Hunting Wolves

Two men stood silently on the ridge overlooking the town of Ellisgrove. Both were dressed for travel and looked as though they’d already traveled far. The afternoon sun was high overhead in a cloudless sky and beginning its descent. Its warmth seemed not to reach the frigid earth below.

The shorter of the men wore a faded leather duster with the collar turned up to guard against the biting winter wind. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders were hunched. His youthful face was cleanshaven; cheeks and nose reddened from the cold air. His dirty blond hair was windswept but hidden under a dark bowler hat. He stamped his booted feet to keep warm, packing down the thin layer of snow underfoot. He shivered and stole a glance at the other man.

He didn’t move; he seemed unaffected by the harsh temperature. Standing a head taller than his companion, his stance was confident despite his age. His face was also youthful and clean-shaven; his dark hair was a little shorter than shoulder length. He wore a poncho-like cloak of midnight black, and his hands were tucked beneath it. The rest of his attire—a broad-brimmed hat, long-sleeved shirt, pants, and leather boots—was of a similar, dark color. The man looked to be a shadow, in stark contrast with the white world around him.

“Whaddya think, Silas?” his companion asked him.

The man let the question hang in the air like their breath. His pale blue eyes studied the small town below the ridge with a quiet intensity.

Ellisgrove was not a large town by any means. It had only been founded three summers beforehand. The mountainous region surrounding the town was good for mining; the plentiful forests and a wide, coursing river running down from the mountains were good for the logging industry.

The townspeople of Ellisgrove were hardy, resilient folks. They had to be to survive in such a place. They worked hard, and it showed—the town was growing, slowly but surely. It was beginning to show signs of prosperity. Yet, growth and prosperity brought challenges along with them.

In nature, wolves tended to ignore thin and sickly prey—they were easy pickings, but there was nothing to them; little meat on their bones. They had their eyes set on the fattened and healthy—but not too much so. Otherwise, they’d be stronger and older; able to defend themselves against predators. No, the wolves learned to strike when the flock was somewhere between the two extremes. At the exact right time.

That was Ellisgrove. It was not so well established that the Law had a strong presence in the town. There had been a Lawman there. Rumor had it, a drunken brawl turned deadly shoot-out in the streets brought his vigilant watch to an untimely end two weeks previously.

Even temporarily, the flock was without a shepherd. Ellisgrove was unprotected. That made it vulnerable. All someone had to do was reach out and take it. The wolves knew that. Like catching the scent of blood on the air, or hearing the bleating cries of distress, they knew. All they had to do was go in and seize it by the throat for the kill.

And some had—Butch Hargrave and his gang of notorious outlaws. They were holding the whole town captive, forcing them to pay for “protection.” If the townspeople refused, well, dark rumors of what they had done to other unfortunate souls who refused had reached even Ellisgrove, remote as it was.

The Hargrave Gang terrorized the outskirts of the Western Territory. Wanted in numerous towns for crimes ranging from theft to murder, the Law had put large bounties on the entire gang. Even claiming one would make a man very wealthy indeed. But no Lawman who tried had ever succeeded.

The gang never stayed in one place for too long—just long enough to rob people blind and then slip away before the authorities could muster a group of Lawmen large enough to stand against them. The murderous outlaws left a trail of corpses in their wake wherever they went—some of their victims had even carried guns and badges.

That was why the two Lawmen stood on the ridge. They had followed that long trail of death and destruction. Hunting the Hargrave Gang for the past several months, they were determined to finally put an end to the bloodshed. They had caught up with them three weeks back, and in the blood-soaked streets of Brentwood, five of the bandits had fallen in a terrible shoot-out. But Butch and his seven remaining men had gotten away, fleeing into the far-reaching fringes of the Western Territory. The two Lawmen chased after their trail. It led them here, to Ellisgrove.

Whaddya think, Silas? The question remained unanswered.

The tall man didn’t look away from the town as he replied. “I think the wolves know we’ve got them cornered. They’re already wounded. Makes them dangerous. Best go careful on this one, John.”

John shifted from foot to foot, still shivering. He managed a crooked grin. “Don’t we always? Here I was, thinkin’ we’d switch it up for a change, flashin’ our badges and goin’ in guns a-blazin’.”

Silas snorted in amusement.

