Love, Rage and Retribution

Duane McBrine’s simple frontier life had taken a turn over the course of the past dozen years. He could not recall the exact date this dramatic shift started—time had ceased to have meaning. He could, however, call out which specific event: the death of his wife. He had been mending fences in his southern pasture when he’d heard her shriek of… fear? Pain? Indignation? It was quickly followed by the crack of a single gunshot. The sounds carried over the fields.

Duane mounted his horse, Thunder, and made like the dickens back to their small three-room homestead. A gut feeling of dread enveloped him as Thunder’s hooves pounded the mile and a half back, drowning out any further screams he may have heard. He feared for Elizabeth’s safety; he knew he’d be too late!

He was.

As he neared, dismounting before his faithful stallion had even come to a full stop, he grabbed his rifle out of the saddlebag. In the distance, he could see two mounted horses dashing away, trails of dust in hot pursuit.

With no regard for his own safety, Duane burst through his front door. The scents of baking bread, sulphur and iron assailed his nose. His beloved wife of eleven months, deep into her second trimester of pregnancy, was twisted on the floor. Her calico apron and dress were rucked up around her hips, her undergarments roughly pulled down. She had been shot once, between the eyes. The entry wound still smouldered. Duane cradled Beth’s head in his lap as he lifted his face to the rafters and let out an agonized howl.

~~~

The Rider nearly tumbled off his less-than-steady horse. Neither had consumed water for over forty-eight hours and only scant pieces of jerky for nearly five days. The looming structure in front of them, indiscernible through the sandstorm, may very well have saved their lives. He had hoped that he was on the right path but had no way to be sure. The Rider saw a hitching post and tied his ride to it with promises of tending to its needs as soon as his own were met. The pack mule that was part of his entourage dropped, snorted and slowly died, the two bodies it carried tumbling to the ground. The Rider knew their state of decomposition was severe: he had smelled it during the infernal trek. He hoped their facial features were still distinguishable enough that he could collect the bounties on them, but that was for later. First, water, food, and shelter for him and his horse were the priority. His coin purse jangled by his side as he stumbled to the inn. His six-shooters slapped against his thighs. He hoped not to resort to drawing them—again.

~~~

Puerto Rico in 1873 wasn’t much different than the wild frontiers of the Midwestern and Southern US at that time. Slavery had been abolished that year but was still several years away from being truly recognized, and the island had become a harbour for dangerous criminals—including the notorious Murphy Brothers. They had terrorized the US prairies, with train and bank thefts, assault, rape and murder all included in their modus operandi.

