The Widow's War

Would she have killed Deacon as he lay there helpless, and if she had, would it have been murder or an act of war? John Brown could have told her, but he is twenty miles away riding for his life after his defeat at Osawatomie.

Carrie is so full of rage that all she can think is that Deacon has brought death to Two Rivers and she wants him to pay for it. Still, she pauses. Perhaps that means she would not have pulled the trigger after all. In any event, she never has a chance to find out, because before she can decide whether to let Deacon live or send him to hell, a shadow falls over both of them, and she hears a voice say: “Drop the gun.”

When she looks up, she sees a young man mounted on a brown stallion. She sees his hair—curly and blond—his cold blue eyes, his nickel-plated revolver, the red bandanna around his neck. He is not pointing his revolver at her. He doesn’t need to because in his right hand he holds something more powerful than any weapon, holds it upside down by the ankles like a dead rabbit.

Clark gives Teddy a shake and lifts him higher so Carrie can get the full benefit of the sight of her little boy screaming for his mama to come rescue him. “Drop the gun now.”

“Teddy!” William yells. Clark ignores him. Deacon’s wife’s lover can only crawl now and not very fast at that. So let him yell, threaten, curse, command. It’s all just noise. He grabs Teddy’s head with his free hand.

“Drop the gun. I’m going to start counting. If it isn’t on the ground by the time I reach three, I’ll snap his spine. One . . .”

Carrie throws down the shotgun, steps back, and lifts her hands over her head. “Don’t hurt Teddy! I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him!”

The raider who goes by the name of Rabbit trots over. He’s a big, bucktoothed man, the kind who kills for sport. The only human being Rabbit has ever feared is Henry Clark. Reining in his horse, Rab touches the brim of his hat respectfully.

“Hold this,” Clark says, handing him Teddy. Rab takes Teddy by one arm, and Teddy begins to scream with redoubled fury.

“Don’t dislocate the little brat’s shoulder, you idiot! Hold him like you were his mama, but if this one,” Clark points to Carrie, “or that one,” he points to William, “give me any trouble, dash his brains out on that chopping block over there.”

The evil-looking raider with the buckteeth has ridden off a few paces. He’s holding Teddy under the arms now, shaking him to make him shut up. Everything in Carrie urges her to run to Teddy and pull him out of the bushwhacker’s grip, but she’s afraid if she does, Clark will carry out his threat.

Deacon has clasped his hands over his chest. His fingers are stained with blood, and those green eyes Carrie saw for the first time in her parlor in Brazil are growing cloudy.

“You’ve always had a talent for the obvious,” Clark says. He steps over Deacon and walks to where William lies. “Good evening, Doctor Saylor. I’m Henry Clark.”

“I don’t fancy being cursed at,” Clark says. “If you were a whole man, I’d have to call you out, but since you’re crippled, I’ll just warn you: Keep quiet, or you’re going to see that child’s brains scattered all over creation.” Clark turns his back on William and cups his hands to his mouth.

“Zeb!” he yells. Another raider gallops up to join the group in front of the clinic. This one is burly and short with a barrel chest and powerful arms.

“Drag the doctor over to Mr. Presgrove,” Clark orders. “The doctor can’t walk, and I don’t want to soil my hands on him.”

Zeb grabs William under the arms and lugs him to where Deacon lies. It must hurt, but although William turns pale, he doesn’t make a sound. Carrie also remains silent, afraid of what will happen if she speaks. She wants to go to William, tend to his leg, stop the bleeding, and wash out the wound before it festers. Tears fill her eyes, but she chokes them back. She won’t give Clark the satisfaction of seeing how terrified she is. If he hurts Teddy or hurts William any more than William is already hurt, he had better kill her, because she will never rest until she has hunted him down.

Zeb shambles over to Deacon, grabs his left shoulder, and starts to turn him on his side. As he does so, Deacon shrieks.

Zeb turns Deacon so Deacon is facing William. A small pool of blood begins to form on the ground between the two, most of it Deacon’s. Clark puts his hands on his hips, looks down at Deacon, and shakes his head. He looks disappointed. Not horrified, not upset, not even angry. Just disappointed.

“You didn’t kill your wife’s lover, Deacon. You botched things as usual, and honor hasn’t been satisfied. So what do you want me to do with him? Shoot him dead where he lies? Torture him for a while? Hang him? I’m offering—”

He turns back to Deacon. “I’m offering you a choice of revenge. How would you like this man who has sullied your name to die? It’s a free lunch. Pick your dish.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let a dog suffer like you’re suffering. I think it’s time to put you out of your misery.” Clark draws his pistols and approaches Deacon.