They both carried a badge—the silver symbol of the Law—but unlike some, they kept their profession as Lawmen hidden. No sense in displaying it for all to see. That was a good way to die out in the far-reaching fringes of the Western Territory.

Both men were also armed. But like their badges, their weapons were hidden as well. Out here, if someone carried a gun, it meant they were prepared to use it. No sense in giving their quarry that forewarning. When hunting down criminals, they’d learned over the years to take every advantage they could get.

One of those advantages was their youthfulness. Between the two of them, they couldn’t have seen more than fifty winters. The young were often looked down on and thought to be inexperienced due to their lack of age. But age and experience were not always related. Appearances could be deceiving. And in the case of Silas and John, they were.

The two had been Lawmen for some time now. Having carried their badges for nearly half a decade, they were well on their way to becoming masters of their chosen profession, despite their youth. Claiming the bounties on Hargrave and his gang would go a long way in furthering their reputations among other Lawmen.

But this hunt wasn’t about the prestige it would bring. It wasn’t even about the money they’d get. No, something else drove these two men. It burned in their hearts like a firebrand in the dark night. Without it, they wouldn’t be the men they were.

Retribution. That was what drove them. Retribution for injustices committed, lives lost, and blood spilled. It was a motivation closely associated with revenge. If they weren’t careful, they’d cross that line all too easily.

Instead of setting down roots like many of those in their trade, they chose to roam the Western Territory and hunt real villains—monsters that haunted the outskirts of civilization and threatened to send the little semblance of structure and good order in society spiraling into chaos and Lawless anarchy. Without Lawmen like Silas and John, there would be no one and nothing to stop such monsters. Monsters like Butch Hargrave and his gang.

John continued to shift his weight from foot to foot. Silas glanced over at him. “Cold?” he asked with an amused tone.

“You know I am,” grumbled the other man. “Didn’t think we’d be goin’ up this far north. It’s cold in the mountains—didn’t pack my thick socks and long underwear.”

“I did tell you the tracks were leading us toward Ellisgrove when we were in town last.”

“And that was supposed to tell me the weather was gonna be downright awful?”

“No, but you could have made a guess based on the geographical location.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “What am I, educated? Do I look like a cartographer or a weatherman?”

Silas smiled grimly at the thought. “Do you want me to tell you to pack warmer clothes next time?”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.”

The two were old friends. Closer than that, even. They were brothers in name, if not in blood. They had grown up together. There was much history between them. Too much to write about here. Silas was several years older than John and looked out for him like an older brother looks out for a younger sibling. He kept the younger man out of trouble over the years. For the most part.

Silas nodded toward the town below them. “Bet the general store has warm clothes you could buy.”

“You kiddin’? They’d rob me blind—what with the supply-and-demand and all. Bet one of Hargrave’s men has warm clothes I could get for free,” countered John.

Silas grimaced. “You’d take clothes off a dead man?”

“Who said anything about killin’ ‘em?” John looked shocked. He put his hand to his chest, affronted. “And even if I did, what’s the big deal? I’d wash ‘em first.” He shrugged unconcernedly. “Same as gettin’ second-hand clothes—if you think about it.”

“It really isn’t. I seriously doubt second-hand shop owners go around killing people to stock their inventory.”

“You dunno that,” argued John. “We live in a messed-up world, Silas.”

There was no disputing that fact, and even less of a point to be made arguing with John about it. The man was many things, but reasonable wasn’t one of them. Silas gave up.

There was no disputing that fact, and even less of a point to be made arguing with John. The man was many things, but reasonable wasn’t one of them.

He turned his attention back to the town of Ellisgrove, studying it. Even though it was past midday, there was no movement on the streets. Ellisgrove looked deserted. That tracked if a gang of bloodthirsty thieves and murderers had decided to hide out there.

Butch Hargrave rode with twelve men. He lost five of those men in the shoot-out back in Brentwood, but the ones still with him were killers—all of them. As for Butch himself, the man was devious and filled with cunning. There was a reason no Lawman had captured or killed him yet.

Silas and John had their wanted posters memorized. Dead or alive, there was money to be made in hunting them down. They knew their names, faces, and most importantly, their reputations. They weren’t the sort a Lawman would risk bringing in alive. They were ruthless; they’d kill without a second’s remorse. That meant Silas and John couldn’t afford to have any either.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Sy? John asked. “Got a plan yet?”

