Across from him, Ayla's face was set in grim concentration, her fear buried beneath a layer of pure survival instinct. Then a voice cut through the noise. "Cease fire!" The shooting stopped. The silence that followed was somehow worse than the gunfire, heavy and expectant.
Wyatt kept his rifle trained on the door, his breath coming hard and fast. "Mercer!" Harlo's voice came from somewhere out in the darkness. "You listening?" Wyatt didn't answer.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be. We don't want to kill you. We just want the girl. Send her out and we'll leave you alone." "Go to hell!"
Wyatt shouted back. Harlo laughed. "Figured you'd say that. All right, then. We tried doing this the easy way.
Now we do it the hard way." A new sound reached Wyatt's ears. Glass breaking, liquid splashing, and then worse than anything, the smell of kerosene. "No," Alo whispered. Wyatt's mind raced.
"They were going to burn them out, force them into the open. It was the smart play, the one he'd been dreading." "We have to go," Ayla said, her voice rising in panic. "We have to run." "Hold on," Wyatt said.
An idea was forming, desperate and probably stupid, but it was better than nothing. "You still got that revolver I gave you?" "Yes." "Good." When I say go, you run for the barn.
Don't stop. Don't look back. Just run. Get to the horses and ride. Head west toward the mountain pass.
Don't worry about me. "I'm not leaving you." "You are. Because if you don't, we both die." Wyatt, listen to me.
He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I can't protect you if I'm worried about you getting shot. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?" She stared at him, tears streaming down her face.
Finally, she nodded. "Good girl. Now, get ready." Wyatt moved to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening. He could hear footsteps, the creek of floorboards on the porch.
Someone was right outside, probably pouring kerosene against the wood. In a few seconds, they'd light it. He took a deep breath, then kicked the door open. The man on the porch stumbled backwards, surprised. Wyatt didn't give him time to recover.
He fired once, the shot taking the man in the chest, and then he was moving, charging out into the night with a roar that was half rage, half desperation. "Go!" he shouted at "Ayla." She ran. Wyatt fired again and again, not aiming so much as creating chaos. He saw shapes moving in the darkness, heard shouts of alarm.
Someone shot at him and missed, the bullet kicking up snow by his feet. He dove behind the water trough and reloaded, his hands shaking. "Get her!" Harlo's voice, furious now. "She's running!"
Footsteps pounded past Wyatt's position, heading for the barn. He popped up and fired, hitting one of the runners in the leg. The man went down screaming. Another turned to shoot at Wyatt, and Wyatt dropped him with a shot to the shoulder. But there were too many.