Retribution Chapter 6: In the Crossfire

Slowing the pace, we realize most had dropped off. Stopping, we rein in, turn, and look. Several follow at a distance in no hurry to catch up. Guess they are only interested in our destination in order to report back. We continue on, confident we are in the clear for the moment.

The mountains are snowcapped this chilly morning as we approach the Eldridge hacienda surrounded by wasteland. From afar, several windmills in need of repair spin in the breeze sucking air from mother earth. Approaching, more than the windmills need repair. The estate surrounded. The desert encroaching. Scattered debris, dilapidated buildings, stripped of their parts, stand in ruin. Rotting. Home to critters and interlopers.

We approach, wondering who may now occupy the residence. Someone, otherwise, nothing would remain other than scraps. We watch, hoping current squatters step out. The team, not visible, worrisome but kinda confident they are in the area. The closer we get noticed movement, inside, maybe a dozen poking their heads out of window frames? Without a doubt, we are out-gunned. The front door opens, and a lone figure appears, a scruffy-looking middle-aged, sun-bake character out of an old west movie, ragged beard, holster strapped low, shotgun resting on his left shoulder. We approach.

“Close enough,” he yells.

We take a few more steps until he aims his weapon.

“I said that’s close enough.”

We pull-up, nodded.

“Morning, I’m looking for a Mr. Eldridge. I once worked for him. He around?”

“Not available.”

“You mean like, still eatin breakfast, or gone fishin, or dead?”

“Not available.”

“What about James Eldridge or Max?”

“Not available.”

Begin to dismount when he takes a defensive stance and shakes his head, then motions to remount.

“We were riding most of the night, tired. Mind if we rest for a while? Any feed or water for our rides?” Frank, again, starts to dismount. When the occupants from inside take aim. Now a second person steps out the front door. Frank settles back on his saddle. “Sorry, my ass hurts.”

“Are you like the caretaker?” Franks asks.

“Yep.”

“Like the boss?”

Silence.

“So, I got a couple of silver rounds. Could we board our rides and gain a room for the evening?” Frank inquires.

“You two look like trouble. Git.”

Observing the house could sense an uneasiness. Like us, this bunch on the run. Afraid of something or someone. On edge.

Wonder where our crew was. Time to exit, “Well, enjoyed the conventions, guess we’ll wander off, should the Eldridge's’ become available, tell him Dale was looking for him. He owes me some money. I'd hope to collect.”

“Their not coming back, gone, all of them, the family, the hired help, the livestock, all heading north, so don’t waste your time looking for em here.”

Something caught his attention behind us. “Those your friends on the ridge?” he asked.

Turning to look, there on the ridge, a quarter of a mile away, maybe two dozen riders standing about with long rifles observing us, the house, the situation, shit.

“Nope.”

“Looks like trouble.”

“Now you get talkative.”

Frank turns, unties his saddle bag, waves it over his head…and throws it toward the yard.

“What the…”

“They’re not interested in us. Those silver rounds I mentioned belong to them… they’re not after us.. They’re your problem now.” Frank said.

Our nameless stranger appears agitated. “How do I know they’re not with you?”

We hear a shot ring out. We wait. The second stranger, standing at the doorway, stumbles back, grasps his chest, drops his weapon, looks up, rocks, and drops to the ground. Frank and I quickly dismount placing our mounts between us and the ridge. Frank yells out…

“Decide. Work together or we leave and they become, your problem.”

A second shot echoes, we flinch, duck as if hiding from an invisible projectile. Looking back at the ridge see a rider fall from their mount, crashing onto the ground. Grabbing the reins pull our rides through front door.

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