Atticus took a faltering step backward, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. "How dare you! How dare you enter my home and attempt to intimidate me?"
Color rushed to his face with such alarming speed that in any other person, Shepard might have been concerned for their health.
"LEAVE...NOW," Atticus shouted, his face growing redder by the second. A vein along his temple bulged as he pointed toward the gaping door, "OUT."
Shepard stood toe to toe with the old man, seething with rage, and released the cylinder of his gun. Then, holding his uncle's gaze, he methodically removed one bullet. "What have you done with him?"
"You seek to blame me?" Atticus clutched at his chest with his boney left hand, his voice strident, and his breathing labored. "I'm the one who did everything I could to take care of him these past six years after you abandoned him."
Blind fury and gut-wrenching fear for his brother's well-being took hold. Shepard removed two more bullets and stuffed them in his pocket as he said in a threatening, low voice from somewhere deep and dark inside of him, "I'll shoot you in your black heart and damn the consequences, don't think I won't."
Atticus grimaced in pain and slowly lifted his right hand. Stubbornness and loathing shined brightly within his eyes as he pointed toward the open door.
While removing another bullet, Shepard glanced at the doorway, half expecting to find William standing there. But it was empty.
Growling low in his throat, he removed the fourth and fifth bullets, rolled the cylinder back in place with a quick twitch of his hand, spun it, and pressed the barrel to his uncle's chest. "I've had enough of your games, so you best tell me where my baby brother is."
Atticus stuttered unintelligibly.
Shepard pulled the trigger only to be met by a deafening click. He flipped the cylinder out and added another bullet. "Where's William?"
Atticus narrowed his gaze and sneered, "I'll not be intimidated by The Devil."
"I'm the devil you created," Shepard hissed, pulling the trigger.
Click.
Flipping the cylinder out once more, he added the remaining bullets. "Last chance, Brittle Bones... where...is my...baby brother?"
Atticus's lips curled in a snarl, and spittle dripped down his chin as he replied, "You rode right by him... didn't even recognize your own brother, devil."
A wheezy cackle passed his lips and caught in his throat on a sharp gasp. He stiffened; his eyes widened with pain, panic, and fear as he clutched at his chest. "Help...," he choked, his face beet red, his eyes bulging.
Shepard frowned and released him, ignoring the plea as he took a hasty step back, watching his uncle collapse to the floor.
"What do you mean?" He marched to the door and looked up and down the street, vacant save for Marshal Jeremiah Strickland.
To Shepard's eye, the Marshal hadn't changed a bit in the six years he'd been gone. Tall and sturdy as an oak tree, he was the sort of man who inspired fear or admiration in all who crossed his path.
He walked toward Shepard with loose-hipped ease, sporting a grizzled, neatly groomed beard that reached mid-neck and a long rifle he slowly loaded, cradled against his side as though it were a natural extension of his body.
Sunlight glinted off the brushed metal barrel, catching Shepard's gaze for a moment as Atticus's words echoed in his mind and took on new meaning. His eyes flew to the three dead men, swaying in the gentle breeze, the creak of the ropes sounding loud as thunder in his ears.
With Marshal Strickland and Uncle Atticus completely forgotten, Shepard approached the gallows, consumed by a sense of dread he couldn't shake. He climbed the stairs and hesitated before crossing to the first dead man.
Barrel chested with thick, muscled limbs, Shepard noted the absence of the third and fourth fingers on the man's left hand as he pushed up the dirty sleeve. But the skin of the upper forearm was unblemished, so he moved on to the next corpse.
Shorter by several inches than the other two and built like an ox, Shepard knew in his gut it wasn't his brother long before he'd exposed the man's left forearm and found it also devoid of the identifying feature he sought.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep, trembling breath before turning his attention to the third and final corpse.
Not as heavy in build but noticeably taller than the first and second, this one had all ten fingers intact, and when Shepard pushed up the sleeve on the left arm, he choked on a gasp.
William's large brown birthmark in the shape of a squished butterfly stood out in stark contrast against the grey pallor of his skin. Tears blurred Shepard's vision as he allowed the sleeve to fall into place, concealing the mark.
Biting back a sob, he wiped at the moisture on his face before turning to confront Marshal Strickland. "He was only sixteen; what did he do to warrant this sort of mistreatment?"
Strickland adjusted his grip on his rifle, "Sixteen is plenty old to get in a world of trouble."
"Why haven't you taken him down? Were you planning on leaving him up till he rots? Have you no decency?"
Wiping away tears so he could see, Shepard holstered his revolver and unsheathed his knife lashed to his right thigh, then started sawing at the rope secured low around the supporting post.
"Men will be along shortly to remove and prepare them for burial," the Marshal replied in a somewhat placating tone followed by a sneeze and mumbled apology.
Shepard grunted, keeping hold of the rope in one hand while he hacked at it with the other until the last thread snapped, and William's dead weight jerked against him. Then, slowly and with more care than he doubtless had been shown for some time, he lowered his brother's corpse to the platform until he lay flat.