Silas smiled, bemused. “How come I’m the one always coming up with the plan?”

John shrugged. “I dunno; it’s always been you. You really wanna go along with one of my plans?”

“Fair point,” Silas grunted. He nodded toward the town below them. “If you were Butch Hargrave and his men, and knew you were being chased by the Law, where would you hide in Ellisgrove?”

There were several larger buildings in the town that Silas had his eye on. One was the tavern, at the town’s center. Like many other places, Ellisgrove had been built up around it. That building seemed the obvious choice to him. It was big enough to house eight men comfortably, and at the center of town, it was easily defendable.

A less likely choice was the miners’ barracks at the far end of town. While large and secure, it was removed from the town. Silas guessed that Butch Hargrave would want to stay close to keep his boot on the townspeople’s throats—wouldn’t want them getting any ideas about fighting back.

Of course, all this speculation would be for naught if Butch and his men weren’t in Ellisgrove anymore. They may have already moved on.

“Hmm.” John lifted his bowler hat and scratched his head. “That’s a tough question, innit?”

“How so?”

“Well, if I were that many people, I think I’d have a lotta different ideas about where to hide, you know?”

Silas closed his eyes; a pained expression on his face. John liked to play the fool at times, but it was all an act. For the most part. He played it well; that gave him a distinct advantage. People always thought stupid meant harmless. They’d let their guard down and that was often all John needed. The problem was—at least in Silas’ mind—John played the fool so often he’d forget to drop the act when it was just the two of them.

John smirked and pointed. “There—that’s it—that’s the expression I’d probably be makin’.” He chuckled to himself and then shook his head before growing more serious. “Best bet is the tavern, Sy.”

Silas nodded in agreement. “That’s what I figured, too,” he said softly. “We’ll confirm that before we do anything—least of which would be going in “guns a-blazin’”, as you so eloquently put it.”

The younger man grinned. “So that is still on the table, huh? Good. I like simple plans. Too many steps to ‘em and my brain starts to hurt.”

“I’ll do my best to keep it simple then,” Silas remarked dryly. “I’d hate to hurt your poor brain. The first step is getting down this ridge…”

“Thanks, pal, I can work with that.” John tipped his hat in his friend’s direction. “Still—eight men,” he commented lightly. “That’s still a good number of bandits, Sy. In Brentwood, we got the drop on ‘em. They’ll be expectin’ us, now. Think we’re up for it?”

“If I didn’t, would we be here?”

John didn’t look all too concerned. He merely shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Silas shook his head. “We’ve chosen a dangerous profession for ourselves. Every job we take has some risk,” he reminded the other man. “Some more than others. This is one of those jobs. But think about it—Hargrave and his men have already put at least ten Lawmen in the ground, and countless innocents. They need to be stopped.”

“I agree with you,” his friend nodded. “Just don’t want to have my name or anyone else’s added to the list, that’s all.”

“Nor do I. And if we can help it, after today, no one else will.”

Silas looked at the younger man. He nodded. They knew what needed to be done. It was dangerous, violent work. But it was necessary. Both men knew what it might eventually cost them. They were prepared for that. They’d chosen to walk this path long ago. They weren’t about to depart from it now.

Silas exhaled slightly. His breath came out in a cloud before disappearing. His eyes narrowed slightly. Had he seen movement down below them, or was it a trick of the light—a figment of his imagination? No matter. They’d stood here long enough. The sun was beginning to set.

“No sense in standing around any longer,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

To anyone else, his words would sound impatient and reckless. But John knew his friend. The man never went into anything without thinking it through deeply. He didn’t make decisions lightly. John knew he’d thought painstakingly over this throughout their trek into the mountains. Every waking moment was undoubtedly consumed with planning.

It was what made Silas one of the best Lawmen alive. John knew that without him, he’d have died long ago—shot and left for dead in some Lawless, backwater town for trying to go into something without a plan. John just wasn’t built for coming up with plans. Silas always had a plan.

They complemented each other well. The world they lived in had forced Silas to grow up too quickly. Silas had shouldered responsibilities he had no business carrying and didn’t look back.

