I am not a good man. If I were, I would have died ten years ago instead of Mary. I let my badge get in the way of my brain, and now she is in the dirt. My daughter, Piper, does not even look at me when she passes the salt. She has her mother’s eyes. Looking into them is like looking into a grave I dug myself.
Bernie sent the men at midnight. He wants the water rights. He wants the land. He sent Vince, a man who enjoys the sound of bone snapping. I can hear them outside. They are not talking. They are just breathing. It sounds like the wind through a dead steer’s ribs.
My hands are shaking. It is a slow, rhythmic twitch. My mouth tastes like I have been chewing on a copper penny. That is what fear tastes like. It starts in your stomach and moves up until you cannot swallow. I look at the door. It is thin wood. It will not stop a bullet. It will barely stop a kick.
“Piper, get under the floor,” I say.
My voice is thin. It sounds like dry paper. She doesn’t argue. She sees the look on my face. She knows I am a coward who is trying to be brave one last time. She moves the rug and slips into the dark hole. I slide the heavy oak table over the spot. My breath comes in short, jagged gasps. My chest feels tight, like a rope is being pulled around my ribs.
A floorboard creaks on the porch. It is a loud, sharp crack.
I hold the rifle. The wood is cold against my palm. I remember the last time I held a gun like this. I was standing over Mary. I was too slow then. The tactical error, the captain called it. I called it murder.
A shadow passes the window. It is tall and jagged. It does not look human in the moonlight. It looks like a predator made of old rags and hate. Then comes the scratching. It is not a knock. It is the sound of fingernails on the door. Long, slow strokes. *Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.*
“Hank,” a voice whispers. It is Vince. He sounds like he is smiling. “Bernie says you are past your prime. He says you are just a dog waiting for a hole.”
I do not answer. I stare at the door handle. It begins to turn. It moves an inch at a time. My heart is a frantic bird hitting the cage of my bones. I can feel the sweat stinging my eyes. It is salty and hot.
The door explodes.
It does not just open. It shatters. Vince is there, and he looks like a demon in the dark. He is covered in dust. His eyes are wide and white. He fires a pistol. The sound is a physical blow. It hits my ears and makes them ring with a high, screaming whistle.
I fire back. The kick of the rifle hurts my shoulder. I see Vince spin. He hits the wall. But there are more. Two shadows dive through the window. The glass breaks like ice. Shards fly through the air. One cuts my cheek. I feel the wet warmth of blood running down my neck.
I am on the floor. Everything is moving too fast. A man named Arlo is over me. He has a knife. It catches the moon. It looks like a silver tooth. He is laughing, a wet, gurgling sound.
I remember Mary’s face. I remember the way her eyes went flat.
I grab a heavy iron skillet from the stove. I swing it with everything I have left. It hits Arlo’s head with a sickening *clack*. It is the sound of a dropped melon. He falls. He does not get up.
I am crawling now. My side is burning. I look down. My shirt is soaked. The red is spreading. It looks like a blooming rose, but it feels like a hot poker is being pushed into my gut. I can’t breathe. Every time I try, it feels like I am inhaling broken glass.
Vince is back up. He is leaking blood from his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to care. He walks toward me. He moves like a wolf. He is slow. He is enjoying this. He knows I am trapped. He knows I have no more bullets in the chamber.
“You’re a failure, Hank,” Vince says. He kicks me in the ribs.
I hear something snap. The pain is a white light behind my eyes. I can’t see. I can only feel. I feel the cold floor. I feel the grit of the dirt. I feel the vibration of Piper crying under the boards beneath me.
She is making a soft, wet whimpering sound.
Vince hears it too. He stops. He looks at the floor. He looks at the table I moved. A slow, ugly grin spreads across his face. He raises his boot to stomp on the boards.
“No,” I wheeze.
The fear is gone. It is replaced by something cold and heavy. I find the small pistol in my boot. I forgot I had it. It is a tiny thing. A lady’s gun. Mary’s gun.
Vince looks at me. He laughs. “That won’t do much, old man.”
I don’t aim for his chest. I aim for his face.
The flash blinds me. The smell of burnt hair and sulfur fills the room. Vince falls like a sack of grain. He doesn’t make a sound. He just stops.
The house is quiet now. The only sound is the wind and the blood dripping from the table onto the floor. *Drip. Drip. Drip.* It sounds like a clock.
I am sitting against the door. I am trying to push my guts back inside, but my hands are too weak. The sun is starting to come up over the hills. It is a pale, sickly yellow. It does not feel warm.
I push the table away. It takes everything I have. My muscles scream. My vision is blurring at the edges. It is like the world is being swallowed by shadows.
“Piper,” I whisper.
The floorboard moves. She climbs out. She is covered in dust. She looks at the bodies. She looks at the blood. Then she looks at me.
She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t scream. She just kneels in the red puddle and takes my hand. Her hand is small and warm. Mine is cold. I am so very cold.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It is the only thing I have left to give.
She doesn’t answer. She just holds on. I can feel my heart slowing down. It is a tired horse reaching the end of the trail. The copper taste is gone. Now, there is nothing but the smell of the sagebrush on the wind and the weight of the girl’s hand in mine.
I close my eyes. I hope the dirt is warm. I hope Mary is waiting. I hope the shadows don’t follow me where I am going.