Puerto Rico had presented them with a unique way to cool off from the authorities who were tracking them. They had made their way to the island six months prior and basked in the adoration that their collected loot provided. As with any career criminals, however, laying low was not in their DNA. Joe and Billy Murphy needed the rush of adrenaline that came from taking anything that wasn’t theirs, including the womenfolk they encountered. They had taken up with another like-minded outlaw, Sam Bass of the Black Hills Bandits infamy, and were currently terrorizing the country’s interior. The three were holed up in the El Cortino Inn on the outskirts of the desolate town of Pepino.

~~~

The Rider managed to get up the steps and push through the inn’s gateway doors. He shambled through a vestibule to a secondary door that stood wide open.

“Stop right there, mister! Hands up where I can see ‘em.”

The Rider came to an abrupt halt and tried valiantly to comply with the command, but his weary arms wouldn’t cooperate. He collapsed into the door’s archway and slid down to the floor, nearly unconscious. He heard the jangle of boot spurs approaching but could do nothing as he blacked out.

He slowly came around and cracked open an eye to see the barrel of a gun pointed at him, lying flat on a wooden surface about four feet from his face. He was slumped over what he presumed must be a bar. The stool under him had no backing, and he was unsteady on it.

“Relax, mister: ain’t lookin’ tuh do yuh no harm. In fact, I tended to yuh horse. Ornery fella, that one,” the stranger stated dryly. The man was clean shaven, ruddy faced and rotund. He had a bar rag draped over one shoulder, and his hand was cradling the business end of the pistol. He looked comfortable with it in his grip. The fella had no hint of a Spanish accent (the Rider wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not).

The stranger continued, “I also noticed an ass out there—dead as a doornail—and two men, same condition. Reckon you’re one of those bounty hunting fellers!” It was more a statement than a question.

The Rider knew he had to tread cautiously in his weakened condition and with a six-gun pointed his way. He decided honesty was his best play. His tongue felt thick and dry, but he croaked out, “Yessir, those two men will draw me a bounty once I get upright and find me a local constabulary type.”

The bartender abruptly turned from him and walked back to the other end of the bar. “Well, look at me being all inhospitable! I can see when a fella needs a drink. Maybe I’ll get Sam in back to rustle yuh up some grub.”

The barkeep’s voice wavered slightly; something was off. The Rider knew not to trust the man. His back was to him, so the Rider quickly reached down to his gun belt—it wasn’t fastened around his hips, nor was his coin purse.

The barkeep, fumbling under a cash drawer, now pivoted and lifted the Rider’s gun belt from a shelf underneath. “Lookin’ for these, I reckon,” he said slyly as he hoisted the belt and its contents onto the bar with a clatter.

The Rider saw the other pistol on the bar but didn’t figure he could reach it before the barkeep could draw his own.

He inched his hand toward it when, from up and him behind, he heard, “Thinkin’ that’s the last move y’all are gonna make, partner, if’n yuh don’t stand down.” Another portly man was making his way down a set of ornate stairs from the upper floor.

The Rider turned to look at his second adversary. The man had the look of recent slumber about him. He was adjusting his britches and suspenders with one hand, and the other had a gun trained on the Rider. He continued speaking after eyeballing the barkeep: “I see you’ve met my brother, Billy. Not the brightest candle in the chandelier—leavin’ a gun lying out like that—but he’s mean and as cold as a witch’s tit in a snowstorm. I’m, uh… thinkin’ that we need to talk about this heah bounty shit I overheard. Thinkin’ that maybe we can make a deal: we get the bounty and you might just stay alive, mister! How’s that sound to yuh?”

A number of things clicked in the Rider’s weary brain: brothers… Billy? He’d heard tales that the Murphy brothers had fled the continental U.S. The Rider had also made his way to Puerto Rico, their last known whereabouts. Had he inadvertently stumbled upon the two men he’d been tracking since that day so many years ago when Beth lay dead in his arms? The brothers had changed—their moustaches gone, the gaunt features on the wanted poster Duane had stuffed in his saddle bag, also gone. Duane had heard eyewitness testimony of the two men bragging about killing his beloved. He had spent his entire existence since that day chasing them down. Here they were, and he was in no state to do anything about it. Duane knew he had to bide his time. He would kill these shifty sons of bitches!

~~~

“Might as well be social. Have a drink on us,” Billy stated as he brought a whiskey bottle and three shot glasses down to the end of the bar. His brother approached from behind and planted a gun squarely in Duane’s back.

“You heard the man: have a drink,” Joe cajoled.

The three glasses were sloppily filled, and the brothers reached for theirs. Duane hesitated, then grabbed his own. He had no choice but to play along. All three men slammed back the booze. Duane winced as the whiskey burned his parched throat and made his empty stomach lurch. Joe clapped him on the shoulder, nearly making Duane topple from the stool.

“Well, bounty hunter, what’s it gonna be? We get richer and you live—not such a tough bargain, right?”

Duane was seething with anger but maintained his composure and managed to respond. “Only issue with that is I don’t know if we can collect a bounty on those men outside.”

“How’s that?” Billy questioned.

“They’ve been rotting for days: may not be identifiable.”

“For your sake, best hope they are, mister,” Joe retorted. “‘Nother drink, bro. We’re here to celebrate another job well done!”

All three kicked back another shot.

“You don’t own this here hotel?” Duane asked, feigning surprise.

Joe answered, “Nah. We’re likely the type you track—bandits and such—which makes me wonder what you’re doing around these parts, partner.”

“I follow the work. There’s money to be made in tracking outlaws. Ain’t nothin’ personal, just a job. That’s why I’ve got those two on the mule. I’ve been in Puerto Rico taking down local criminals—easier here than back home.” Duane, emboldened by the whiskey stared defiantly at Joe as he spoke.

“Where exactly is back home?” Joe ventured.

“Dakotas. South Dakota, originally,” Duane replied, trying to be mindful of where the Murphy Brothers had pulled jobs.

“Ain’t never been there. Don’t think there’d be much need for bounties in those parts.”

“There ain’t. I was a shopkeeper all those years ago, born and raised,” Duane lied.

Billy had been watching the conversation between his brother and this stranger intently. He didn’t trust the Rider. Anybody who’d shoot someone for money was one to keep an eye on (he failed to see the irony in this.)

