Frontier Justice by Michael Cardwell

Author:Michael Cardwell [Cardwell, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

As he closed the door from seeing Ruth off, Molly handed him a towel and pointed at the stack of washed dinnerware.

Danny started with the dishes, then moved to the silverware. If he could avoid eye contact, he thought, he might get out of here alive.

Molly washed and rinsed, Danny clinked plates, and silverware jingled as it was tossed in the utensil drawer. Danny folded his dish towel over the oven handle to dry and was about to head to bed when the trap was sprung.

“Ruth seemed to enjoy herself tonight,” said Molly, pulling the plug on the water.

Unsure if she was asking or telling, Danny played the flattery card: “Your cooking’s what did it. She loved the meatloaf, and the cobbler was picture-perfect.”

“Keep it up and I’ll need a shovel,” said Molly, drying her hands. “Does she mean it about you working on the rez?”

Dropping all pretense, Danny answered, “She does.”

“She’s not worried?” asked Molly.

Danny moved to wrap his arms around her, and she melted into him. “She said she’d kick my ass if I got hurt.”

With a tight hug, Molly replied, “Makes two of us.”

Ben came downstairs to let Gus out and found them. He booted the pooch out in the cold and leaned against the doorframe, studying them. He was a lucky man and etched this moment in his memory.

Rapid-fire barking came from outside and stole the moment away.

“Idiot dog,” said Ben. He jerked the door open as he reached for his coat. “Nutjob’s probably got a leaf cornered.”

“I got it,” said Danny, giving Molly a peck on the cheek. Smiling, he reached for his own coat. “Anyway, you got flip-flops on.”

“It’s only fifty feet to the barn,” said Ben, staring at his footwear.

“You don’t have the brains God gave a goose,” said Danny, slipping his boots and wool cap on.

“Hug your wife, old man,” said Danny, and he slipped out the door.

“Fuck nuts, it’s cold,” he mumbled to himself, as he zipped his coat and rolled its collar up. He skated on the ice of the porch and only a grab at the handrail kept him from falling. He made it down the steps, walked to the barn, following the barks, and stepped in through the half-opened door. He fumbled for the light string, catching it on his third try.

Straw bales were stacked on the right wall of the barn and enclosed a workbench filled with old tools. A rusty green and white Oliver tractor sat in the middle of the barn. Beyond the tractor were six empty stalls, three to a side. Ben had sold off the stock when Danny joined the army.

“Gus, come here, boy,” called Danny, squatting down and clapping his hands. “Whatever you’re chasing is probably bigger than you are, anyway.”

Gus trotted out of the first stall on the left. A man, dressed in olive-green snow bibs, a black Carhartt parka, and insulated boots trailed Gus out of the stall. He pointed a Winchester M70 bolt-action rifle at Danny’s belly and wore the face of Edmund Goodrunner.

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