Ethan didn’t respond right away. The steam from his tin cup curled up into the sunbeams that streamed through the broken window of the ranch house. He watched it slowly and discreetly disappear before placing the cup down and staring her in the eye.
Finally, he said, “No.” “But I can tell when someone is hurting. And I’ve seen men do it.
She looked down into the bowl. She didn’t remember finishing the stew, but it was half gone now. Her body was still in shock, and it shook as if the horrible things that happened last night were still after her. She grasped the spoon hard, as if it would protect her.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “They said I was a witch.” A curse on the town. The crops didn’t grow because of me… I made the river dry up.
Ethan’s jaw went tense. He held on to the edge of the table with his hand till his knuckles turned white.
He went on, “They just needed someone to blame.” “And it’s always the quiet ones.” It’s always the women who are too kind or too silent. Men like them are scared of that type of boldness.
The girl—no, she wasn’t a girl. Not anymore. The whip and the laughter of those men had taken away all of her innocence. She nodded, but tears started to fall.
“I don’t even know where I am,” she added in a hushed voice. “I ran until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.” I didn’t think I would see the sun rise again.
“You made it,” Ethan replied, and his voice sounded like worn leather. “They never thought it would be that much.”
Then she looked at him, actually looked at him. His face was covered in scars from the past. He has a scar under his left eye. A wound over his eyebrow that never healed properly. His hands were rough from working, yet they were also still because he was being held back. There was a kind of grief in his eyes that comes from a lifetime of regret.
“They called you the Black Vulture,” she said next. “I remember.” My dad told me stories. You mentioned that you once stood in the middle of a burning town with a six-shooter in each hand and walked away unharmed.
“Did your dad ever tell you how many people I buried in that town?” While Ethan was drinking more coffee, he said this. “Or how many of them were men who begged me not to pull the trigger?”
She shook her head. The kind of silence that made you want to be honest filled the air.
He then added, “I buried my guns ten years ago.” “I told myself I would never pick them up again.” I became tired of being dead in a coat. I thought I could live out here and not have to worry about anyone else.
She didn’t utter a word. I merely watched him while the wind changed outside and the dust whispered on the glass.
“But,” Ethan replied slowly, “there’s something different about pain like yours coming through the door.” People who cause that kind of pain should be punished. Not revenge. Not blood. But it is true. And maybe… a tiny bit of fire.
She opened her mouth. For a minute, she seemed younger, like the girl she may have been before the abuse, the long night, the firelight, and the whip.
“They told me I’d kill anyone who helped me,” she said in a quiet voice.
Ethan stood up from the table. His bones were stiff, but he stood still. He opened a drawer in the old corner cabinet and got something out. The revolver was old, heavy with memories, and well-oiled. He set it down next to her dish of stew on the table.
He went on to say, “I’ve already met death.” “We know each other well.”
She stared at the gun. Then at him.
“Are you going back there?” she asked in a voice that was hard to hear.
Ethan walked over to the window and looked out at the horizon. The fields were golden with dry grass, and the sky seemed big and scary.
“I don’t know what kind of guys they were. But I know who I used to be. And I know what kind of person I’ll be if I let go of my past.
She got up slowly and with a lot of shaking. It was hard for her to carry the coat, but for the first time, her chin went up.
“I don’t want them to die,” she said. “I want people to know about them. I want everyone to know what they did. I want people to think about them. I want people to trust what they do.
Ethan nodded. “That’s harder than killing them.”
“I understand.”
He turned away from the window and stared at her. “Then we’ll do it your way.” But I’ll handle it.
She nodded a little, not to say thank you but to agree. She had lost too much to be grateful. But she wasn’t alone anymore. And he was no longer in the ground.
The wind howled across the plains. Somewhere in a town, people told themselves lies. But in the end, reality would come in on worn boots, with long shadows and a girl who wouldn’t leave.
And they would remember.