“That’s enough,” she shouted. “You’ll kill him.”
The man doing the hitting had been alternating his punches between the body and the head, and Dude Miller’s face was livid with bruises and blood.
“She’s right,” the man holding her said. “We weren’t told to kill him.”
The man doing the hitting looked at the man on the porch, then gave Dude Miller one more punch in the face. The man who was holding Miller released him, and he sprawled into the dirt face first, lying as still as death.
“What about her?” the other man asked.
“We weren’t told anything about her,” his friend said.
“Why, you wanna punch her?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “I wanna punch her with this.” He grabbed his crotch.
Suddenly the pit of Serena’s stomach went icy cold and she started to shiver in fear. As the man advanced on her she realized that she had never felt terror like this before.
“No…” she said, and she was dismayed to hear that it came out as a whimper.
“Forget it,” the man holding her said. Abruptly he released her arms. “We wasn’t told to touch the girl. Let’s go. We’re finished here.”
The man who had grabbed his crotch stared at Serena for a few moments and then said, “That’s too bad, Missy. You woulda liked what I got for you. Maybe another time, huh?”
The other two men were walking away and now the third one turned and followed.
Serena stood there for a few moments, struck motionless by the fear she’d experienced, and then suddenly she leaped from the porch to her father’s side, feeling ashamed.
Where the hell are you, Sam McCall? she thought viciously.
The intensity of her anger was as foreign to her as had been the intensity of the fear she’d felt a moment ago.
Come and kill these bastards!
Chapter Six
“Well, there it is,” Evan McCall said. “Vengeance Creek.”
They were on a steep hill from which they could look down at the town. Vengeance Creek had a wide radius because it had been laid out in such a sprawling fashion. There were two main streets which contained the bank, the general store, the hotel, the saloon, other shops, and the sheriff’s office, but the livery, the feed and grain, the undertaker’s, and the whorehouse were all spread about with a decent amount of elbow room between them.
Sam, Evan, and Jubal McCall sat atop the hill, with black chaparral spread about them, and a single Joshua tree, taking their first look at the town of their birth in a long time.
Sam McCall was riding a seven-year-old black coyote dun, a dun with a black stripe running down its back, and distinctive markings on its legs.
True to the McCall predilection for individuality, Evan’s horse was a four-year-old claybank, a yellowish breed achieved by breeding a sorrel and a dun.
Jubal, as if it were a symbol of his lifelong efforts to be like one or both of his brothers, was riding a sorrel.
“Yep,” Jubal said, “there it is.”
“Looks the same, don’t it?” Evan asked.
“When was the last time you were here?” Jubal asked his brothers.
“Jeez,” Evan said, “I don’t—probably seven, eight years, something like that. What about you?”
“Less,” Jubal said, “about five.”
“Did you ever write?” Evan asked.
“Some,” the younger brother answered.
Evan and Jubal looked over at Sam, who had remained silent throughout their exchange.
“Sam?” Evan said.
Sam McCall looked at them.
“I don’t like being here.”
“Why not?” Jubal asked.
“Didn’t I ever tell you?” Sam asked. “I hate this place.”
McCall kicked his horse’s ribs and sent him jogging down the hill.
“When was the last time he was here?” Jubal asked.
Evan looked at Jubal, said, “When did he leave?” and sent his horse down the hill after Sam. Jubal thought a moment, shrugged, and followed.
Dude Miller was not standing at his shop window when the McCall brothers rode into town. He was lying in his bed, where he had been confined by the doctor following the beating he’d received several days before. He had several cracked ribs, and one eye had only recently reappeared from behind a huge swelling.
Serena entered her father’s bedroom with lunch on a tray.
“Papa?”
Miller stirred and opened his eyes.
“Serena…” He frowned at her and asked, “Is that breakfast?”
“No,” she said, smiling, “lunch.”
“Is it that late?” he demanded. “Why did you let me sleep so late, girl?”
“Because you need your rest.” She set the tray down on the night table next to the bed. “Let me help you sit up.”
“I can sit up!”
She stood back and watched as he struggled to do so, without success.
“Well, don’t just stand there, girl,” he said, impatiently, “help me sit up.”
She assisted him into a seated position, propped a couple of pillows behind him, and set the tray of food on his lap.
“Are they here?” Miller asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t been spending half my time at the window watching for them.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll come, but I’m not prepared to sit around and wait for them. They’ll come. Now eat your lunch. I made you some soup.”
“How about something solid?”
“For dinner,” she said. “Oh, and the doctor will be by later. I’ll check back in about twenty minutes, and all that soup better be gone.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, wryly.
The McCall brothers rode to the livery and dismounted.
“In the old days this place was run by old Charlie Runyon,” Evan said.
“It was Charlie who caught you when you fell from the hayloft,” Sam said.
“You fell from the hayloft?”
“I didn’t fall,” Evan said.
“I never pushed you,” Sam said.
“I never said you pushed me from the loft deliberately,” Evan said, “but we were horsing around, and you did push me. If it wasn’t for old Charlie catching me, I would have broken a leg for sure.”
“Maybe you should have landed on your head.”
“Ha, ha.”
“When I left, the place was owned by Swede Hanson,” Jubal said. “It’s only five years, maybe he’s still here.”
As if on cue a tall, well-muscled blond man came out of the livery.
“Swede?” Jubal called.
The man stopped and narrowed his eyes, peering at the three men in front of him.
“Is dat you, Jubal McCall?”
“It’s me, Swede.”
Jubal moved closer and Swede Hanson said, “You’ve grown, boy. Ja, you have grown a great deal.”
“It’s good to see you, Swede.”
“What brings you—ah, I see,” Swede Hanson said, suddenly. “You have my sympathy for the death of your parents.”
“Thank you. Oh, Swede, I don’t think you ever met my brothers, Evan and Sam McCall.”
“Evan,” Swede said as Evan stepped forward to shake hands. “And Sam McCall? I know you by reputation, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam said, shaking the big man’s hand. Swede was about two inches taller than McCall’s six-four, and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds, most of it shoulders and upper arms.
“You all have my sympathy.”