Shepard re-sheathed his knife and knuckled more moisture away from his eyes as he took a knee at William's side. "How long was he up there?"
When Strickland didn't answer right away, Shepard stood to his full height, his right hand settling atop the grip of his holstered revolver, knowing full well such an action could be seen as threatening and aggressive behavior. But considering how his morning had unfolded, he found he didn't care.
The tall, imposing Marshal stood ground level, his rifle held at the ready as he tipped his head back and met Shepard's gaze, "Since late yesterday morning."
Shepard withdrew his gun but kept it pointed to the ground, "You didn't think to cut him down once you knew he was dead?" He stared at Strickland, allowing the man to feel the full measure of his fury.
"How about you come along with me... we'll talk more at my office."
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what he did to deserve this."
Strickland's eyes hardened. "Murder... last week, he and other members of the Fairleigh gang, including those two alongside him, killed three working girls down at The Lilypad and then my two deputies while attempting to flee."
Shepard angrily wiped at the tears continuing to fall down his face and shook his head, "I don't believe you. My brother didn't have a mean bone in his body."
"You've been gone a long time, Shepard. People change. A man of your reputation ought to know that better than most."
Strickland covered a slight cough with a faded red bandana, then blew his nose and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Then, pointing the rifle around Shepard's feet, he nodded toward the Marshal's office with his head, "How about you and I continue this discussion somewhere safe."
Shepard scoffed.
He briefly met Strickland's gaze before turning his attention to Atticus's open doorway. Rage, unlike anything he'd experienced before, filled his entire being and cried out at the injustice of the situation.
Every hardship he'd endured these past six years were all for naught. The money he'd labored and, on several occasions, nearly died for meant nothing without his brother to share it with.
And it was because of one man.
People called him The Devil, but Shepard knew full well, Atticus was the man they should have given the nickname.
Rolling out the cylinder of his revolver, he checked the rounds and clicked it back in place as he stormed off the platform and marched back to his uncle's home.
"ATTICUS DEVEREAUX...," he thundered, cocking the hammer of his revolver, "get your miserable hide on out here."
There came no reply from inside.
Muttering a curse, Shepard stalked to the front door, "You slimy, no good-" his angry tirade caught in his throat as his eyes fell on the unnaturally still form of his uncle lying where he'd left him on the floor in the parlor. There was no need to approach further to know he was dead.
Shepard cursed again, louder, then shouted it to the heavens.
Tears of anger, grief, and frustration blinded him, falling unchecked down his face. Then, raising his revolver, he emptied the cylinder into the floor near Atticus's feet in quick succession, creating a big misshaped hole between two floorboards.
His ears were still ringing when Marshal Strickland settled a meaty hand on Shepard's left shoulder, "That's enough, son. Come on back to the office with me; we need to talk."
"You asking?" Shepard said, his voice sounding strained and foreign to his ears. "Or are you telling?"
Strickland held his gaze and studied him before saying calmly, his tone tinged with sympathy, "Whichever one compels you to comply."
Shepard hesitated, hating that he felt the need to explain his actions, before saying, "I didn't kill him; he was already dead. I just—I couldn't...."
There was a beat of silence when Shepard didn't continue, and then Strickland nodded and said quietly, "I know."
Shepard clenched his jaw, his chest heaving as he strove for control over his emotions, and angrily wiped the moisture from his eyes and face.
Without another word, Shepard handed over his empty revolver, collected Bubbles, and Bouncy—he'd be damned if he ever set foot near that house and mercantile again—and walked them over to the Marshal's office.
Strickland followed behind, waiting at the door as Shepard hitched his animals to the post, then motioned for him to precede him inside the dimly lit building.
"Excuse the mess," Strickland said, hanging his hat on one of five hooks before swaggering to a large desk near a grime-covered window.
Keeping his rifle within reach, he began shuffling around stacks of papers in what one could only assume was an attempt to tidy their disorder. He then motioned for Shepard to sit on a three-legged stool across from him as he sat in an oversized chair behind the desk with a weary groan.
After blowing his nose in the same red bandana he'd used moments ago, Jeremiah returned it to his pocket. He cleared his throat before adding, "I've been rather inundated what with losing both deputies at once."
Shepard ground his teeth and grunted. "On account of my brother, you mean."
Strickland met his gaze without flinching, "I'm not your enemy, Shepard." He gave him a pointed look and motioned to the empty stool.
Shepard looked at the stool in disdain, then folded his arms and braced his feet wide. "What might you be then?"
"A friend, maybe the only one you have in town."
Shepard scoffed.
Strickland heaved a sigh. "Listen, I know you have questions about what's transpired since you left," he paused, raking his hand through his hair and scratching the back of his head.
After a silent moment, he patted his hair in place, then pursed his lips and stroked his beard before meeting Shepard's gaze. "Well,... no sense dancing around it. Ask me what you want to know, and I'll do my damndest to enlighten you."
"What happened?"
Strickland grunted and retrieved his bandana, wiping at the tip of his nose before asking, "You sure you don't want to take a seat?"
