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around the campfire
“Come on, Marshal. You’re taking their word against mine.” “Are you saying you didn’t kill Zeke?” The marshal swept his lantern’s beam back and forth through the forest as far up the hill as its light would reach. Jerome cocked the hammer back on his revolver and looked over the top of the bush. “Not at all, Marshal. The boy attacked me. I was defending myself.” “Then why did you and Luke clear out of town so quick?” It took Jerome longer than he expected, but he spotted one darker shadow creeping up beside the trail a little further up the hill than when he had last seen Rondal. His hunched form blended in with the night, and Jerome only caught sight of him when he moved. He hoped the marshal would keep the light off the point beside the trail where a couple of large boulders twenty yards further up the slope would force Rondal to take the trail or head deeper into the forest. “Because I knew this would happen. Those hot-headed Willis boys are not at all level-minded like their father was. Zeke had me at gunpoint, Charles. Anyone tell you that?” “Then let’s head back to town and clear this up.” “Not with Jerome and Rondal down there. My chances of even getting to a fair trial would be next to nothing if that happened.” The wind sighed through the branches, and the light
from the lantern flickered a couple of times before flaring back to life as bright as before. Jerome grimaced when his left thigh cramped, and he shifted his weight enough to straighten the leg out to his side. “Why didn’t you mention Luke? He not with you anymore?” Jerome blinked. The marshal was right. Had the gunslinger slipped away in the shadows? “He slipped off the back side, Marshal. Crazy one, my sister’s kid. Always been a bit touched.” Impossible. Jerome knew the hill. Brambles and loose gravel covered the steep northern face thick enough that not even the wildest horse could be forced into it as it sloped down into Brush Creek. And the only way down the rest of the rock-littered hill was the path in front of them. “I can’t vouch for his safety if he’s out here sneaking around in the dark.” “You don’t have to, Marshal. He didn’t want to wait around and left before Ezra’s bloodthirsty boys got here.” The night air had cooled, especially from the heat that had pressed down on them during the funeral, and the dampness seeped through his clothes enough that Jerome shivered. This waiting wore away at his patience. He squinted, searching the hillside for Rondal. Thirty yards up the rise and about five from the path a shadow surged and then halted.