By Lincoln Reed
Slade Cartwright adjusted the scope on his Sharps rifle and awaited the Devil’s stagecoach. The Texas Ranger tipped the brim of a sweat-stained hat, swigged from his canteen, and wiped perspiration from his forehead. Mesquite trees and cacti provided limited shade underneath the unforgiving sun, but he made do amidst the desert rock outcropping.
He aimed the gun with seasoned patience, composed like a snake before a lethal strike. The shot would have to be perfect. The Devil couldn’t be allowed to live. Not anywhere. But especially not in Texas. The reign of bloodshed would end with the slow pull of the trigger on Cartwright’s rifle.
Beneath the mesquite tree, Cartwright drained the final drop of water from his canteen onto a parched tongue, nibbled his remaining piece of jerky, and fought the growing ache in his stomach while a silent vulture circled overhead. The Texas Ranger grumbled at the irony and let his thoughts drift with the incessant ambience of desert wind.
He couldn’t continue at this rate. Without food, water, or a horse, he would be dead before he trekked back to town. Birds would pick flesh from his bleached bones. The Devil would—
Clouds of dust bloomed amongst quivering heatwaves.
Cartwright squinted into the scope—hazy forms of horses. A stagecoach.
A scorpion scuttled across Cartwright’s shoulder, but the Texas Ranger didn’t flinch. He gritted his teeth and trained his concentration on the stagecoach driver. He poured his focus into the scope and eased his finger onto the trigger. With his measured exhale, the Sharps spat a .52 caliber bullet. A report reverberated, and Cartwright’s right shoulder absorbed the kickback. The scorpion tumbled and scurried away.
Smoke dissipated from the barrel. Cartwright’s nose scrunched at the sulfuric aroma of black powder. Two-hundred yards away, the driver crumpled. A man sitting next to the felled driver reached for the reins and urged the horses onward.
Cartwright peered once more into the scope.
With three pounds of pressure against the trigger, his rifle snapped off another shot. The shotgun rider clutched his gut and slumped. Horses sprinted another fifty yards and slowed to a stop. The stagecoach lurched. Dust settled.
For now, Cartwright maintained the advantage. Anything venturing from the carriage would receive a bullet and a one-way ticket to hell.
The Texas Ranger cracked his neck, stretched his arms, and adjusted his hold on the Sharps. His hands moistened against the rifle’s wooden frame as the midday sun crawled across a cloudless sky and burned shades of pink against the horizon line.
No passengers emerged.
Weary and sunburned, he struck flint and made a fire. Without a companion or a horse to keep him company, Cartwright hummed a hymn—always keeping watch on the stagecoach. When the flames burned low, he resumed his position with the Sharps and waited.
At dawn, Cartwright pried open heavy eyes, cursed himself, and massaged a weary head. The spirit is willing, but the flesh….
With knees popping, he started his descent. When Cartwright’s boots crunched dry sand on the desert road, stagecoach horses whinnied. Vultures, picking at the drivers’ rotting flesh, ignored his approach.
No tracks or disturbances in the dirt suggested someone fleeing on foot. Blinds hid the stagecoach’s interior from the sun and Cartwright’s prying gaze. If the Devil had bolted after Cartwright drifted to sleep… or, if the Devil had cast a spell to make the Ranger nod off…
Cartwright shook his head. Even if the Devil managed to escape during the night, the interior might still provide a clue. He readied the Sharps, grasped the door handle, swung it open….
A young woman gasped, hid her face, and clutched her stomach.
Cartwright squinted. The rest of the stagecoach?
Empty.
He was told this carriage had left burning buildings in its wake, men and women killing each other. Who was this woman? Jezebel?
If she’s the Devil….
The woman clasped a black dress. Tears brimmed in her green eyes.
Cartwright kept his jaw firm. He needed answers. And, after his failure to stay up all night, time was precious. “Where is he? Your master.”
The woman’s face paled as Cartwright inched his finger toward the trigger. She’s an illusion. Wait for it. The fangs. The red eyes….
She straightened. “I’m head’d to Reverend Vincent Bartholomew. He’s promised sanctuary.”
Cartwright glanced toward the small bulge in her abdomen.
“Can’t hide it.” Her eyes flashed. “That’s why they want me dead. Folks killing each other… all over a baby.”
“Ma’am. Seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“I’ll say.” She scowled. “Ain’t ever been with a man.”
Cartwright frowned. Had he heard correctly?
“But my child ain’t the Devil’s.” The woman continued in earnest. “On my mother’s grave!”
Cartwright relied on two things: his gut and his gun. The former he trusted most. This could be a trick. Any cornered demon would lie its way out of a trap. Even so, he considered himself a man of honor, taking pride in his code—uphold the law, defend the helpless, fear no evil. And, even if this lady carried the Devil’s spawn, he didn’t kill women and children, no matter how cursed they were accused of being. The Devil, not Slade Cartwright, preyed on the powerless.
Rumbling hooves broke the silence. In the distance, a half-mile away, horses charged. A posse, perhaps. The woman dried her tears. “They’ll burn me alive. Would be better if you shot me now.”
Trusting his gut and praying he wouldn’t regret his decision, Cartwright locked eyes with the woman, lowered his rifle, and gave a solemn nod. “I’ll take you as far as the preacher. Then we find the truth.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Intriguing! Doesn’t sound like he completely trusts her, but she’s got an interesting story. Is there a sequel?
Thanks for reading, Arlan! I’d like to write a sequel to this story.
I’m interested to see what happens. I really enjoyed the descriptions in this story!
Thanks for reading!
Oh man, I loved this! Great tension throughout and Slade is so cool.
Very intriguing. I love how immersive all the descriptions are!