At Shepard's quick shake of his head, Strickland sighed, gave a perfunctory nod, then sat up straight in his chair and clasped his hands together atop his desk. "Being a bounty hunter, you ever hear of the Wardell brothers or Dynamite Fairleigh and his outlaw gang?"
Shepard shook his head, "Can't say I have."
"You're bound to now after what they've done and got away with."
Shepard straightened. "You saying William was associated with them?"
"About eighteen months ago," Strickland nodded, "the Wardell family moved to town. They seemed, for all intents and purposes, a decent, hard-working bunch. Quiet, respectable mother and father with six children in tow. Quality stock... or so they led us to believe. But within the first month of their arrival, the oldest two sons, strapping young men about your brother's age, quickly earned a reputation for being trouble-makers."
Keeping his arms folded across his chest, Shepard leaned against the wall. "Go on."
Strickland stared out the window to Shepard's left.
Shepard twisted to see what caught his attention, only to wish he hadn't. Two men moved about the gallows, both looking unsuitable to the task at hand, laboring to collect the first hanging corpse and transfer it to an empty, nearby wagon bed.
"Your brother took to them Wardell boys like a duck to water," Strickland continued out of nowhere. "Cattle rustling, thieving from your uncle... though we couldn't do much to prove the accusations. And then about six months ago, Dynamite Fairleigh arrived in town, and William alongside those Wardell boys really landed in a heap of trouble."
The two men handling the dead stopped at the foot of the steps, noticeably out of breath and red-faced, before clunking up the stairs for the next corpse.
Shepard tensed at seeing them walk toward his brother. Then, muttering a curse, he stalked to the door, threw it open, and yelled, "HEY!"
Along with several other townspeople, both men at the gallows stopped in their tracks with identical looks of alarm. Had it been a different situation, Shepard would have laughed.
"YOU LAY ONE FINGER ON THAT BOY," Shepard hollered, pointing to his brother and marching off the boardwalk into the road to ensure he was heard, "AND IT'LL BE YOUR HIDES THEY PUT IN A PINE BOX NEXT."
The men straightened with hands raised, their faces pale, and slowly stepped away.
Strickland's chair scraped against the floor as he cursed and rushed to stand beside Shepard, rifle firmly in hand. He scowled at Shepard and shook his head, "You aiming to end up in jail yourself, threatening those men that way?"
Shepard clenched his jaw and turned to face the Marshal, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "I'm burying William myself; he's suffered enough. You got a problem with that, I know one way we can settle it."
Strickland held his gaze, looking as though he'd like to wallop Shepard upside the head with the butt of his rifle. "I'll not stand in your way," he said at length.
Shepard grunted.
"But," Strickland continued in a steely tone, "threaten my men with violence again, and I'll have you detained behind bars for the foreseeable future."
"Marshal, what about him?" The shorter of the two men called out, pointing with a shaking hand at the last hanging corpse.
Strickland nodded and heaved a weary sigh, "That one's fine, George." They stood watching the men work for a moment, then Shepard returned inside the building.
Seconds before the Marshal stepped over the threshold, he spun on his heel and called out, "And George... swing by and collect Atticus, he passed this morning from natural causes. Once you and Earl have delivered those three, take a box out to the old Devereaux homestead for William to be buried in."
George frowned but nodded.
Shepard turned and stared at Strickland in some surprise. He had to force down a swallow to dislodge a lump of emotion clogging his throat before choking out, "Thank you."
Strickland nodded and ushered Shepard to his desk. He covered a slight cough and plunked down, setting his rifle atop his desk as he caught Shepard's gaze and asked with an arched brow, "Shall we continue?"
Glancing out the window to watch the men in the wagon ride off with the two corpses, Shepard nodded and turned his attention back to the Marshal. "You were saying something about things going south six months ago?"
Strickland smoothed a hand over his hair, "It was a far sight more than 'things going south.' Dynamite Fairleigh... his real first name is Quinn... that man is as mean and rotten as a demon expelled from hell and set loose on our town. He plum terrorized us." He pursed his lips and shook his head, "If you need an enemy to take out all that rage on, he's your man."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because no man goes from suspected cattle rustling and thieving one day to murder the next. It's too far a leap."
Shepard's heart thudded in his chest. "Are you admitting to hanging my brother for murder when he was innocent of the crime?"
"No," Strickland said with an adamant shake of his head and a piercing stare. "William was caught red-handed, covered in blood down at The Lilypad."
"But you said-"
"I know what I said," Strickland interrupted. "Your brother was not the same boy you left all those years ago."
"You make it sound as though I left by choice," Shepard seethed, his chest heaving with angry breaths and his hands clenching into tight fists at his side.
Strickland raised up a placating hand and inclined his head, "William befriending those Wardell brothers and Fairleigh is what led to his demise. Even he recognized as much, told me so the night before he was hung."
Shepard clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ached. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, growing irritated when Strickland reached for his rifle at the sudden movement.
Settling his hat back in place, he glanced out the window at William's corpse and asked, "Who were the two men hanging alongside my brother? The Wardell's?"