Beneath the Burning Timber: The Wanted Outlaw Who Died to Save His Blood

Danner's hand dropped toward the scabbard beneath his fender.

"I gave you my brother's name," Danner said quietly. "I fed you at my table. I bought your first mount, your boots, your badge. I made you a lawman in the richest valley in Wyoming. And you repay me by listening to a common road-agent and a hysterical widow?"

"You killed my mother," Tom whispered.

"Your mother was a bookkeeper," Danner snapped, the gentle tone vanishing in an instant, replaced by a cold, reptilian fury. "She stole books that belonged to the syndicate. She died because she was weak, just as your father died because he was stubborn."

He lifted his hand, two fingers extended toward the regulators.

"Clear the yard," Danner ordered. "Take the papers. Leave the rest."

Before Ross could raise his Winchester, a deafening roar shook the stone walls of the churchyard.

It was not Elias's shotgun.

From the high, narrow louvered slats of the church belfry, a heavy buffalo rifle bellowed. A three-hundred-grain lead slug struck the saddle pommel of Ross’s horse, splintering the ash wood and throwing the deputy backward into the brambles with a shattered shoulder.

Old Mae Jensen had climbed the narrow ladder into the bell tower.

"Get to the chapel!" Elias roared, swinging the heavy ten-gauge upward and letting fly with the right barrel.

A cloud of white smoke and double-ought buckshot tore through the chest of the regulator on Danner's right, lifting the man clean out of the saddle. Danner’s buckskin reared violently, squealing in terror as the horse took stray pellets across its neck, plunging sideways toward the low stone wall.

"Tom! Grab the box!" Eleanor screamed, lunging for the young deputy’s arm.

Tom, breaking from his stupor, threw himself into the mud, seized the heavy iron dispatch box with both hands, and hauled it against his chest. Eleanor caught the collar of his coat, dragging him toward the chapel steps while the regulators opened a frantic, ragged fusillade against the log walls of the church.

Spruce splinters flew like shrapnel through the air. Elias backed through the door, his empty right barrel smoking, his Spencer carbine coming up to his cheek. He worked the lever with one monstrous stroke of his forearm, firing three rapid shots into the road to cover their retreat, before Eleanor slammed the heavy oak church door shut and threw the six-inch tamarack deadbolt into place.

Inside the chapel, the smell of damp hymnals was replaced instantly by the sulfurous reek of black powder.

Above them, in the timber belfry, the heavy Sharps rifle fired again with a percussive shock that rattled the leaded glass windows in their frames. A man outside screamed in agony, followed by the clatter of a runaway horse galloping down the road toward the mercantile.

Elias slid down against the inside of the tamarack door, his Spencer clattering across the floorboards. A fresh, dark wave of blood was pouring from his side, pooling rapidly beneath his thighs. His face was the color of curdled cream; his lips were blue, cracked from the frost and the poison burning through his abdomen.

"Deadbolt... won't hold against... an axe," Elias gasped, his head rolling against the timber. "Danner will... bring black powder from the assay office."

Eleanor knelt beside him, ripping a broad strip from the hem of her wool underskirt. "Stop talking. Mae! Keep them off the porch!"

"One's behind the horse trough!" the old woman's voice drifted down from the trapdoor of the belfry. "Danner's in the stone shed across the road! He's got three men left, and they're waiting on teamsters from the livery!"

Young Tom Vale sat on the lowest bench of the chapel, his back against the rough pine, the iron dispatch box resting between his boots. He had not taken off his coat. His hands were covered in the yellow clay of Daniel's grave, and the silver star pinned to his breast was smudged with soot.

He looked at the open wooden crate tucked beneath the communion rail.

Inside, wrapped in the wolf-fur lap robe, the twin infants had begun to stir. Emma was whimpering, her small hands batting at the air, while Noah—Thomas Elias—opened his eyes, gazing up at the dark timber beams with the quiet, unblinking curiosity of a child who knew no malice.

Tom walked slowly toward the crate. His boots made no sound on the rag runner.

He dropped to his knees before the pulpit.

"Tom," Eleanor said, rising from Elias's side with Daniel's whittling knife in her hand, her posture defensive, wary.

The boy did not look at her. He reached out with a trembling hand, his dirty, calloused finger touching the infant boy's cheek. Noah did not flinch; the baby’s tiny hand reached out, curling three soft, warm fingers around Tom’s thumb.

A dry, wrenching sob tore from Tom's throat.