Chapter Twenty-Three

Will’s throat burned from the screaming he’d done and the tears he’d cried. His stomach ached as it bounced and jostled against the back of the horse that one of Thompson’s men had tossed him over.  His body had been beaten, hit and kicked so many times that there was not a single inch, from his head to his bare feet that did not hurt. The ropes on Will’s ankles and wrists had already rubbed his skin raw and blood dripped down his fingers, which, along with the rest of him, was freezing in the January air. 

Thompson whistled and the group of five men came to a stop on the snowy mountain trail, “Fred, Vince, you both veer off here and hide. I’m hoping Turner will have the good sense to realize he’s been beaten and not show his face in my town, however, if he heads down this mountain I want the two of you to be ready for him. Beat him until he can’t stand…” 

“What if he fights back, boss?” Fred questioned. 

Vince cackled, “He might just not take no for an answer.” 

Thompson’s thick black mustache spread as he grinned, “You defend yourselves with whatever force is necessary, boys. Men die in these mountains all the time. I can‘t see why Turner should be an exception.” 

“No!” Will cried. “Dammit, Thompson, you have me! Leave Turner alone! He has nothing to do with this!” Will’s voice was silenced when Thompson moved his horse closer and punched him in the mouth. Blood dripped between Will’s lips as he glared up at the man he hated so much. 

“Turner made his bed the day he lied to me, boy. I own this town and everyone in it and no one is going to lie to me and have it go unpunished! I’m willing to say we’re even after burning his home but if he tries to come after me--if he attempts to steal you from me a second time--” Thompson patted Will on the cheek, “Let’s just say that a bullet to the head as a way of changing a man’s mind.” 

Curses and insults flew from Will’s mouth as he began to struggle harder on the back of the horse. His struggles resulted in him slipping off and landing with a thud on the rocky ground. The breath was knocked from his lungs and Thompson’s laughter filled the midday air. 

“Creedence, why don’t you go ahead and gag our friend here. Can’t have that screaming causing all of us to have aching heads.” 

Creedence sneered and slid from the horse that Will had just escaped from. He clutched a dirty bandana in his meaty hand and Will tried to scoot away but it was to no avail. Creedence put a foot on his battered chest and held him still before putting the bandana tight against Will’s mouth and tying it in place against his tongue. 

Will slumped with defeat. It was over. It was done. He was now Thompson’s Caudill’s property once again. They had killed Beaux, beaten him to a pulp, tied him up, burned the cabin and soon Turner would be dead as well. Will knew that no one would help him. There were two lawmen in town--only two--and those men were bought and paid for and lived quite nicely in Thompson’s pocket. Everyone else in town feared the man far too much to cross him simply to save one man’s life or dignity. 

As Will felt himself tossed back over the horse and his bruised ribs screamed in protest, he felt everything inside of him die. His life would hold no more of the goodness he had found in that cabin. It was back to the brothel, the pain, the sweat, the hunger, the laudanum and the rape. 

A single tear slipped down Will’s welted cheek. 

***

Turner’s long legs tore through the snow as he stepped to what remained of his tool shed. Tossing aside smoking debris, Turner found what he sought. He pulled on his gloves before hoisting up the metal footlocker and carrying it out into the snow. 

The lock was still engaged and the key that would unlock it was long gone somewhere inside the wreckage of his cabin. Turner pulled his gun, held onto the barrel and used the handle as a club. He swung it down hard and the overheated lock broke and fell away. 

Turner opened the footlocker which hadn’t been opened since Peter had locked all these things away after shooting Turner over fourteen years ago. Without wasting time on nostalgia, Turner pulled off his gun belt and tossed it in the footlocker. He grabbed up the gun belt that had been lying inside. 

Unlike his simple everyday gun belt that sat high on his hip and held no extra rounds, this gun belt was made for a gunslinger--which was exactly what Turner was. 

He slid the black leather around his hips and ran his fingers over the .45 bullets still filling the loops all around it before sliding his palms along the dual drop holsters.  He dropped his hands to the guns in the lockbox and picked up his .45 Colt peacemaker. He had proven points to many a man with this gun. The scarred wooden handle was smooth against his callused palm and he deftly opened the cylinder and filled the chambers with bullets from the box. 

The gun slid into its holster like silk and then it was time for Turner personal favorite--the gun that would sit in the left holster; his sawed off ten gauge shotgun. It was not much use at a distance but at close range it was more than capable of blowing a man’s head clean off his shoulders. Turner knew that because he had seen it happen. He loaded both barrels and slid the gun into the holster. Next Turner strapped on his bandolier, enjoying the feel of the leather pushing against his chest. Each loop held yet more shots for his shotgun. 

