Ethan didn’t answer right away. The steam from his tin cup curled up into the sunbeams that streamed through the ranch house’s broken window. He set the cup down and looked her in the eye after seeing it gently and quietly disappear.
At last, he said, “No.” “But I can tell when someone is hurting.” And I’ve seen guys do it.
She looked down at the bowl. She didn’t remember finishing the stew, but it was now half gone. Her body was still in shock, shivering as if the awful things that happened last night were still after her. She clutched the spoon hard, as if it would protect her.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “They called me a witch.” A curse on the city. The crops didn’t grow because of me… I was the one who made the river dry.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. He held on to the edge of the table with his hand till his knuckles turned white.
“They just needed someone to blame,” he said. “And it’s always the quiet ones.” The women are always too kind or too silent. Men like them are scared of that type of boldness.
The girl—no, she wasn’t a girl. Not any longer. The whip and the men laughing had taken away all of her innocence. She nodded, but tears began to pour.
“I don’t even know where I am,” she remarked in a low voice. “I ran until my feet went numb.” I didn’t think I would make it to the sunrise.
Ethan said, “You did it,” and his voice sounded like worn leather. “That’s more than they ever thought.”
Then she truly looked at him. He has a lot of scars on his face from the past. He has a scar on his left eye. A slash across his eyebrow that never really healed. His hands were rough from working, yet they were also still because they were being held back. The melancholy in his eyes came from a lifetime of regret.
“They called you the Black Vulture,” she said. “My dad told stories, and I remember.” You mentioned that you once stood in the middle of a burning town with a six-shooter in each hand and didn’t get wounded.
“Did your father ever tell you how many people I buried there?” Ethan said this while he sipped his coffee again. “Or how many of them were men who begged me not to pull the trigger?”
She shook her head. The hush in the air was so thick that it made you want to be honest.
He then said, “Ten years ago, I buried my guns.” “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 the world.
Nothing came out of her mouth. I merely watched him while the wind outside changed and dust whispered on the glass.
“But,” Ethan replied slowly, “there’s something different about pain like yours coming through the door.” You should be punished for that kind of pain. No revenge. Not blood. But it’s true. And maybe… a little fire.
She opened her mouth. For a second, she seemed younger, like the girl she may have been before the abuse, the long night, the firelight, and the whip.
“They said I’d kill anyone who helped me,” she said in a hushed voice.
Ethan left the table. His bones were stiff, but he stood up straight. He proceeded to the old corner cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled something out. The revolver was heavy with memories, old, and oiled. He put it on the table next to her stew bowl.
He went on, “I’ve already met death.” “We’re good friends.”
She gazed at the gun. Then at him.
“Are you going back there?” she asked in a voice that was hard to hear.
Ethan went to the window and looked out at the horizon. The fields were covered in dried grass that looked like gold, and the sky was wide and scary.
“I don’t know what kind of guys they were.” But I know what kind of person I used to be. And I know what kind of person I’ll be if I forget about my past.
She stood up slowly and with a lot of shaking. The coat was heavy on her shoulders, but for the first time, her chin was up.
“I don’t want them dead,” she said. “I want them to be known. I want everyone to know what they did. I want others to think of them. I want people to believe in what they do.
Ethan nodded. “That’s harder than killing them.”
“I know.”
He turned away from the window and stared at her. “Then we’ll do it how you want.” 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 dead.
The wind howled across the plains. Somewhere, a town whispered lies to itself. But ultimately, reality would come in on worn boots, with long shadows and a girl who wouldn’t leave.
And they would remember.
