The ancient radio crackled to life, its static-laced voice filling the small cabin with news of terror and uncertainty.
“…still no leads in the recent string of murders that has rocked Bearclaw County,” the announcer’s voice wavered through the interference. “Sheriff Harlan urges all residents, especially those in rural areas, to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”
A slow smile spread across the listener’s face, eyes still closed in quiet contemplation. Let them search. Let them scurry about like ants, grasping at clues that led nowhere. They couldn’t stop what was coming.
No one could.
Rising from the worn armchair, they moved to the wooden table dominating the small space. Laid out before them were the tools of their trade, each one cleaned and polished to perfection. The rope, lovingly braided and so very, very personal. The knife, its edge honed to razor sharpness. And the branding iron, its intricate symbol, a promise of justice long delayed.
Their fingers traced the symbol’s intertwining lines and curves. It was more than just a mark—it was a key, unlocking forces beyond mortal comprehension. The design had come to them years ago, in a dusty tome hidden in a tattered bag in the closet—one of their mother’s books, no doubt. They had been forced in that closet for long hours, with nothing to do but await further punishment. The symbol, used by shamans to restore balance to a world out of alignment, had promised hope.
Retribution.
Each curve of the symbol represented the cyclical nature of the universe, each line the unwavering course of cosmic law. It spoke of debts owed and payments due, of a scale that must be balanced no matter the cost.
Closing their eyes, they began to murmur words in a language few remembered. The cadences were alien to modern ears, but they knew their power. Knew how they thinned the veil between worlds, allowing the old magic to seep through.
As they chanted, memories flickered behind closed eyelids. The Strickland ranch, bathed in firelight. Jacob Strickland’s laughter, cruel and mocking.
Eyes snapped open, burning with renewed purpose. Soon. Soon, Strickland would pay for his sins, would face the reckoning that had been building for decades.
Moving to a battered chest, they withdrew the clothes chosen for tonight’s work, each item imbued with significance. The boots, taken from their father’s body. The gloves, crafted from the hide of the first steer they’d ever branded. And the coat, dark as night, that protected them from unwanted eyes.
As they dressed, they recited the names of those who had already fallen to their justice. Clayton Harrow, Talia Montero, Wesley Kade. Each death had been a step toward the greater goal. Each symbol left behind, a piece of the larger pattern.
And tonight, with Strickland’s demise, that pattern would near completion.
The drive to the Strickland ranch was a journey through a land both familiar and alien. Rolling hills gave way to vast prairies, the grass swaying like a golden sea under the light of the waning moon. In the distance, the silhouette of mountains loomed, ancient sentinels watching over a land in turmoil.
As they drove, a complex mix of emotions churned within them. This land, so beautiful in its wild expanse, had been tainted by the greed and shortsightedness of men like Strickland. Part of them longed to see it all burn, to wipe the slate clean and let nature reclaim what had been stolen. But another part recognized the delicate balance, the need for a more surgical approach to justice.
They killed the headlights as they approached, navigating the final stretch by moonlight alone. No sense in alerting their prey too soon. Parking in a secluded grove, they gathered their tools and began the trek to the ranch proper.
Each step was placed with care, leaving no trace of their passage. The land seemed to welcome them, the grass parting silently beneath their feet, the wind dying down to mask their approach. They were its instrument, its avenging spirit.
As they neared the fence line, they paused, crouching low to avoid detection. The Stricklands’ security was laughable. A few motion-activated lights, easily avoided. An ancient alarm system they could disable in their sleep. Jacob had grown complacent in his wealth, his power. He had forgotten the price of his prosperity.
But they remembered. Oh, how they remembered.
Slipping over the fence with practiced ease, they made their way toward the barn. The cattle were quiet for now, unaware of the storm about to break over them. A grim smile played across their lips. Soon, those cries would shatter the night’s peace. Soon, they would call Jacob Strickland to his doom.
Finding a secluded spot near the cattle pen, they began to unpack their tools. From a pocket, they withdrew a small device—a gift from a like-minded soul who understood the importance of their work. With a flick of a switch, it emitted a high-pitched tone, inaudible to human ears but maddening to cattle.
Closing their eyes, they took a deep breath, centering themselves for what was to come. When they opened them again, they burned with a terrible purpose. Tonight, justice would be served. The scales would be balanced. And Jacob Strickland would finally face the consequences of his actions.
It would be the last thing he ever did.