Otis Vale sat apart from the others, silent, and watchful with the cold eyes of a rattlesnake waiting beneath a rock. The locomotive whistled. The sound went straight through my bones. 15 minutes, perhaps less. I remained on that ridge, old, exhausted, and alone, measuring the distance and weighing every chance of survival.
Three armed men, one Apache woman tied across the tracks, a train that could not stop in time, and me carrying a Winchester, an aging cult, and 5 years worth of cowardice locked inside my chest. Then I remembered Rose. Not the way she died, the way she lived. I remembered her walking into homes filled with sickness when everyone else was too frightened to approach. I remembered her telling me that a man did not need to save the whole world to do what was right.
He only had to refuse to turn his back on the person standing before him. My hand lowered toward the Winchester. Somewhere deep inside me, the old marshall opened his eyes. I guided my horse down the slope without hurrying, allowing each hoofbeat to fall steady and deliberate. Hank Dodd was the first to notice me approaching.
"Morning, boys," I called, forcing a calm into my voice that I did not feel. "Those tracks run mighty close to my property. What kind of business are you conducting out here?" Hank gave me a crooked laugh. Keep riding, old man.
This has nothing to do with you. I pulled my coat open just far enough for them to see the US Marshall's badge pinned beneath it. All three men stopped laughing. "This badge may not carry much authority anymore," I said, drawing the Winchester from its saddle scabbard. "But this rifle still makes itself understood."
The train screamed again from somewhere down the valley, and Nia, still bound to the rails, looked directly at me for the first time. Hank Dodd spat into the dirt without taking his eyes off my badge. For a long moment, none of the three men spoke. The only sounds were the distant warning cry of the locomotive and the low crackle of their campfire. Smoke curled lazily toward a sky turning orange, as though the dawn itself had no idea that an innocent woman was only minutes away from death.
"That badge carries no weight around here anymore, old man." Hank Dodd growled as he rose with deliberate defiance. A faint smile touched my mouth. You may be right, but my Winchester works just as well as it did 5 years ago. Finn Ror gave a nervous chuckle.
He was young, reckless, and far too proud to recognize when good sense was telling him to back away. Otis Vale remained seated, studying me with the patience of a coyote waiting for the perfect moment to close its jaws. I dismounted without letting the rifle drift from them. Listen carefully. You have two choices.
Get on your horses. Disappear before the sun clears those hills, and I'll pretend I never saw you. Stay where you are, and at least one of you won't live to see another sunrise. Hank stepped toward me. And who's going to stop us?
Some washed up old man who spends his days mending fences? I gave him no answer. Long ago, I had learned that truly dangerous men did not waste breath proving what they were. The locomotive's whistle split the morning again. This time, it was louder.
10 minutes. Finn mistook my silence for fear. A smug grin spread across his face as his hand began sliding toward the revolver at his hip. It was the worst mistake he ever made. My Winchester thundered across the valley.