The horses came to a halt in front of a weathered, rotting cabin tucked away in the timber. A man lived there an ex-con who made his living haulin' wood. He was a mountain of a man, covered in hair so thick he looked more like a grizzly than a Christian.
"Time to poke the nest," Bernardo muttered, his hand hovering over his holster.
"You reckon this is the place?" Thomas asked, sliding off Jasper. His boots hit the dirt with a soft thud.
Penny rode closer to the cabin window, squinting through the grime. A slow, jagged grin spread across his face, though he didn't say a word.
"Pipe down, chico," Bernardo barked as he dismounted. "Just keep your eyes open and watch how professionals handle a pendejo like this."
They stepped toward the porch. From inside, the floorboards groaned under a heavy weight, followed by the unmistakable, oily clack-clack of a shotgun being chambered.
"Back off! Draw 'em!" Bernardo hissed, his fingers twitching near his Colt.
Thomas moved faster than the veterans. His thumb was already on the hammer, his eyes tracking the door before the others had even registered the threat.
"Who's out there?!" a voice boomed from the shadows of the cabin. It was deep, gravelly, but there was a tremor of panic hidden in the rasp. "If you're here to trouble me or my home, you got the wrong man! Get gone, or I'll fill you with lead!"
"Easy now, friend," Bernardo called out, though his eyes were predatory. "I know you're holding iron. Put it down, and we can talk this out like men."
But the man inside was past listening. A thunderous *BOOM* shattered the silence. A buckshot blast tore through the wooden door, spraying splinters and glass everywhere. Bernardo, leading the charge, ducked just in time, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage.
"Maldito sea...!" Bernardo roared. "We're Sheriffs, you son of a bitch! You know what happens to a man who shoots at the Law?!"
Negotiations were dead. Steel was out. But then, the "greenhorn" moved.
Thomas stepped forward, standing right in the line of fire. He looked impossibly calm. Slowly, deliberately, he sheathed his Colt. He reached up, removed his hat, and held it against his chest.
"Whoever is in there..." Thomas began, his voice loud and steady, echoing with a misplaced gallantry. "A man of your size, holding a 12-gauge... I'm asking you to stay calm. We aren't here for your life or your gold. We're Sheriffs. We're here on account of a murder reported nearby."
Thomas stood tall, the sun glinting off his polished badge. Taking off the hat was a gesture of peace—a fool's gamble in a world of killers.
Bernardo choked back his fury. He looked at Penny, and for a second, a silent understanding passed between the two veterans. The anger vanished, replaced by a dark, knowing smirk. Thomas didn't see it. He was focused on the doorway.
"Thomas," Penny said, spitting out a chewed-up cigarette butt. "Go on then. Step up and talk him down. I'll cover your back with the long gun."
Thomas didn't look back. He started walking, slow and sure, toward the darkened threshold. His badge flashed like a beacon in the midday sun.
The big man finally stepped out of the shadows, his hands trembling as he raised them high. He kicked his shotgun away; it clattered onto the porch. Thomas smiled, a wave of relief washing over him. Professionalism, he thought. Justice without blood.
He was wrong.
The rifle crack didn't come from the cabin. It came from behind him.
A bullet whizzed past Thomas's ear, so close he could feel the heat. It struck the woodcutter's hand with a sickening thud.
"Aaagghh! Maldición! What... what are you doing?!" the man screamed, collapsing to his knees as he clutched his shattered hand.
Penny lowered his rifle, the barrel smoking. "Tch. Give me another smoke, Bernardo. Smoke's come out of my gun; now it needs to come out of my mouth."
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!" Thomas spun around, his face flushed with a mix of shock and fury.
He slammed his Sheriff's hat into the dirt. "I told you! This was an investigation! We had him! No violence!"
"Oh, look at the niñito," Bernardo sneered, stepping past him. "He's so sweet, he's worried about a man with a hole in his palm. Hahaha!"
Thomas had no words left. He could only watch as Bernardo shouldered him aside, marching toward the groaning man on the porch. Penny followed, his eyes cold and empty. The two veterans left the boy behind, standing alone in the dust.
A sound started then—a wet, dragging sound of heavy boots and a body being hauled over floorboards. The big man was being dragged into the dark maw of his own house. His stomach churned as he heard the man being bound, his muffled cries echoing from within.
Thomas finally moved. He stepped onto the porch, his legs feeling like lead, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He stopped at the doorway, his boots treading into a thick, dark pool of blood.
The wood was stained. And as Thomas looked down at the red smear on his boots, he knew his lencana,his "untarnished badge"would never be clean again.
The air inside the cabin was thick enough to choke a horse. It was a sweltering furnace, smelling of old pine and the coppery tang of fresh blood. The three lawmen unbuttoned their collars, sweat slicking their skin as they worked. They dragged the woodcutter to the center of the room, binding him slowly, his shattered hand oozing onto the floorboards.
"Penny, la silla. Give it here," Bernardo muttered, his voice low and jagged.
Without a word, Penny kicked a creaky wooden chair toward the center. Bernardo sat down with a heavy grunt.
"Uhhh... feels like my backside's gonna break," Bernardo sneered, staring at the helpless giant before him. "So, big man no, I mean, 'big baby.' Look at you."
Bernardo leaned in, his shadow swallowing the woodcutter. "Listen, bebé. We didn't just come here because you're neighborly with a crime scene. We know your record. It makes us suspicious, but we ain't animals. We came for a nice chat... but your welcome wasn't exactly 'nice,' was it?"
The man groaned behind his gag, a desperate sound rattling in his chest. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and locked onto Thomas with a terrifying intensity.
"Greenhorn. Unstop his mouth," Penny ordered. He stood by the wall, cradling his rifle like a child, his eyes never leaving the prisoner.
Thomas was still in a fog, his mind a jumble of shock and confusion. His eyes were hollow as he stepped forward, obeying his senior's command. With trembling fingers, he ripped the blood-stained gag from the man's mouth.
Thomas retreated a step, his breath shallow. But then, a name cut through the sweltering heat like a jagged blade.
"Anderson! It's you... Anderson?!"
The woodcutter coughed, spitting a spray of red onto the floor. "How? How in the hell are you still breathing? How are you alive?!"
A cold shiver raced up Thomas's spine, the hair on his neck standing on end. The name hit him harder than a physical blow. A storm of fear and confusion surged in his gut.
Thomas stared at him, his fists clenching so hard the veins in his forearms pulsed against his skin. His knuckles turned white.
"Who is Anderson?" Thomas asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
The question hung in the stagnant air, a heavy shroud over the room. Thomas was a lawman searching for a killer, but now, he was a man searching for his own ghost.