Walk the Sky by Robert Swartwood, David B. Silva

looked for, and he was pleased to discover the sticks were dry.  
    Behind him, a floorboard creaked.  
    “That was fast,” he said, smiling as he continued to inspect the dynamite. “I think this is just what we need.”  
    Silence.  
    “Witashnah?”  
    But before he could turn around, the barrel of a gun kissed the back of his head.

 
     
     
     
    19.

    “Don’t move.” The voice was young and nervous. “I don’t want to shoot you.”  
    Clay said, “I don’t want you to shoot me.”  
    The barrel didn’t move from its place on the back of his head.  
    “Now you’re gonna stand up real slow like, okay?”  
    Clay kept his hands held out at his sides. His first thought was Witashnah, what had become of her. Then something strange happened to his mind—a mental fog began to lift—and he found himself asking, “Have you ever killed a man, son?”  
    “Shut up.”  
    “Have you ever even fired your gun at someone?”  
    “I said shut up.”  
    “I’m going to give you a chance. You and the rest of your friends can leave this town now and escape with your lives. If not, well, I certainly hope your soul is right with the Lord.”  
    “ Shut up! ” the young man shouted, poking the barrel hard into the back of Clay’s head.  
    Clay closed his eyes, wondering where all of that had just come from. It certainly wasn’t something he would normally say. Even the feeling—the complete lack of fear—was something new.  
    “Now stand up,” the young man said. “Slowly.”  
    Clay rose to his feet, his knees popping with the effort. Once he stood straight, he slowly turned to find that the young man was barely even a man.  
    “How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”  
    The young man stepped back and kept his revolver leveled on Clay. He motioned with the barrel for Clay to walk.  
    Clay walked slowly back down the aisle, headed toward the front of the store. The toe of his right boot struck some of the penny candy, sending them skittering across the floor. The young man waited for him to pass and then kept pace behind, keeping the barrel of the gun pressed against Clay’s lower back. Clay had to hand it to the kid. No matter his age, it was a smart move. If Clay tried anything, it would take less than a second for the young man to pull the trigger and shatter Clay’s spine with the bullet.  
    Assuming, of course, the gun didn’t misfire.  
    Assuming, too, the gun was even loaded.  
    Through the open door Clay could see others in the street. At least two of them. Each held rifles in their hands.  
    “I got one!” the young man shouted. There was pride in his voice.  
    Clay considered reminding him what his actions right now meant—how he was essentially murdering Clay—but he knew better than to waste his breath. This young man had been fooled by the Reverend, just like everyone else in that godforsaken town.  
    Clay spotted Witashnah the moment he stepped outside.  
    Another man held her at gunpoint. He stood several yards away by two horses. The other two men—older men, gray in their beards—didn’t move from where they stood directly in front of the mercantile.  
    “Only four of you?” Clay asked, stepping down off the plank walkway into the dirt. “Are you sure that’s enough?”  
    “Shut up.” The barrel nudged him in the back. “The Reverend’s none too happy with you.”  
    “The demons didn’t get me last night. Did they get anyone else?”  
    The young man hesitated. “No.”  
    “But doesn’t that go against everything the good Reverend has taught you?”  
    “Don’t listen to him, Jerry,” said one of the men with the rifles. “He knows he’s a dead man.”  
    “Gentlemen,” Clay said. “I’ll give you the same chance I gave Jerry back inside. Leave me and my companion alone, and I’ll let you live.”  
    Again, Clay couldn’t believe he spoke the words as they left his mouth. The two men couldn’t seem to believe the words