When Turner walked back to Bernice he had a rifle on his back, a pouch of ammunition and dynamite strapped to his belt, two knives strapped to his thighs, a boot knife in one boot and a derringer hooked to his leg beneath his pants just below his boot. 

He hoisted himself into the saddle and pointed Bernice’s nose toward the trail to Caudilltown. Turner was a man with only one thing on his mind and that thing was killing.

***

Turner was more than halfway to town when he felt the change in the air. A tingling of awareness passed over his skin and caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up. 

Bernice sensed it too and he felt the mare tense beneath him. Turner bent low over her neck to dodge a low hanging branch. He patted her neck comfortingly, “Don’t worry, ol’ girl. I know they‘re there.”

Turner let out his breath slowly and sat back straight. He closed his eyes, counted to three, heard the whishing of a blade in the air and turned quickly, catching the six inch blade just before it sank into his back between his shoulder blades. 

He recognized the man in the trail behind him as one of Thompson’s paid thugs. The man seemed quite shocked to say the least and Turner shook his head as he clicked his tongue, “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he scolded before flicking his wrist and sending the knife back toward it’s owner. 

Turner’s throw did not miss its mark and the blade sank hilt deep into Vince’s forehead before the skinny, mal-nourished bastard even had time to realize it was coming. He fell into the snow just as shouts rang out from his friend, Fred, who was hiding to the left. 

“You goddamned son of a bitch!”  

A bullet fired and Turner leaned right as it whizzed past his left shoulder. Turner hopped from the saddle and swatted Bernice on the withers. The mare knew the sign and took off into the woods and away from danger. 

Turner pulled his rifle and aimed it. Fred was trying to dig Vince’s body from the snow. When the man realized that Turner was coming toward him, he tried to aim but Turner fired a shot through his hand that had him screaming, dropping his gun and crab crawling backward. 

“Dammit, Turner, who the hell are you?!” Fred exclaimed. 

“A man you should have just left alone,” Turner replied and without warning he swung his rifle, bringing it down hard across Fred’s thigh. The cracking of bone and screams of pain filled the air. 

“You broke my damned leg!” Fred whimpered. 

“Who shot my dog?” 

Confusion pushed away some of the pain in Fred’s gray eyes, “What?” 

Turner grabbed Fred by the air and lifted the man off the ground causing him to blubber and mewl, begging for mercy, “Did you shoot my dog?” Turner growled. 

“No..n..no, I didn’t shoot your dog. That was Creedence what done that… I swear!” 

Turner nodded, “And Will? Did he shoot Will too?” 

“No! Nobody shot Will! We roughed him up is all, I promise! Please don’t kill me, Turner. I was just doin’ what Thompson said. You know how he is!” 

Turner felt relief fill him at the knowledge that Will was in fact still alive.  He released his hold on Fred’s hair and dropped him into the snow. Turner slid his rifle into the sling on his back, “So you roughed Will up?” 

Fred’s lip quivered as he nodded, “I had to, Turner… damn is he something special to you?  I’m sorry… Thompson was wanting to teach him a lesson for running away and if I hadn’t done what he said then he would have taught me a lesson too.” 

“And where is Thompson taking him?” 

It was clear that Fred was eager to please. The man seemed to think that would save his life. 

Damned fool. 

“Back to the brothel. He’s taking him back to the brothel.” 

Turner nodded and squinted up at the sun, “And would you happen to know what room he’ll be keeping Will in?” 

Fred nodded enthusiastically and swiped his arms over his sweat slicked forehead, “Room 10B. It’s on the third floor.” 

Turner pulled the sawed off shotgun from its holster and cocked one side back. Fred’s pale face lost even more color and he stammered hard, “I told you what you wanted to know!” 

Turner raised a brow, “What’s your point?” 

Fred’s began to pant and seemed to be having trouble breathing, “I told you… so you wouldn’t kill me!” 

Turner frowned and without a word he put the gun mere inches from Fred’s ashen face and squeezed the trigger. The sound of that ten gauge echoed across the forest and ricocheted off the surrounded tree trunks and rocks. 

Fred’s lifeless body fell into the blood covered snow and Turner reloaded the spent shell before holstering his gun. He spit in the snow at Fred’s feet and wiped a bit of blood splatter from his own cheek, “I don’t reckon I ever agreed to that.” 

Turner whistled for Bernice and she came trotting back through the trees. A quick search led him to find Fred and Vince’s horses. Turner tied the dead men to the saddles and with a yell and a swat he sent them on the path back toward town.

Slowly, Turner remounted Bernice and pulled down his hat. He was going to kill Thompson Caudill and Fred and Vince were going to make damn sure that the bastard knew he was coming.

A/N:.... and that's called Turner kicking your ass :) I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! You know i love the feedback so don't be afraid to tell me what you think!