of
a massive headache.
But
he’d live.
Jackson
smiled up at the man’s terrified wife. “Your husband’s got one high-quality
skull,” he said. “I’ll bet he barely even felt it when I hit him.”
The
woman shook her head and Jackson thought he could see tears rolling down her
cheeks in the semi-darkness. He knew he should feel guilty for what he was
putting these two innocent people through, but he didn’t. Didn’t feel anything
at all, in fact. His only emotion was worry, because if the Krupp brothers got
their hands on him after what he had done to them two years ago in Peru, he
knew he would suffer in ways he could not even begin to imagine.
Why he
hadn’t taken a few extra seconds to make sure Amos and Wesley were actually
dead before starting off across the plains, he didn’t know. He had asked
himself the question a thousand times. The answer, of course, was simple: he
had assumed they would simply crawl off somewhere and die. They were miles from
any civilization and suffering serious gunshot wounds. What other option had
they had?
But he
had underestimated their will to live, or perhaps their desire for revenge. The
brothers had somehow escaped Puerta de Hayu Marka, seemingly rising from the
dead and dragging their worthless carcasses out of the wilderness, and then
finding some sympathetic South American doctor to stitch them up and send them
on their way.
Jackson
had been utterly, blissfully unaware of their continued existence for nearly
eight months after sneaking back across the United States/Mexican border and making
his way north. The pair had caught up to him in a boarding house just outside
Wichita, bursting into his room one night with whiskey in their bellies and
vengeance in their wild eyes.
And
they should have gotten him, too. Jackson had erased his two former partners
almost completely from his memory by then. He figured—when he thought of
the Krupps at all, which was rarely—that their long-dead corpses were by
now moldering in a couple of unmarked shallow graves in the plains of Peru. And
that was assuming their bodies hadn’t been picked clean down to the bone by
scavenging wild animals.
He had
gotten lucky in Wichita, plain and simple. There was no other way to describe
it. Jackson Healy had survived that night only because he wasn’t asleep in his
bed at three a.m. as he should have been. He had bedded the wife of a local rancher
when the man departed on what was supposed to be a three-day trip to evaluate
and purchase cattle. The man had cut his trip short after losing most of his capital
in a poker game and nearly caught Jackson with his pants down, both
figuratively and literally, when he returned home early.
Jackson
had barely had time to throw his clothes on and scramble out a bedroom window
before skulking back to his room, angry and humiliated.
And
horny.
He had
hunkered down at the small writing desk in his room, whiskey bottle in one hand
and glass in the other, prepared to drink his anger away, when down the street
staggered the Krupp brothers, both drunker than skunks and brandishing their
revolvers.
How
they had located him Jackson had no idea, but Wesley and Amos burst into the
rooming house and marched directly to Jackson’s room. They smashed the door in
and proceeded to empty their guns into his bed, too drunk to notice it was
empty.
By this
time Jackson was gone. For the second time in less than two hours he departed a
residence via a back window, and as shaken as he was to discover the Krupp
brothers alive and well – and gunning for him – he decided he was
getting damned tired of running away from people.
But run
he did, with the Krupp brothers hot on his trail. They were relentless,
single-mindedly chasing him around the United States. Memphis, Chicago,
Detroit. Atlanta, Boston, Louisville. No matter where Jackson went, the Krupp
brothers were never far behind. It was exhausting.
Now,
though, Jackson thought he might have gotten his first bit
a massive headache.
But
he’d live.
Jackson
smiled up at the man’s terrified wife. “Your husband’s got one high-quality
skull,” he said. “I’ll bet he barely even felt it when I hit him.”
The
woman shook her head and Jackson thought he could see tears rolling down her
cheeks in the semi-darkness. He knew he should feel guilty for what he was
putting these two innocent people through, but he didn’t. Didn’t feel anything
at all, in fact. His only emotion was worry, because if the Krupp brothers got
their hands on him after what he had done to them two years ago in Peru, he
knew he would suffer in ways he could not even begin to imagine.
Why he
hadn’t taken a few extra seconds to make sure Amos and Wesley were actually
dead before starting off across the plains, he didn’t know. He had asked
himself the question a thousand times. The answer, of course, was simple: he
had assumed they would simply crawl off somewhere and die. They were miles from
any civilization and suffering serious gunshot wounds. What other option had
they had?
But he
had underestimated their will to live, or perhaps their desire for revenge. The
brothers had somehow escaped Puerta de Hayu Marka, seemingly rising from the
dead and dragging their worthless carcasses out of the wilderness, and then
finding some sympathetic South American doctor to stitch them up and send them
on their way.
Jackson
had been utterly, blissfully unaware of their continued existence for nearly
eight months after sneaking back across the United States/Mexican border and making
his way north. The pair had caught up to him in a boarding house just outside
Wichita, bursting into his room one night with whiskey in their bellies and
vengeance in their wild eyes.
And
they should have gotten him, too. Jackson had erased his two former partners
almost completely from his memory by then. He figured—when he thought of
the Krupps at all, which was rarely—that their long-dead corpses were by
now moldering in a couple of unmarked shallow graves in the plains of Peru. And
that was assuming their bodies hadn’t been picked clean down to the bone by
scavenging wild animals.
He had
gotten lucky in Wichita, plain and simple. There was no other way to describe
it. Jackson Healy had survived that night only because he wasn’t asleep in his
bed at three a.m. as he should have been. He had bedded the wife of a local rancher
when the man departed on what was supposed to be a three-day trip to evaluate
and purchase cattle. The man had cut his trip short after losing most of his capital
in a poker game and nearly caught Jackson with his pants down, both
figuratively and literally, when he returned home early.
Jackson
had barely had time to throw his clothes on and scramble out a bedroom window
before skulking back to his room, angry and humiliated.
And
horny.
He had
hunkered down at the small writing desk in his room, whiskey bottle in one hand
and glass in the other, prepared to drink his anger away, when down the street
staggered the Krupp brothers, both drunker than skunks and brandishing their
revolvers.
How
they had located him Jackson had no idea, but Wesley and Amos burst into the
rooming house and marched directly to Jackson’s room. They smashed the door in
and proceeded to empty their guns into his bed, too drunk to notice it was
empty.
By this
time Jackson was gone. For the second time in less than two hours he departed a
residence via a back window, and as shaken as he was to discover the Krupp
brothers alive and well – and gunning for him – he decided he was
getting damned tired of running away from people.
But run
he did, with the Krupp brothers hot on his trail. They were relentless,
single-mindedly chasing him around the United States. Memphis, Chicago,
Detroit. Atlanta, Boston, Louisville. No matter where Jackson went, the Krupp
brothers were never far behind. It was exhausting.
Now,
though, Jackson thought he might have gotten his first bit
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