Suddenly, there was muffled cry from a room behind the three men—a woman’s voice. A door opened, and a tall, rough-looking man lurched out from what appeared to be the kitchen at a quick glimpse. His pants were still undone and halfway up his thighs. He struggled with his gait. He looked up, a mean-looking character with a face like a fist. “That thar was some pretty good fuc—” he stopped short. “Well, fellas, didn’t realize we had company,” he coughed.

Imminent death at the hands of another can be an extraordinary motivator. Adrenaline and anger fuelled Duane’s actions, overcoming his weariness. He was going to make these sick bastards pay for Beth’s demise and whatever else they were up to in that inn. The momentary distraction was all Duane needed. As the brothers looked to their colleague, Duane lunged for the gun on the bar. Joe saw the flash of movement and was already drawing his own revolvers as he turned to Duane. The first shot took Joe in the right shoulder, shattering his clavicle and forcing him to drop his weapon. Joe levelled his other gun with his left hand, and he squeezed off a shot that caught Duane in the wrist that wasn’t wielding his gun. Duane’s second shot caught Joe in the mouth. His face exploded in a veil of gore.

Billy, as usual, was slower to react and had just reached under the bar for the shotgun hidden there. As he raised it, he looked up into the barrel of the gun Duane was now pointing at him.

“Hey, man… yuh don’t hafta do th—”

“The hell I don’t!” Duane screamed, searing his throat. He pulled the trigger, and the left side of Billy’s face disappeared. A second shot caught the already slumping man in the neck. Blood flew in arcing sprays, drenching the entire bar.

Duane had heard the third man run back to the kitchen during the ruckus. He didn’t care, Duane slumped to the slick floor, vengeance served. He didn’t feel gratified, only tired. Duane believed that he could sleep for days. What roused him was another muffled cry from the woman he had heard earlier. He pulled himself up and leaned into the bar.

Duane lurched to the kitchen door, barely able to maintain his balance. His wrist was a slithering snake of pain. He pushed the door slightly ajar and peeked into the room. A Spanish woman, young and likely pretty under normal circumstances, was lying on the floor. The bodice of her dress was ripped open, the petticoat torn aside. A rag tied over her mouth was askew, allowing her to cry out. There were loose bindings around her wrists, tying them together.

Duane could not see the other man, the one he assumed was Sam. His vision was swooning. The days of travelling, this recent frenetic activity and a couple shots of whiskey after having not eaten for days were catching up with him. He cautiously worked his way past the door and squeezed tight against the wall. The woman saw him. Her desperate look of fear sapped his will—she looked as he imagined Beth must have in her final moments. Duane dropped to the floor, unable to carry on. He was a broken man.

Sam, seeing his antagonist fall, dashed out from behind an overturned table and kicked at Duane’s arm. The gun it held flew across the room. Duane didn’t care. He had killed the two responsible for his wife’s death; he would die content in that knowledge. He rolled over on his back, flat on the floor. Duane looked up at the tall man looming over him. His evil countenance would be the last thing he would see.

The Spanish woman Luisa, the innkeeper’s daughter, had been raped and abused by these men for three days. Her father was dead upstairs on the bed he had once shared with her mother. They had killed him after days of toying and torturing. She had been made to watch as he bled out from the beatings he was subjected to. She slowly raised herself from the grimy floor on unsteady legs. This interloper, the cruellest of the bunch, was about to kill this other newcomer. He stood over him, gun drawn and pointed at him. The man on the floor, was he Luisa’s saviour? She had heard shots and screams and was sure the other two must be dead.

Luisa had to do something: she had suffered at the bandits’ hands long enough. It was time for retribution. Drumming up her final reserves of strength, Luisa groped through a basket that had once sat on the kitchen prep table but now lay on the floor. The knives and other utensils were gone. She reached for the only remaining implement: a heavy wooden spatula. She grabbed the paddle end with both hands, pointing the handle outwards. It was as thick as her middle finger. With unexpected agility, she dashed at the tall man, wailing like a crazed banshee. Startled, Sam turned in time to see a blur coming at him. Luisa plunged the spatula handle into the right side of his chest up to the where the paddle formed. She heard ribs crack and a squelching sound as it pierced his heart. As Sam fell to his knees, he squeezed off a final shot. It caught Luisa in the shoulder, spinning her. The momentum of her crazed charge carried her over Sam, her hand still firmly gripping the spatula. The spatula’s handle broke off, embedded deep into Sam. He coughed up tremendous amounts of blood and fell flat on his face, sputtering.

Luisa landed beside the stranger in a heap. She stretched out, unable to move further. They lay beside each other, a warm tableau. Duane groped for Luisa’s hand, and their fingers intertwined. They both slowly closed their eyes.