In John’s opinion, he could stand to relax every now and then, and not take everything so seriously all the time. Well, that was what John was for. If he could lighten the dark mood that weighed on Silas every now and then, that was a good thing. It was hard to do at times, but John tried.

The two of them started making their way down the ridge overlooking Ellisgrove. With the ice and snow covering the rocky slope, the footing was treacherous. The trek was arduous; sweat dampened their clothes and then froze them in the chilly air. They spared no time for conversation.

Once, John slipped, and Silas’ hand shot out from beneath his poncho-like cloak to steady him. John grunted his thanks—heart pounding in his chest. One misplaced step and they wouldn’t have to worry about getting shot at by criminals.

They made their way to the bottom of the ridge without further incident. Dusk was falling more rapidly; the sun had disappeared behind the mountains and its residual light was fading fast. John and Silas found themselves standing on the edge of a small graveyard outside of Ellisgrove.

Tombstones already filled the snow-covered plot of land, despite the town’s recent founding. It was a sobering testament to the harsh reality of the world they lived in. Off in the distance stood a small chapel with a bell tower, guarding the entrance from the rest of the town. The entire cemetery was surrounded by a frail, white-picket fence.

“Well, ain’t this fortuitous. We’re surrounded by dead people,” John remarked, gesturing at the grave markers around them. “Seem to be off to a good start, Sy.”

His friend raised an eyebrow. “Fortuitous?” he asked wryly. “I didn’t think you had such a polysyllabic word in your vocabulary.”

John grinned, unfazed. “I hear enough of ‘em from you, pal. Makes sense that one or two of ‘em would stick.”

Silas shook his head, amused. “So long as you use them correctly.”

“Eh, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of that happenin’.” John shrugged. He looked around the small but growing graveyard. “Well, we made it off the ridge. We’re through the first step of your plan. What’s next?”

Silas nodded toward the gathering of buildings past the graveyard chapel. “We’ll make our way into town and go from there. One step at a time.”

John rolled his eyes. “I can handle more than one step at a time—unlike my feet.”

Silas chuckled, despite himself. “Careful, John. That was almost clever. You’ll make people start to wonder about you.”

John was about to give a sarcastic reply when a sudden noise shattered the relative quiet of the graveyard. CRACK. It sounded like a tree branch breaking under the weight of snow in the dead of winter, but it wasn’t. Both men instinctively knew what it was—a gunshot.

A moment later, John grunted and took a staggering step back as an unseen bullet clipped him in the left shoulder. Silas didn’t hesitate; he didn’t even blink—he dove to the side, tackling John and pulling him down to the ground behind one of the larger tombstones.

And not a moment too soon. There was another ear-splitting CRACK and a whizz as a second bullet tore harmlessly through the air over their heads.

Crouched down behind the grave marker, both men panted. Hearts beat faster, and the ice-cold sensation of adrenaline filled their veins. John pressed a hand to his shoulder and then examined his wound. His hand came away red.

Silas glanced over at him. “Is it bad?”

John bared his teeth in a pained grimace. “Awful. I just got this duster a couple of weeks ago—now it has a bullet hole in it!”

“The wound, John.”

The other man shook his head. “Just a graze, Sy, I’m good.” He craned his neck and peeked over the headstone. There was another loud CRACK, and he ducked his head back down quickly.

The bullet struck stone with a spray of sparks and a shattering of granite, sending fragments flying in all directions. One caught Silas on his cheek, leaving a thin, angry red line. He winced slightly.

“Did you see where the shot came from?” he asked calmly.

“From a gun, most likely,” came the sarcastic retort. Then, after a pause, “The chapel bell tower, I think. Saw two fellas up there. Spotter and shooter most likely. Good thing it ain’t too light out—hard to see us from that distance.”

Silas nodded. The bell tower was a decent vantage point. Mercifully, it wasn’t close enough or tall enough to provide a marksman with a clear shot at them behind the farthest of the headstones. Still, they were pinned down.

They couldn’t flee—the ridge was too difficult to climb quickly—the marksman would pick them off with ease. Even in the dying light, they’d make easy targets if the man were any good. And Silas doubted the Hargrave Gang would let them wait until nightfall to slip away under the cover of darkness.

