It was directed away from it. Shouts of confusion erupted from the yard. Hold fire. Pike's voice screamed, cracking with panic. Hold fire.
Eli and Clara froze. They looked at each other. The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire. What is happening? Clara whispered.
Eli crawled to the window. He peered out through the shattered boards. "My god," he breathed. A new group of riders had entered the yard. They wore long dusters and rode tall, fresh horses.
At the lead was Marcus Thorne, the lawyer from Cheyenne. And beside him, wearing a badge that caught the white sunlight, was a federal marshal. But it wasn't just them. Behind the law men wrote a dozen men from Red Rock, the blacksmith, the owner of the livery stable, men who had stood silent for months. They held shotguns and hunting rifles, and their barrels were pointed at Pike's mercenaries.
Drop your weapons. The marshal bellowed. His voice was like iron. By order of the United States District Court. Sheriff Miller looked at Pike.
Then at the marshal, he dropped his gun in the dirt. One by one, the hired guns lowered their rifles. They were paid to fight farmers, not feds. Pike sat on his horse, his face a mask of purple rage. He was alone in the center of the yard, stripped of his army.
Eli kicked the barricade away from the door. He threw the bolt and stepped out onto the porch, his rifle in hand. Clara followed him, stepping into the biting cold. "It is over, Pike," Eli said. Thorne rode forward, waving a sheath of papers.
Judge Atherton signed the order this morning. Pike, your assets are frozen, pending a federal investigation into racketeering, land fraud, and murder. The witness you thought you scared off. Molly, she didn't run. She came to my office last night.
Pike looked at Thorne, then at Eli. His eyes were the eyes of a trapped wolf. Wild, yellow, and devoid of reason. You think a piece of paper stops me? Pike snarled.
I built this valley. I own this earth. He reached into his saddle bag. He didn't pull a gun. He pulled a glass bottle with a rag stuffed in the neck.
Kerosene. He struck a match on his saddle horn. If I cannot have it, Pike screamed. No one will. He hurled the bottle.