As the dust settled after the shocking gunshot, Jed rushed to Chairle’s side, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had dragged the boy to the relative safety of a nearby alley, away from the chaos and the noise. Chairle’s limp body lay sprawled on the dirt, the vibrant crimson of blood streaking his pale forehead. Jed dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they hovered over the boy. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to touch him. His chest tightened, his breath hitching in his throat.
“God damn it,” he muttered, his voice raw. “No…not like this. Not now.”
Tears welled in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Memories flooded his mind like a river breaking its dam.
Jenny’s face shimmered in his thoughts, pale but radiant as she cradled her newborn son. The baby had barely cried, his tiny hand curling instinctively around Jed’s calloused finger.
“Isn’t he beautiful, Jed?” Jenny whispered, her voice fragile as glass. Her dark hair clung to her damp forehead, but her smile was steady.
Jed nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had never been one for sentiment, but holding that tiny life in his hands had shaken something loose in him. He finally croaked, “Yeah. He sure is. Looks like his pa.”
Jenny’s lips quirked into a bittersweet smile. “I was thinkin’ of namin’ him after his father.”
Jed shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the baby and then back at her. “That’s a good idea, Jenny. A damn fine idea.”
Her smile faded as her strength ebbed, her breathing growing shallow. “Jed…promise me. Promise me you’ll take care of him.”
“Jenny, don’t talk like that—”
“Promise me,” she insisted, her voice trembling but resolute. “Raise him right. Keep him safe.”
Jed’s jaw clenched, and he gave her the only answer he could. “I will. With my life, Jenny. You got my word.”
Her eyes glistened as she reached up to touch his face. “Thank you, Jed. God bless you…”
Her hand fell limp before she could finish, and Jed felt something inside him shatter. He had buried her behind the barn under the shade of the old oak tree, marking the grave with a simple wooden cross. He stood there for hours that day, cradling the baby she’d left behind.
The memory shifted. Chairle was six, all wide eyes and gangly limbs, too curious for his own good. It was late one night when Jed was roused by a soft knock on his bedroom door. He swung his legs over the bed and opened it to find Chairle standing there, clutching a threadbare blanket.
“Uncle Jed,” the boy whispered, his voice barely above a whimper. “Can I sleep in your bed?”
Jed raised an eyebrow, scratching his beard. “What for? Ain’t you got a candle in your room?”
“Yeah, but it’s still scary,” Chairle admitted, twisting the blanket nervously in his small hands.
Jed sighed, stepping aside. “Alright, alright. Get in here. Just don’t go kickin’ me in your sleep, ya hear?”
Chairle grinned, climbing onto the bed and curling up beside him. “Thanks, Uncle Jed.”
Jed shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t thank me. You’re still makin’ the damn coffee in the mornin’.”
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Back in the present, Jed snapped back to the harsh reality of the alley. His chest heaved, and tears streamed freely down his weathered face. He let out a shaky breath, brushing a bloodied hand across Chairle’s brow.
“You ain’t dyin’ on me, kid,” he growled, his voice breaking. “I made a promise, and I aim to keep it.”
Finally, he pressed trembling fingers to Chairle’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Relief washed over him like a cold drink on a blistering day when he felt the faint but steady thrum of life. Chairle was alive—barely, but alive.
“You stubborn little bastard,” Jed muttered, his voice gruff with emotion, his dark humor kicking in as tears streaked his weathered face. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear? Or I’ll wring your neck myself.”
His hands worked with practiced care as he inspected the wound. The bullet had grazed the front of Chairle’s head, tearing through skin and leaving a nasty gash. Jed studied the angle of the injury, his cynical mind piecing together the chaotic sequence of events.
Damn near too close, he thought grimly. The shot had struck at a glancing angle, sparing Chairle from a fatal blow by sheer luck—or providence, if one believed in such things.
Jed’s mind churned with details as he replayed the scene. George had been standing no more than 20 or 30 feet away when he fired. At that range, with a .44 caliber revolver, the odds of hitting Chairle squarely should’ve been high. The revolver had an effective range of around 75 yards, more than enough for a clean shot. Yet George’s haste and nerves had ruined his aim, causing the bullet to skim past its mark.
“That close, and you still botched it, George,” Jed muttered under his breath, half in relief, half in anger. “Good thing for Chairle you’re as steady as a rattlesnake in a hailstorm.”
The .44 was a powerful weapon, designed to drop a man in one shot. A direct hit to the head should’ve been fatal, but the angle saved Chairle. Jed understood just how slim the margin of survival had been. The impact alone could’ve been enough to fracture his skull or worse, yet somehow it hadn’t. The boy’s luck—or stubbornness—had kept him alive.
