The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

108: Shot in the Dark

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

Crouching against the cottonwood trunk, Storm desperately fought to keep the tree between himself and the soldier that was shooting at him. He'd come within a hair's breadth of taking one in the head; the shot had sent a spray of bark shrapnel into his face. He frantically tried to brush the painfully abrasive chips of wood from his eyes. They've turned on us. Collins and his men. He's staging a damn coup. Right now, while we're in it with bandits. Marde. Marde! He glanced across the widening distance between himself and Eagle Bone, cringing when he saw the brave sprawled in the dirt and being dragged behind cover by his sister. Shit. As much as I dislike the surly bastard, I don't want him dead.

He was acutely aware that he had no idea how many shots he had left in the cylinder of his pistol, and he had found out the hard way that when he switched to his point-blanket coat at the last minute back in Bridger, his spare cylinders had been in the pocket of the borrowed blue army coat. This was a terrible idea, the Voice of Wisdom hissed into his ear. It sounded angry. All of it. And if you were still working for the army, you'd have ended up in the brig for something so stupid.

He glanced around, vainly looking for a way to get back to Eagle Bone, and where Jesse and a bluecoat were wrestling with one of the bandits, but he was trapped behind the tree by gunfire. Another bullet whizzed past, ricocheting off the stone side of the cabin. They're trying to kill you, Lights the Storm, the Voices in his head chattered at him. They're going after you personally. The near-dark hung like a gauzy gray curtain over them, making the blue coated soldiers indistinguishable from one another. You didn't think Collins was going to let you walk away from this, did you? He could see Scarcliff, the last vestiges of his red scarf visible as it, too, turned to gray in the last light of sunset. He couldn't tell which blue coat was Collins. And Collins, the Voice of Wisdom whispered to him, is the one you'd better find, and quick. Because you can bet he's looking for you. You and most definitely Scarcliff.

The open doorway of the cabin loomed like a hungry maw. That's where the bees are. That's where Fiona is. He aimed at the soldier who was shooting at him and fired, hoping the shot at least bought him a few seconds to bolt for the cabin door. Probably someone in there guarding her, he thought grimly. Can't be helped.

He threw himself forward into the enveloping darkness, rolling sideways and expecting to be shot at any moment. The scabbing burn on his neck pulled and throbbed, adding its complaints to the nagging ache in his ribs. He gritted his teeth, keeping a steady grip on his pistol. Blue-gray shadows loomed in the tiny space, cluttering the darkness with confusing shapes. A white hot pinprick flared in his cheek, and he reflexively slapped the bee away from his face.

The relative silence inside the cabin was terrifying. "Fiona!" he hissed, hauling himself into a low crouch and backing against the nearby wall. "Fiona, where are you?" Panic started clawing its way through his chest and up his throat. His eyes began to adjust and he realized he didn't see anyone in the cabin. "Fiona!" he called, frantic. Is she not here? How can she not be here? He froze, dark thoughts reeling through his head as he fought to control his breathing. Where the hell is...

"Miss Lewis-Smythe!"

Storm whirled around, his pistol suddenly aimed at Captain Scarcliff's chest. He realized that in his panicked state, he'd allowed the Captain to approach and aim a pistol right between his eyes. He instantly snapped the barrel of his own weapon towards the floor. Scarcliff did likewise, deflating with relief.

"Where the hell is she?" Scarcliff barked.

"I don't know," Storm said, clenching his jaw. "She's not here."

Scarcliff exhaled through his teeth. "What? What do you mean, 'she's not...'"

"She's not here!" Storm realized he was shaking. "Where's Collins?"

The gunshot shot was deafening, the sound blasting off bare stone walls in the confined space. Scarcliff spun around, his knees buckling as impact knocked him over a low bench and sent him sprawling onto the hard-packed dirt floor. Storm gasped, fumbling his gun back up to the darkened doorway and pulling the trigger. The hammer fell with a dull, empty click. Tabarnak.

"That's Captain Collins, and your services are no longer needed," Collins hissed, muzzle flash and thunder filling the entire world.

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