men the day he became Sheriff.

Those three came to town and caused all kind of fuss. Blasting pistols in the air, whooping and hollering. Their horses were rearing and hopping about, excited or scared half to death. People panicked and ran all round. A couple bounced off hopping about horses and one got stomped right in her chest. The riders didn’t seem worried about her dying, just kept bouncing their horses around for a bit till the road cleared then climbed down.

Sheriff came from the jail alone, the two deputies stayed inside. He turned to face them, him against three men. Before he did anything, they shot him. All three of them put holes in the Sheriff and he went down, flat on the ground, dead. They laughed as they holstered their pistols.

Cold stepped from the bar.

Cold isn’t too big a man, but he seemed a lot bigger when he paced onto the road. His strides were sure and heavy. His eyes were fixed on the men, and they were watching him close. He stopped in the middle of the road, turned towards the men, and nodded a single nod.

Then, all at once, Cold killed them. Blam! Blam! Blam! Three men dead on the ground, him standing there with a tiny puff of smoke coming from his pistol. I had eyes on him the whole time and never saw him draw. He stood in the middle of the road, other side than he faced her from, and there was something like a blur. All I saw. Wished I’d had bets on it from the day it happened.

Truth to tell, I’d’ve bet on him against her when she stood in the road. All could see she’d been through a lot, a tough one, willing to face down anything. Her leather coat was spotted with wear, dotted with tears, shot through twice from the holes, maybe three times. Oh, she was lean, with fierce eyes. Like she’d been living on snake and cactus for months. It was a cut lean, a sharp lean. It was colder than Cold Webber.

“I said,” she answered, “I’m the Sheriff this here town. You either a deputy, or you dead. Draw —"

Cold’s hand flashed for the pistol on his hip at the word ‘draw’. Fastest man I ever seen with the jump on little missy? She was done for, no chance she’d survive. He’d empty his pistol into her before she knew she was in a gunfight.

Blam. Blam.

The shots were quieter than any I’d heard. Lots of talk on which pistol is best for a gunslinger. Some talk on which is best for a homesteader. None of them make a little blam blam. When a shooter’s gun shoots, the blam is noticeable. It is heard. Nobody more than a block away noticed those two.

I saw what those two shots did. First one took Sheriff Cold square in the middle his forehead. Snapped the head back and Cold looked at the sky. Second one hit him dead centre on his chest, and he fell backwards. Two of the most perfect shots I’ve seen in forty-six years on this Earth.

I wasn’t stunned like some of those around me. I’ve seen crazier shit. Soon as the second shot hit, I’m looking to her. Fast as my eyes can move. Like, instantaneous.

She had her other pistol out and both pointed at the line of deputies before Cold’s body hit the ground. Couple of them flinched, arms uncrossing suddenly and eyes wide. Couple more moved faster and got a hand on a pistol. Last two, they held real still. They stiffened up some, but they didn’t move.

Her pistols were aimed at the two with a hand on a gun even as their fingers closed round the grips. Neither got one near the trigger.

“Be sure.”

Coolest voice I ever heard. Like nobody been so cool like this gal. She isn’t throwing blame round, isn’t saying they’re wrong for where they’re standing or even for thinking to draw on her. Just letting them know they better be confident in what they did next. They both quickly decided loyalty to a dead man was useless and raised hands from pistols.

She holstered her guns, looked to dead Cold, then took up her reins and led the horse around back of the jail.

Since then, all good for citizens. Deputies do their job and uphold the law. Peace gets kept. Less crime.

She's caused unholy hell in my work, breaking up everything I got going on. Almost like she saw my plans when our eyes met. Looking at a horse worth a fortune in the city, two of my guys got shot up and dead trying to pinch it. One piece of work after another, she’s there and ruining it.

Used to have eight guys working for me. Out of guys now. Last three came with me on tonight’s action. All dead. Whole crew, three tough men, gone and dead. Sure, there’s bodies out there. Somewhere. Who gives a toss?

I got her back. Ain't even, but I took them six deputies out one by one. Clean kills, but not quick ones. A knife in the dark.

Just me. Out in the streets. Skulking in shadows, drifting with the breeze, a patch of darkness in the darkness. I’m here, I’m there, I’m everywhere.

I’m right behind you.

Like back in the day in the big city. Never lost a single shift, twist, earring, gambler, who’s a naughty girl, or even a flip. Not since I joined up with the wrong crowd. Not since I became a killer. Expensive, it was, but oh, did I learn.

Twenty-six contracts I took and twenty-six people I killed. More than a hundred, what with guards and witnesses and those who got in the way. Just part of the job. They don’t count.

Last one I done, they said was dangerous. Paid better than well. Killing always pays well, but this one was a ton of bills. Always a waste to kill a beautiful woman, particularly one with a body like she had, but a deal is a deal, a contract is a contract.

I snuck into her bedroom while she ate supper downstairs, her bodyguard watching. Quick look round and I found an easy hiding spot behind a hunting tapestry too large for the wall. Maid didn’t see me when she turned the bed down. Bodyguard didn’t see me when he checked the room. Victim didn’t see me when she changed into her nightclothes or when she stepped toward the bed. She didn’t see me slip from cover and creep up behind her. She saw nothing.

She felt my hand close over her mouth. She felt my knife sink into her back. I angled the thrust to puncture a lung so she couldn’t cry out. Rather than pulling the double-edged blade free to stab again, I wrenched the hilt from side to side. Each movement cut and tore and ripped her apart inside

She was still standing when she died, back still arched around the pain. It was a quick death, quicker than I prefer.