John quickly poked his head out again. He saw several men entering the graveyard, coming from the back door to the chapel. He recognized them from their wanted posters. They were armed to the teeth and spread out from one another in the dimly lit cemetery, using the markers for cover.

“Found out where Hargrave and his gang are, Sy,” John told his friend cheerily. “At least four lads in the graveyard—not sure where the other two are.”

“Good to know,” Silas grunted. “Almost half of them are out in the open.”

“Still, we’re kinda trapped between a rocky cliff and a granite tombstone,” John remarked dryly.

Silas ignored his friend for the moment, filtering out his comments. An uneasy silence taut with tension filled the air. For some reason, the marksman had stopped shooting, and the other members of the Hargrave Gang weren’t firing at them, either. There could be only one explanation.

From the direction of the chapel, a gravelly voice called out, “Did you really think we wouldn’t know you were still after us, Lawmen? We knew you were on our trail—figured we’d set a trap for you in this here fine town.”

Silas recognized the voice. He’d only heard the man speak once, but he knew. It was Butch Hargrave. He wouldn’t let one of his men do the talking—or the killing—without first having the chance to gloat.

The criminal went on. Pure hatred was in his voice. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to my men back in Brentwood, Lawmen. Those were five good men. The rest of us have you covered—you’re pinned down. No way out. If you lay down your weapons, I might decide to be merciful and kill you quick. If not… Well, let’s just say you boys ain’t going home whole. You ain’t going home at all.”

“Did you hear that? Hargrave and his men have us pinned down really good, Sy. Sorta defeats your whole plan of going after ‘em instead.”

Silas ignored John. His mind raced. Two men were in the bell tower. That left six men unaccounted for. John had said four of them were spread out in the graveyard itself—the other two had to still be in the chapel. Not too far off from what he’d expected.

“I’ll give you a minute to throw down your guns and come out,” Hargrave shouted. “After that, we’re coming for you.”

“Nice of him to tell us how long we got,” muttered John. He looked at his friend. “Was this all part of the plan, pal?”

Silas met his gaze and smiled. It was a cold smile with no warmth in it.

“Of course. Hunting wolves is a tricky business. I told you, John—the wolves knew we were on to them. They knew we had them cornered. Makes them more dangerous when they know they’re trapped. The only way to take them down is to make them think they’re the ones laying the trap. Only then will they fall into yours. Butch Hargrave is no different. He’s clever, see. But that makes him overconfident and arrogant. He thinks he’s cleverer than me.”

Silas shook his head. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. He needed to see where we’d be coming from—that’s why we stood on the ridge for so long—so he could set a trap for us here. If we tried taking him in the tavern—which is where he’d have been—we likely would’ve died. This way, we’ve forced his hand and drawn him out into the open. This evened the field a little bit.”

“So now we probably won’t die? That what you’re sayin’?”

“So long as we shoot them before they shoot us.”

John let out a bark of laughter. “Simple plan, Sy. Kill them before they kill us,” he chuckled. “I like it.”

Silas shrugged. “I aim to please.” He said it with a straight face, but it might have been an attempt at humor. Maybe.

“Time’s up!” Hargrave bellowed. His voice rang out in the graveyard.

Silas tilted his head to the side, listening. He tried to determine if he could pinpoint where the man was standing. He couldn’t.

“That was a fast minute,” commented John. “I wonder who taught the man to count?”

“Probably the same person who taught you to read.”

“Joke’s on you, pal—I ain’t never went to school.”

“It shows.”

That was all Silas was able to get out before the quiet graveyard exploded with enough noise to wake the dead. Involuntarily, John and Silas both ducked their heads, still covered behind the large tombstone. Bullets began to chip away at its stony face, sending fragments in all directions. The bullets ricocheted off, spiraling away into the snow.

“This marker won’t hold forever, Sy,” John shouted over the noise. “We’ve gotta move—but if we do, those fellas in the bell tower will pick us off for sure.”

Silas gritted his teeth. He knew that. More importantly, he knew that if they stayed put, the rest of Hargrave’s men would eventually move in to flank them. Then, it’d all be over.

He pulled his gun from its holster, hidden beneath the folds of his poncho-like cloak, and pulled back the hammer. “I’ll draw their fire. Don’t miss.”

