Read Online Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Greg Matthews
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happy about how you lied.”
He went out again, talked for several minutes, then was replaced by Chaffey, nervously holding Bill’s pistol. “He’s gone to see. I told him Mr. Delaney, he always paid his bills monthly in town. He’s gone to see anyway.”
“Let me go …,” Clay said.
Chaffey shook his head. “I can’t. He’d kill me too. He’s mean.”
“Before he comes back … we can both go! You didn’t do anything bad yet!”
Chaffey wagged his head violently from side to side, pressed his lips together to keep himself strong.
Clay used the word he’d been saving till last. “Please …,” he said.
The gun was lifted. “Bill says … he says I got to, so we’re both in this together. I swear, he’ll kill me if I don’t. I’m sorry, truly.…”
He thumbed back the hammer and took aim. To Clay the muzzle opening seemed impossibly large, big enough to swallow him whole. He heard the shameful sound of his own voice begging, begging as the seat of his pants filled with a fetid brown froth, and all shame was subsumed by the need to talk his way out of dying.
Chaffey’s eyes told Clay when the moment had come. They closed against the anticipated blast. Clay turned to throw himself away from the yawning muzzle’s line of fire, but he moved too late. The shot’s deafening sound was merely the aftermath to what felt like a skewer rammed through his face from one side clear through to the other. The bullet had passed through both cheeks, missing the teeth and gums only because Clay’s mouth was wide open in a scream he couldn’t hear. He fell, more from shock than any conscious plan to play dead, then lay still, his mouth filling with blood.
Clay heard Chaffey’s boots moving across the floor, and had the presence of mind to stop breathing. His face was buried against the surprisingly firm flesh of his mother’s side. He could feel blood gushing from his ruptured cheeks onto the cloth of her dress. Chaffey’s breath rasped a few feet above him for a long moment, then the boots moved away, and he heard Bill’s voice coming from over by the house.
“You get him?”
“I got him!”
The combined sound of their voices moved in the direction of the barn. Clay drew breath and lurched upright. He hurried from the cabin and crossed the yard, glancing at the barn door—no sign of the Chaffeys—then upstairs to the bedroom of his parents, a room he had never been inside. Delaney had told him once that the pistol was kept near to hand in case robbers should enter the house at night. Had Chaffey searched the upper floor during his brief time inside?
Clay yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. There lay the gun, smelling of oil. He picked it up. The Colt seemed to possess a weight beyond its own metal and wood.
Delaney’s two best horses had been taken from their stalls to the yard. The only saddle was placed on the first, then Bill went to fetch the saddle from his own inferior mount to put on the second. Unbuckling the girth, he hesitated, then turned. The last thing he saw was the boy standing in the house doorway, aiming a pistol at him. Bill heard the first chamber misfire, but the second killed him with a bullet to the chest. In the few seconds it took him to die, he cursed his brother for a fool.
Chaffey came hesitantly from the barn. Had that been Bill’s gun he heard? It sounded louder than Bill’s. The boy he thought he’d killed was already halfway across the yard, a pistol held before him in both hands. Chaffey felt his knees give way, and he sank to the ground. The gun grew larger as Clay approached to within a few feet of the kneeling man.
“He made me …,” Chaffey said.
The hammer went back. He watched the trigger squeezed. The dull click of a misfire was too cruel. The following chamber also granted him a few extra seconds, but the next did not. Chaffey felt his skull fly apart, then felt himself leap out of his own demolished cranium.
Clay watched the body crumple
He went out again, talked for several minutes, then was replaced by Chaffey, nervously holding Bill’s pistol. “He’s gone to see. I told him Mr. Delaney, he always paid his bills monthly in town. He’s gone to see anyway.”
“Let me go …,” Clay said.
Chaffey shook his head. “I can’t. He’d kill me too. He’s mean.”
“Before he comes back … we can both go! You didn’t do anything bad yet!”
Chaffey wagged his head violently from side to side, pressed his lips together to keep himself strong.
Clay used the word he’d been saving till last. “Please …,” he said.
The gun was lifted. “Bill says … he says I got to, so we’re both in this together. I swear, he’ll kill me if I don’t. I’m sorry, truly.…”
He thumbed back the hammer and took aim. To Clay the muzzle opening seemed impossibly large, big enough to swallow him whole. He heard the shameful sound of his own voice begging, begging as the seat of his pants filled with a fetid brown froth, and all shame was subsumed by the need to talk his way out of dying.
Chaffey’s eyes told Clay when the moment had come. They closed against the anticipated blast. Clay turned to throw himself away from the yawning muzzle’s line of fire, but he moved too late. The shot’s deafening sound was merely the aftermath to what felt like a skewer rammed through his face from one side clear through to the other. The bullet had passed through both cheeks, missing the teeth and gums only because Clay’s mouth was wide open in a scream he couldn’t hear. He fell, more from shock than any conscious plan to play dead, then lay still, his mouth filling with blood.
Clay heard Chaffey’s boots moving across the floor, and had the presence of mind to stop breathing. His face was buried against the surprisingly firm flesh of his mother’s side. He could feel blood gushing from his ruptured cheeks onto the cloth of her dress. Chaffey’s breath rasped a few feet above him for a long moment, then the boots moved away, and he heard Bill’s voice coming from over by the house.
“You get him?”
“I got him!”
The combined sound of their voices moved in the direction of the barn. Clay drew breath and lurched upright. He hurried from the cabin and crossed the yard, glancing at the barn door—no sign of the Chaffeys—then upstairs to the bedroom of his parents, a room he had never been inside. Delaney had told him once that the pistol was kept near to hand in case robbers should enter the house at night. Had Chaffey searched the upper floor during his brief time inside?
Clay yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. There lay the gun, smelling of oil. He picked it up. The Colt seemed to possess a weight beyond its own metal and wood.
Delaney’s two best horses had been taken from their stalls to the yard. The only saddle was placed on the first, then Bill went to fetch the saddle from his own inferior mount to put on the second. Unbuckling the girth, he hesitated, then turned. The last thing he saw was the boy standing in the house doorway, aiming a pistol at him. Bill heard the first chamber misfire, but the second killed him with a bullet to the chest. In the few seconds it took him to die, he cursed his brother for a fool.
Chaffey came hesitantly from the barn. Had that been Bill’s gun he heard? It sounded louder than Bill’s. The boy he thought he’d killed was already halfway across the yard, a pistol held before him in both hands. Chaffey felt his knees give way, and he sank to the ground. The gun grew larger as Clay approached to within a few feet of the kneeling man.
“He made me …,” Chaffey said.
The hammer went back. He watched the trigger squeezed. The dull click of a misfire was too cruel. The following chamber also granted him a few extra seconds, but the next did not. Chaffey felt his skull fly apart, then felt himself leap out of his own demolished cranium.
Clay watched the body crumple
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