Easy breezy to lay her on the bed without making noise. She was rich as shit, so I pocketed a couple handfuls worth near as much as the contract. Clean the knife, tuck it away, open the window, vanish into the night. Next day, get paid, sell the stuff I stole, vanish from the city and make my way here.

Almost retirement. Could retire, I wanted to, got the bills for it. But there’s enough people in town so a little stealing here and there doesn’t get anybody too worked up. I had a crew working for me. Now, I’m alone. Alone and hunting.

My knife is blackened to avoid reflection of light. Top or toe, right or left, it’s the night. It’s the only metal on me. Metal shines bright. Metal clinks against bricks, tinkles against other metal or, if you’re a numbskull and fall down, clunks against the rock you’re sure to land on because you’re a numbskull. Metal is to be avoided unless blackened. Then blackened again. Then held tight like your beating heart will be ripped from your chest if you lose it.

Ahhh. There she is, strolling along the street with her arms swinging all lazy at her sides, hands relaxed, not ready to draw. Nobody would know she killed three men tonight, she’s so calm, almost serene. Like she knows what’s coming, feels me waiting, senses tonight is her end.

She’s six feet from the buildings on this side of the road. Six little feet. I’ll cover it in seconds, padded shoes muffling my steps when I move behind her. I won’t cover her mouth. Her, I want to hear the short-lived scream before her lung collapses. I want to hear the desperate last gasp when she struggles to get air into a deflated bag. I want to watch her collapse to the ground, eyes wide, confused.

Then, I want to watch her die.

She’s approaching my hiding place. I look into her eyes, searching for anything to show she knows I’m here. There’s nothing. She looks up and down the road, glancing at windows and doors. Her gaze passes over the shadows concealing me and moves on without a pause.

Four more steps.

It’s time.

I’m a ghost. I’m a breeze. I’m a shadow. I’m silent in slinking from darkness and into the faint moonlight. Five quick steps and she’s right there, leather coat swaying from her shoulders. Not a chance it’s tough enough to protect her from my blade. Just five steps. Five silent steps.

The perfection of the thrust thrummed in my hand at first movement. The angle, the speed of the knife, the tiny twist to the left to ease the full length between her ribs. All ideal, nothing could be better. Real killers live for the moment, dream of the almost overwhelming beauty.

My foot came down soundlessly on the fifth step, the last one. The tip of the black blade inches from her back. A second until it struck.

She spun faster than I could follow, faster than thought. Her left arm crashed into my wrist, snapping bone and sending the knife spinning away. Her right hand grabbed me by the throat in a grip tight enough to make my eyes bulge and my breath stop. It scared the crap out of me. She heaved me over her hip as she turned then slammed me to the ground like I been dropped three storeys.

It was dirt, but hard packed dirt. Wagons and horses on it for years. I landed flat on my back and my head cracked against the hard dirt like it was solid stone.

There was a moment, an instant, lasting years. Everything was everywhere, and I was everywhere with it. I was so small I was invisible and so huge I filled the sky and could reach beyond the sun. My consciousness swelled. My mind expanded. I became, somehow, more.

Then pain hit me like a speeding train.

It started in my throat from her vice-like grip. A crushing, grinding pain to let me know I was hurt bad. Then it spread, intense and powerful, until it covered my entire body. Every nerve screamed at the same time. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even scream. But I could see.

From a knee beside me, she held my throat tight. Her face was right in front of mine, close enough to kiss, and she stared through my eyes. Not at my eyes or around my eyes or into my eyes. She looked through them, into me. She saw the darkest parts of my being, the foulness I kept hidden even from myself.

We stayed there for, maybe, two seconds. Then she pushed to her feet.

It seemed a week, but I got one breath into me, a long, chest-heaving, air-sucking breath which only made me realize how badly I needed to keep breathing.

“Found you,” she said, removing her gloves and slowly drawing a small pistol from a pocket. “Looking for years. Must’a killed near a thousand men in searchin’. Now, I gotcha. Yer him.”

Each breath was an agony. The air scraped my half-crushed throat as it passed. My ribs ached, my back spasmed. I pissed myself.

“I know,” she continued, ignoring my contortions and tortured expression, “it's just work. Killin’ people’n all. Nothin’ personal. I don’t wanna ‘preciate ya none, but I’m glad she went fast.”

What? Who? Only made two quick kills. Fat man and the woman … in the bedroom.

“Gonna kill ya now.” She extended a hand to show me the little gun. I couldn’t focus on it. “This here, got made special. Three shots. Them shots ain’t big, but they’s heavy. Lotta ‘mentum. They get deep. Good thing yer on the ground. Drop on this one's a bitch.”

She stepped over right beside me, looked down at me. Her eyes …

“I know yer a mean and terrible man. You done evil, ain’t ‘fraid of nuthin.” She leaned in closer. “I’m a hell of a lot meaner.”

“Throat, painful but ain’t gonna kill ya.” She waggled the gun. “Three heavy rounds in the gut, you die slow and bad.”

A miniscule click sounded when she cocked the hammer.

“Yer sufferin’, it ain’t fer her. Like I said, glad she ain’t go through nothin’ like yer gonna.”

She pointed the gun at my belly. I tried to reach for her hand, but my arms merely trembled. I tried to kick at her, my leg jerked.

“What yer gonna feel, it's fer me. Cuz you took her from me. Cuz I want to.”

She pulled the trigger, a loud blam sounded, fire exploded in my stomach. Metal shredded flesh and the organs beneath. I tried to scream; it came out a gurgle.

“All three, all at once.” Her voice was conversational, like we were discussing the weather. She gave no smile. Just watched me. “Enjoy yer suffering.”

She turned and walked away.

Can't scream. Can't stand. Can't move. Can't do anything except hurt.

Probably five, six hours 'til anyone'll find me.