“You rotten piece of shit. Turn around, I said. If were all the same I’d shoot you in the back, but out of respect for my brother I’m giving you the opportunity to turn around you squealing piece of pig shit. You rat bastard, I’m telling you to turn around or I swear to all that’s good and holy I will just go right ahead and shoot you in the back – my brother…” voice breaking a slight sob,”… my brother be damned!”

Wim Murray stood still on the concrete sidewalk. Someone was cooking. Maybe biscuits. Or cornbread?

Skillet was at his limit.

“Turn around got-dammit!”

Murray slowly raised his hands and turned.

“I’m not armed, Skillet.”

“I don’t give two shits you are or not, you yellow bellied piece of trash! I’m gonna shoot you right on the bridge of your nose!”

Skillet advanced on Murray. Gun head high, elbows bent, pistol perpendicular to Murray’s face.

Murray stood still.

Across the street the sherrif and deputy scrambled from the Indian.

Sherrif Tatum bellowed, “Skillet! Drop your weapon! Drop it now before I drop you!”

The Sherrif and Deputy Marco’s boots dealt sharp, quick steps as they ran to close in on the two men.

Skillet continued to advance on Murray. Murray, hands chest high, remained still.

“I thought you and my brother were friends, you lying sack of shit. Now, because for whatever reason you just couldn’t keep your got-dammed mouth shut, all his years of service,” Skillet stepped toward Murray, “…all the respect he so righteously earned…,” another step, ”…his dedication…” step, “…in a worthless pine box!”

Skillet extended his arms.

A gunshot cracked across brick and mortar, wood siding, glass windows.

His eyes melted from white hot crystalline madness into something akin to questioning, then bewilderment. Skillet dropped to a knee, hands swinging to his side, pistol still clutched in white knuckles. Blood soaked his shirt just below his chest.

With a deep breath, Skillet summoned all the hatred Hell could spare and raised the pistol toward Murray, still standing with hands raised.

Another crack of a gunshot and Skillet fell to his side.

Murray was next to him in an instant, hand under his head before it hit the pavement.

“Why?” whispered Skillet, “Why did you turn him in? He was your commanding officer. He was your friend…. Why?”

Murray furled his brow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, boy. I didn’t turn anyone in.”

Skillet coughed, “you did! You’re the only one who knew who he was! You gave him up to the sheriff!”

“I did no such thing, boy, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Murray.

The sheriff and deputy dropped to the men’s side. Skillet coughed – spat blood on the deputy’s pants. The sheriff slung Skillet’s pistol across the concrete.

“Dammit Skillet, we told you to drop the damn gun. What the hell were you thinking?” the sheriff demanded.

“This sumbitch turned Saul in, didn’t he? I know it was him… where’s my gun?”

Skillet moved his hand around the pavement.

“Skillet, you dumbass. You simple, sweet boy. Your brother turned himself in.”

The sheriff took a handkerchief from his back pocket and stuffed it into one of the wounds in Skillets chest. The deputy took Skillet’s hand and placed it on the kerchief, saying, “keep pressure on it.”

Skillet squinted at the sheriff, “you lie. You lie!!!”

Murray took off his jacket, balled it up and put it under Skillet’s head. The boy took his hand off the bloody kerchief and raised it to Murray’s throat, but his grip was feeble and his strength waned.

“No, Skillet,” the sheriff said, “Saul came to me and confessed. He told me everything. He told me about the war, the things he’d done. He told me the truth about Vath. Everything.”

“You lie…” whispered Skillet.

“No, son. Your brother said he decided he wanted to atone. He said death at the hands of justice was the only way he could think of to take responsibility for all he’d done. Penance for his crimes. He even acknowledged that act would be insignificant by comparison, but that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving this life and meeting all those souls he tortured without some sort of atonement.”

The boy coughed more, blood covered his lips, dripping down his cheek and into his ear.

“Saul… came to you?”

“Yes, son.”

Struggling to keep his yes open, blinking furiously, he looked at Murray.

“I’m… I didn’t… I…” he stammered.

Murray took the boys hand in his.

“Be quiet. Its all good.”

“I’m…so.. sorry…”

“Be quiet boy. You’re forgiven. Just be quiet.”

Skillet suddenly fixed his gaze just beyond Murray’s shoulder, then whispered, “Saul?”

The young man’s face relaxed. His eyes glazed.

Deputy Marco touched the boy’s neck.

“He’s dead, sheriff.”

The sheriff rocked back on his shins, saying, “I know.”

Murray placed the boy’s hands over the gunshot wound under his chest, then stood.

Deputy Marco closed the boy’s eyes and stood.

The sheriff stared at the body. He took his hat off, bowed his head, and said something quietly under his breath. After his brief requiem the sheriff touched the boys hands and whispered, “Dumbass.” The deputy and Murray understood that to be from a place of empathy, somewhere hidden deep in the sheriff’s spirit.

The sheriff stood and looked at Murray.

“You knew Saul?”

“Yeah. We served together in the war.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone who he was?”

“Not my place. Knew he had a price to pay, though, either here or in Hell.”

“So do you think he’s paid that price now? He and his brother?”

Murray looked up to the graying sky. Pondered his words.

“Skillet was a kid. He hadn’t racked up too much of a history.”

Murray leveled his eyes at the sheriff, continuing, “But Vice Marshal Saul Pettaway? Did he atone for the things he’d done. In my estimation sheriff, not even close. He’ll surely atone in Hell, no matter what paltry offering he may have attempted before he left this Earth.”

Wim Murray found his hat and adjusted it on his head. Looking down at the lifeless body, he gently kicked the boys ankle, and whispered, “safe journey, dumbass.”

~ To Be Continued ~