“Hell of a gamble you’re playin’, kid,” Jed muttered, his hands steadying now as he pressed the cloth harder against the wound. “But you’re still breathin’, and that’s what counts.”
The wound bled heavily, but Jed could already see it wasn’t as bad as it first looked. Chairle’s pulse was weak but steady. He let out a long breath, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
“You’re tougher than you look, boy,” Jed murmured, his voice softer now. “I’ll give you that. Just don’t go makin’ a habit of testin’ my heart like this.”
Josa groaned as he struggled on the ground, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him. He spat into the dirt and glared at George with a venom that could curdle milk. “Come out, you *goddamned coward,*” he snarled, his voice a mixture of pain and rage.
George emerged from the shadows, walking with a deliberate, unhurried stride. He stopped a few feet from Josa and cocked his head, his cold, calculating eyes scanning the pathetic sight before him. “Still alive, I see,” he said softly, his voice smooth and dripping with condescension. “I have to admit, I expected you to be… quieter by now.”
Josa smirked through the pain, his teeth red with blood. “Quiet? You don’t know me, George. I don’t shut up, not even for the devil himself.”
George chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Oh, I’ve come to know you well enough, Josa. Brash. Reckless. And, if I may say, entirely lacking in foresight. Look at you now—your leg’s a mangled mess, your stomach’s full of holes, and you’re lying in the dirt. Tell me, how do you plan to crawl your way out of this one?”
Josa sneered, his voice dripping with defiance. “Plan? Who said anything about a plan? I’ll get my revenge with or without this busted leg. Hell, take the other one too if you want. I’ll drag myself to you and make sure you pay for every damn thing you’ve done.”
George sighed, shaking his head in mock pity. “Josa, you misunderstand. I’m not interested in taking your other leg. I’m merely pointing out that, in your current state, revenge is little more than a fantasy.” He crouched down slightly, his tone shifting to something almost compassionate. “You know, if you’d used your brain instead of your temper, this might have gone differently. But now? You’re just another loose end.”
Josa tried to push himself up, his hands trembling as he fought against his body’s limits. His face twisted in pain, but he managed to spit at George’s feet. “You talk too much, George. Just like your ants—always swarming, but never getting the job done.”
George straightened and aimed his revolver at Josa’s head, his expression calm and unbothered. “Well, I suppose it’s time to correct that, isn’t it?”
Before he could pull the trigger, a voice rang out from behind. “You always were a fancy talker, George.”
George froze, his eyes narrowing as he turned to see Jed stepping out of the shadows. The old man’s revolver was already drawn, though it hung lazily at his side. His grizzled face bore a dark smirk, and his eyes glinted with cynical amusement.
“Jed,” George said, straightening himself. “What a surprise. Come to rescue this pitiful excuse for a man?” He gestured toward Josa with his free hand, his tone sharp with disdain.
Jed snorted, his voice carrying a mocking edge. “Rescue? Hell no. Josa ain’t worth the trouble. I just came to watch you squirm a bit.”
“Is that so?” George’s lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. “You’re always so quick to mock, Jed. But tell me, do you really think you stand a chance without your friends?”
“Friends?” Jed barked a laugh. “Listen here, George, I wouldn’t piss on Josa if they were on fire. But you? You’re worse than both of ’em combined, and that’s saying something and Chairle is my fucking nephew you just shot.”
Josa, still on the ground, groaned and muttered, “Go to hell, Jed.”
Jed ignored him, his focus locked on George. “You and me, no ants, no tricks. Let’s settle this the old-fashioned way.”
George smirked, his demeanor calm and calculating. “And what makes you think you’re any match for me, Jed? I’ve been perfecting my craft and my skills.”
Jed’s smirk widened, though his eyes darkened. “You might’ve perfected your little tricks, but I survived the Civil War, George. I’ve stared death in the face more times than you’ve changed your shirt. And I ain’t scared of some smug bastard who hides behind bugs.”
The air grew tense as the two men sized each other up, their words laced with venom and the promise of violence. Josa, lying in his own blood, managed a bitter laugh. “Kill each other, for all I care. Just make it quick. I’ve got better things to do than watch you two flap your jaws.”
Jed spared him a glance, his voice dry. “Shut up, Josa. You’re lucky I don’t shoot you myself.”
George smiled faintly, his confidence unwavering. “Well, Jed, shall we?”
Jed raised his revolver slightly, his expression hardening. “Let’s.”