John grinned and unbuttoned his duster. He pulled out his rifle from under its layer of protective warmth. “Don’t get shot, pal,” was all he said. Silas was insane, he thought to himself. Then again, maybe they both were. Why else would they be doing this?

Silas waited for a heartbeat’s pause, then dashed out from behind cover, keeping low to the ground. In the fading light, his poncho-like cloak of midnight black helped him blend in with his surroundings. He heard the bullets fill the air, but none hit him. While he ran, he had the gang’s full attention. Attracted to the movement, and an easy target out in the open, they forgot all about John. That was a mistake.

Popping up from behind the tombstone, John took a split-second to look around the graveyard and then raised his rifle to his shoulder. He fired two shots at the bell tower. His aim was true—John didn’t miss. Two men fell with strangled cries, and the bell tower was silent. John ducked back down under cover.

Diving, Silas landed behind another tombstone. He heard John’s rifle as he ran. From where he landed, he saw no more movement from the chapel bell tower. Two down. John had dealt with that part of the trap, but the danger was far from over.

Breathing heavily, Silas crouched low with his head bowed. Still at least six men. Twenty feet to his right, John was also hunkered down. Bullets flew past him, but the man was still grinning from ear to ear. He loaded two more rounds into his rifle, slipping them out from a bandolier slung across his chest.

If they had been smart, the Hargrave Gang would have rushed them while they were still pinned down. The odds had been in their favor then. Too late for that now. John and Silas were separated. Together, they had the gang’s undivided attention. Apart, they were dangerous. Apart, they could keep the men guessing.

John and Silas made eye contact. Then John signaled to Silas with his hand, pointing out the general direction of where he had last seen the men positioned throughout the graveyard. It wasn’t exact by any means, but it was enough. Silas nodded.

With another nod from Silas, John rose from behind cover as the other man laid down covering fire from his left. John moved forward to the next row of tombstones in front of him. As he did, he took in his surroundings quickly. Two men to his left were exposed and focused on Silas, the other two had ducked down behind their own improvised cover.

 John’s rifle roared again, and the two men on his left dropped to the ground. Four to go. Before anyone could get a shot off at him, John was down behind the next row of tombstones. Then, he popped back up, firing at the grave markers he had seen the other two gang members hiding behind—forcing them to keep their heads down. That allowed Silas to move out from behind his own tombstone and advance a few more rows ahead.

For the next few minutes, that was how John and Silas moved—in that leap-frog fashion. One would lay down covering fire and the other would move forward. Slowly but surely, they were getting closer to the chapel. They moved in tandem—in perfect harmony with one another.

A gunfight was pure chaos and confusion. With bullets flying and adrenaline flowing, it was easy to become disoriented. But John and Silas stayed focused and calm under fire. They continued working their way closer to their foes.

The one knew what the other was going to do without even needing to think about it. They relied on the other to watch their back and keep them safe. Years of working together brought about that level of trust and confidence. It was honed in gunfight after gunfight.

Silas saw movement out of the corner of his eye, to his right. A man was sneaking toward John, moving between the headstones. He hadn’t seen Silas, some thirty feet away. Silas whistled sharply.

Startled, the man turned. Then, Silas shot him twice in the chest. The man grunted in pain and fell. His gun went flying and the man himself landed in an open, freshly-dug grave. John would have made a comment about that, but Silas simply grimaced and kept moving forward. One left.

John snuck past a gravestone and came face-to-face with the final member of the Hargrave Gang left in the graveyard. He yelped in surprise. He didn’t have the time to lift his gun and shoot—he was too close. Instead, John swung his rifle like a club and hit the man in his jaw with the butt of his rifle. It connected with a satisfying crack and the bandit staggered back. That gave John enough room. He brought his rifle up and fired.

Silence fell over the graveyard once more.

John kept his gun raised; his eyes swept across the snow-covered ground, searching for more movement in the growing darkness. Nothing. It was just him and Silas still standing among the gravestones.

“You good, Sy?” He called out softly.

The other man grunted in response as he walked over to John. His boots crunched in the snow underfoot—the only warning of his approach. He looked to be a shadowy wraith moving among the tombstones. Calmly, he reloaded his gun, emptying it of spent casings. John did the same. Casually, they stood among the dead men in the graveyard. While they did so, Silas kept an eye on the chapel door, now closed.

