Whispers by Erin Quinn

I recognized the flaw in my thinking. It was Momma I’d heard scream. I was sure of it.
    The men down below laughed and shouted happily to one another as they raced around. I made my eyes squinty, trying to make out features through the dirt and dust that caked their faces. Who were they? Why were they here?
    I scanned the far hillside, praying the rest of my family was there, on the other side, watching with the same horror I was. Over the fire, a pot of stew Momma had set to cook still hung and the fresh breeze brought the smell of it to me.
    Momma, where are you?
    Johnny’s toys lay atop the quilt Momma and I had sewn when he was born. Beyond that...
    A wave of sickness hit me. Beyond Johnny’s blanket, Grandma’s wheelchair lay on its side, wheels peeking out from behind the crates we’d unloaded when we set camp. I stared, one part of my mind jamming like gears in a windmill as another part spun out of control. Why was Grandma’s wheelchair all tipped over? And where was Grandma?
    A rider charged up the hill, and I ducked down.
    He shouted out to the others. “Lonnie, Jake, come on. Let’s git.”
    “ Ain’t done,” one of them hollered back. “Not by far we ain’t. And I’m hungry. I’m going to sit me down and have some of this fine stew Mrs. Beck done cooked up for us.”
    The rider muttered something and then reined his horse around.
    Lonnie ... Jake ...
    I flattened myself to the earth, inhaled the dark scents of dirt and worms, and tried to batten down my fear. Lonnie and Jake ... The Smith brothers. I bit hard on my lip to keep from crying out. The brothers were identical twins, just a year older than my seventeen, and they were murderers. Cold-blooded murderers. Last month my father had stood as the only witness to their thievery and murderousness and convinced a jury to hang the two men.
    A movement from the opposite hillside caught my eyes. Daddy and Johnny, running toward the wagon. My daddy held his rifle in one hand, Johnny clung to the other. They’d heard the gunshots, as I had, but from their angle, they couldn’t see the men, now gathered at the fire. I wanted to stand up and shout, wave my arms and warn them, but if I did...
    My daddy’s footsteps slowed as he stared at something out of my sight. What? What did he see? He stilled, Johnny at his side, and stared. Just stared.
    Then slowly he pushed Johnny back, pointed at a boulder. Johnny didn’t want to do what Daddy ordered. I could see it in his posture. In the defiant tilt of his head. He was eight, but tried to act eighteen. At last he crouched down where he’d been told and Daddy cocked his rifle and advanced on the camp.
    No, I breathed. No, Daddy.
    One of the men, maybe Lonnie, maybe Jake, looked up, as if sensing the approach. He reached for his gun and pulled it free of the holster. In my mind I could hear the metal clear the leather. Time seemed to slow down. I felt each beat of my heart, watched paralyzed as my daddy advanced on the gang. What could I do? If I stood, they’d kill me. I knew they would. But if I didn’t, my daddy would certainly die. I tried to make my legs move. Tried to get to my feet. But I was frozen, flattened on the hillside like one of the stones beside me.
    The man with the gun sidled up to the wagon and then peeked around. Daddy saw, took aim, and fired. The shot splintered into the wagon and sent wood shards flying in all directions. It made a loud boom that echoed across the open plains and hills. A yelp broke from my lips, but I clapped a hand over my mouth to mute it. The man with the gun howled and grabbed at his eye.
    Fast as lightning the other men reached for their weapons and rounded the wagon. Daddy got off another shot, but that was all. The four men fired with abandon and my scream lodged in my throat as Daddy’s body danced with the impact. They riddled him full of lead, moving forward as they fired like the mindless killers they were. The sloping foothills around me sucked up the