The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman

expression registered concern.
    â€œTwisted my blamed ankle chasin’ after that other’n. He got clean away.”
    â€œI thought I heard someone yelling, like he was hurt.”
    â€œThat could have been me. Could have been him. I think I nicked him.”
    â€œGet a good look at him?” John asked.
    â€œNo. He lit a shuck. Ran like a scared rabbit. I twisted my ankle and had to give up on him. What you got here?”
    Ben looked down at Luke and swore under his breath.
    â€œGod, Johnny, what’re you doing to him?”
    â€œWaiting.”
    â€œWaiting for what?”
    â€œHe—he’s waitin’ for me to die, the bastard,” Luke said, a malevolent glare in his narrowed eyes. “Torturin’ me. You shoot me, mister. I’m done for.”
    Ben lifted his rifle.
    John put a hand on the barrel and pushed it down.
    â€œNo,” John said. “I’m going to tell Luke here about my family.”
    â€œWhat?” Ben said.
    â€œFind yourself a seat under a tree. Get off that ankle.”
    Ben hobbled to a pine, rested against it, and slid to the ground. He laid the Henry across his lap, pushed his hat back off his forehead.
    John squatted next to Luke, holding the pistol up so the wounded man could see it, see that it was cocked, see that his finger was just a breath away from the trigger.
    â€œYou killed my little sister, Luke. You or one of your ugly friends. She wasn’t but ten years old. Her name was Alice. She had the prettiest hair, golden hair, like spun honey.”
    â€œI didn’t kill that kid,” Luke said.
    â€œShut up, Luke,” John said amiably, his eyes glittering like the eyes of the mad, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey.
    â€œShe played with dolls, made up little stories about them, and she pretended that they were real people. They were her friends and she made tea for them and mudpies and fed them like a mother spoon-feeds a real baby.”
    â€œDon’t,” Luke said, a pleading note in his voice.
    There was a sound like an empty barrel rolling across the floor of a cavernous room. Thunder rolling across the skies, the sound pushing through thick black clouds like an immense voice shouting through layers of cotton. And the sound died away, leaving a hush behind, and a darker darkness.
    â€œShe had the prettiest laugh, Luke. She said her dolls made her laugh. And she would draw pictures of them on paper and show her pictures to them, and sometimes it seemed so real, I thought her dolls were laughing with her. She found a little bird once, down in Arkansas, and it had a broken wing. She took that bird and put in a little box and told her dollies to help her take care of it. She put medicine on its wing and one of her dolls was a nurse and she had that little birdie hopping around in no time. That’s how kind she was. That’s how she treated God’s creatures. When the bird got well and flew away, Alice just laughed and laughed, and she told her dolls how much they had helped that poor bird.”
    â€œStop,” Luke croaked. “No more. Please. I’m dyin’.”
    â€œAlice is already dead, Luke. She was shot to pieces by you and your men. I buried her with her favorite doll. They’re both in the cold ground. And you ain’t even goin’ to get that, you miserable sonofabitch. You’re going to feed the wolves and the worms.”
    Luke gasped for air. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.
    Ben sat there, aghast at what John was doing.
    None of them heard the man creeping up on them. Pete Rutter had heard the voices. He had circled around, slowly and carefully, so that he had a clear view of the three men. Now he stared dumbstruck at the three of them through a pair of binoculars. He was close enough to hear what they were saying, but he knew he could not be seen. He watched and he listened.
    Then he saw the pistol in John’s hand. His jaw dropped as he