“How many you get?”

John thought about it, counting on his fingers. Then, he held them up for Silas to see.

“Five.”

Six total, then. “Any of them Butch?” Silas asked.

John shook his head. “Nah—I think I woulda recognized his ugly mug—even in this darkness. Must be holed up in the chapel with the last of his boys. Probably Sam Crane—didn’t see him among the dead, either.”

Silas nodded. Crane was Hargrave’s right-hand man. It only made sense that they were the final two.

“They’ll be ready for us now.”

John grinned. “You don’t know that—might be thinkin’ we’re dead.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Silas finished reloading his pistol. He didn’t sound convinced by John’s suggestion.

“Not our lucky day, is it?” John asked cheerfully.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?”

John thought about it. He shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.” He rested his rifle on his shoulder. “What’s the next step in the plan, Sy?”

The older man smiled grimly. John had come to associate that grin with times when his friend was thinking of doing something particularly dangerous.

“Want to see if we can draw them out?” he asked. “Who knows? Butch might be thinking we’re dead. Let’s see if you’re right.”

A slow grin spread across John’s face as he realized what his friend was suggesting. “Wish I coulda heard one of ‘em speak—make it more convincin’, you know?”

Silas shrugged. “You sound enough like a criminal as is. Should be able to do the trick just talking normally.”

He and John carefully walked up to the chapel’s back door and stood on either side of it, weapons at the ready. With a nod from Silas, John called out to the men inside in a gruff voice.

“We got ‘em, Boss—those Lawmen never even stood a chance!”

All was quiet within the chapel. Both men listened intently for movement or voices within. Slightly muffled, they heard Hargrave’s voice. There was a hesitant tone to it.

“That you, Simon?”

John and Silas looked at each other. Simon had been one of the Hargrave Gang killed back in Brentwood. The man was cautious. And crafty.

John shook his head and replied confusedly, “Whatcha talkin’ about, Boss? Simon was killed in the shoot-out back in Brentwood—I’m Walter!”

John held his breath, head tilted to the side, straining to hear inside the chapel. It was a gamble, naming himself as one of Hargrave’s Gang, but it might just pay off.

There was a longer pause. Then, “Who else is with you?”

“Just me and Philip, Boss.” John plucked the name at random from the gang’s wanted posters.

“Philip?”

Silas’ eyes widened in alarm. “They didn’t call him Philip,” he hissed at John from the other side of the doorframe. It was too late.

Gunshots punched out through the wooden door to the chapel, careening into the dark graveyard. Butch and Sam knew whoever was outside definitely weren’t “Walter and Philip.” John and Silas shied away from the splinters sent flying.

“How was I supposed to know that?” John shot back. “It’s his name, innit?”

“Well, clearly he went by a nickname! How many people named Philip do you know who actually go by their full name?”

“That’s hard to say—I don’t know anybody named Philip except the guy we just shot!”

Here they were, in the middle of a gunfight—a desperate struggle between life and death—and they were squabbling like children.

Silas shook his head and pulled back his pistol’s hammer. “I can’t do this with you right now,” was all he said. Then, before John could say anything to stop him, Silas threw open what was left of the chapel door, and dove inside, ducking under a hail of bullets.

John stared after him, stunned for a moment. “That can’t have been a part of the plan.” Then, he swung his rifle up around the doorframe and began firing into the chapel, trying to keep Butch and Sam from shooting at Silas. There was always a chance he’d get lucky and end up hitting one of them.

The interior of the chapel was darkened; Silas melted into the shadows. He pressed up against one of the wooden pews on the left side of the chapel in the back. John still fired into the chapel from the doorway, laying down covering fire for him. Silas’ heart pounded loudly in his chest.

He’d never tell John—the man would never let him hear the end of it if he did—but his plan had fallen to pieces back when the shooting first started. His plan had them getting into the chapel before Hargrave and his men even knew they were there. But sometimes, even the best of plans were all for naught. Improvisation was often called for.

Silas began creeping along the edge of the chapel, using the pews as cover. Gunshots sounded in the chapel, and now he saw the faint flash of gunpowder and smoke in the darkness. Judging by the flashes, the two men were standing side-by-side, behind one of the pews, toward the front of the chapel on the same side as him.

