The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

162: Scapegoats

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Richard made of found images by me.  All graphics by me.

Richard wasn't entirely sure he didn't have a black eye. Hester had backhanded him pretty hard when they'd discovered that Hanson hadn't stayed where they'd left him. What hell did you expect, she'd barked at him as she called him every insult she could apparently think of, leaving him in a tunnel with just his hands tied?

Scowling down the inky darkness of the passageway before him, he listened to the rain falling behind him down the airshaft, spattering lightly on the rockpile and draining away across the chamber floor. What I expected, Hester, you abrasive, whoring haridan, is that he'd either be too scared to move or too stupid to stay put. Either was fine by me. What I had actually hoped is that maybe he'd end up dead down one of the vertical shafts and we'd be done with him...which he probably is by now. And which is a whole lot better than I would have liked for him.

They'd heard Miss McMillian calling down from the direction of the mine. After seeing the disaster down at the mine entrance, Richard was frankly shocked that any of them, least of all Miss McMillan, would still be alive. But she is, and this shit is finally coming to a close. Hester had taken Rodriguez with her and the two of them had headed off in the direction of Lily's voice. He'd stayed behind to watch the way out, glad to rid of her. If I didn't hate that poor, stupid cuckold in Green River you're married to, I'd almost feel sorry for him. I can't imagine what's he's getting out of being married to you. How can he not know you married his money...?

He shifted on his feet, glancing warily up the shaft, squinting in the sparkling sunlight. He didn't know who'd rigged the rope that hung down the shaft, but he figured it was most likely Miss McMillian or one of the men she was traveling with. They'll be coming back here. They don't have a choice at this point.

His boots slipped annoyingly on the uneven wet rock, and he adjusted the pistol grip in his hand, waiting impatiently.

The payoff has better be worth all this.

He heard the shuffling of a single set of footfalls echoing up out of the tunnel before him. Stepping out of the sunlight, he backed into the shadows lining the chamber, tightening his grip on his pistol.

A tall, lanky figure was groping carefully along the wall, and the dim light spilling down the shaft illuminated Jesse Hanson's long, blond hair and fringed buckskin jacket. He straightened up, squinting and holding a hand over his face, protecting his dazzled eyes.

Well, well, well. What have we here?

Richard stepped quickly forward, cocking his pistol. "Don't even move, hillbilly boy."

Hanson, still partly blinded, lashed out with a wild swing, sending Richard's pistol flying. "Shit!" he rasped, throwing a second frantic blow towards Richard's face. "Son of a..."

Richard, caught off guard, ducked clumsily as the blow clumsily bounced along the side of his head. He managed to grab a fistful of hair as Hanson spun around to run, and caught a glancing knee to the groin for his trouble. The pain made him gasp, made his stomach clutch, but the blow hadn't been solid enough to incapacitate him. He threw out an arm, scrambling for his gun, as Hanson turned and dove back down the corridor from which he'd just emerged

Richard, balls aching and boots skittering on the rocks, flew after him. Screw this. I'm going to kill this backwoods trash son of a bitch. Screw Hester. Screw all this shit. "So help me, Hanson," he bellowed, throwing caution to the wind. "You better run, you little shit!"

Livid, he aimed his pistol down the corridor, at the figure ahead of him quickly racing into the darkness. His finger tightened on the trigger, remembering how Hanson and he had grappled in the kitchen, how he'd been humiliated and roughed up. How the smaller man had somehow, somehow, gotten the best of him back at Green River, and how even here in the Rocks he had been nearly overpowered by Hanson in front of his men. How he'd been blamed for the stupid hillbilly's insane escape through the pitch black mine while hooded and bound and the lewd, mocking comments Hester had made. I let this stand, if I don't make an example out of him...I'll be a laughingstock.

No. No, this isn't going to be over that easy for him. I'm not done teaching this inbreed a lesson by half. His luck's run out.

Still running, he uncocked his gun and grabbed it by the barrel. He could hear Hanson breathing hard in front of him, stumbling and struggling to keep his feet underneath of him on the uneven, slippery floor. He was struck with the realization that a stream of threats, curses, and oaths were pouring from his own lips as he ran. Hanson stumbled, crying out, and barely regained his footing as Richard's fingers closed over a few flying strands of buckskin fringe, tearing them off as Hanson sprinted forward. The sound of falling water filled his ears, his eyes starting to work again as dim light filled the tunnel.

He's headed for the waterfall. Good. I want to be able to see him good and bloody when I'm done with him. He knows what's coming; he wouldn't be running otherwise.

Hansen skidded to a halt, his boots sliding and fumbling in the water's edge. He spun around, cornered, and Richard slammed into him in a full body tackle, taking him down into the icy water with a violent splash, the frigid cold driving the air from their lungs in an agonizing, chest-crushing shock.

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