Silas smiled grimly and then rose to his feet. Aiming at the source of the shots, he fired twice. BANG. BANG. He heard a strangled cry and then a muffled thump. The guns at the far end of the room clattered loudly to the wooden floor and fell silent. Then, all was still.

John stopped shooting into the chapel. Moving inside, he kept his rifle up—trained on the spot they’d last seen the shots coming from.

Silas ghosted forward, moving through the darkened room like a shadow. As he approached the front of the chapel, he could just barely make out an indistinct shape on the chapel floor. It could have been Butch and Sam. As he drew closer, he frowned.

It was one man. Sam Crane by the looks of it. But he’d seen two flashes. Then, he saw the pistols lying on the ground next to the dead man’s inert form. Two guns. Not two men. Silas realized it all at once. Butch let them think he was next to the other man, shooting beside him. Then, when Sam got shot, he waited, pretending that he’d been killed as well. It was the final trick Butch could have played.

“Gotcha,” a low voice growled from behind him. Silas didn’t have time to turn before Butch Hargrave shouldered into him, barreling out from the wings of the room where he’d been lying in wait. Knocked off his feet, Silas’ gun went flying from his hand. He slammed into one of the pews with a resounding crack, splintering the wood. Then, Butch was on him. Hatred and fury burned in his eyes.

Silas saw a long-bladed knife in his hand; a flash of sharp steel as he stabbed down at him in a frenzy. Silas lifted his arm instinctively to block the downward strike and grunted as the blade grazed his forearm. Metal sliced through flesh and blood flowed.

But he had blocked the strike, halting the blade from going further. Before Butch could throw his weight behind the strike, Silas twisted and rolled off the pew to land awkwardly on the floor. He kicked out with his foot, knocking Butch back a step.

Several gunshots sounded in the chapel.

Butch staggered back; red blossomed across his chest. The bloodied knife slipped from his fingers. A shocked expression spread on his face. Then, he toppled backward. He didn’t move again.

Lying on the hardwood floor, a few feet from the dead man, Silas clutched his hand to his forearm and closed his eyes painfully. That could have gone better. Could have gone worse, too. Butch almost had him. If not for John, he might have.

“Hey, Sy, you dead?”

He heard John picking his way carefully through the now-quiet chapel. “No,” he groaned.

“Oh, good.”

John moved over and made sure Butch was really dead. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot, rifle raised. Then he crouched down next to Silas, resting his rifle across his knees. Taking off his bowler hat, he scratched his sweat-matted hair.

“Fella musta thought he was goin’ to a knife fight. Shoulda brought a gun.”

“Quieter that way,” Silas gasped, still trying to recover from almost dying.

“Deader that way, too.”

Silas forced himself to sit up, wincing as he did. He kept pressure on his forearm; it throbbed painfully under his hand.

“Here.” John held out his revolver. “Figured you’d want this back.”

“Thanks.” Silas stowed it back in its holster and clambered slowly to his feet. He tore a strip off the edge of his poncho-like cloak with his teeth and bound his forearm tightly. He sank back to sit down on the pew in the front of the chapel. He felt exhausted; his adrenaline began to ebb away, leaving him feeling empty, muscles shaking. He hurt all over; his body ached. After a moment, John sat down next to him. There they sat, in silence. No words needed to be spoken.

Eventually, one of the braver residents of Ellisgrove came to investigate the disturbance. They found four men lying dead in the graveyard, two in the chapel’s bell tower, and two more in the chapel itself. Butch Hargrave and the last of his notorious gang, finally dead.

They also found two Lawmen sitting in the chapel, wearied and bloodied, but very much alive. The Lawmen claimed the rest of the bounties and had the reward money credited to their accounts with the Bank. They stayed in Ellisgrove long enough to recover from most of their injuries. Then, they set out again, on the trail of murderers and thieves once more. Always on to the next job.

The wolves in the far-reaching fringes of the Western Territory were numerous and dangerous. Some more than others, but all of them threatened the safety and Lawful order of society. They needed to be hunted down. Hunted by the Law—men and women who would stand against the wolves and defend the flock from harm. Men like Silas and John.

Their story was not over. Indeed, in some respects, it had barely even begun. But for now, this chapter in their tale had come to a close.

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