Chapter Twenty-Four

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Chapter Twenty-Four

Rebecca. That name was enough to provide Brantley with a bit of warmth as he rode along on the rocky terrain in the frigid winter air. It had been a long time—such a long time—since he'd seen her face but it wasn't hard to pull it up in her mind. That soft dark hair, those doe brown eyes, that tiny body that made him want to cradle her close and protect her with all he had.

That was why he was on this trail with US Marshall Graves and two deputies beside him. That was why he'd been riding hard and taking out members of his own gang one by one. He hadn't fooled with arresting any of them.

Blood lust was what he had and blood lust was what he wanted to satisfy. There were only three men left.

Gilliam, Samson... and Hoff.

And finally, Brantley had them cornered. He knew where they were and he knew they were together and he knew they were going to die.

The Marshall held up his hand, urging the men to stop. Brantley pulled up the reins on his mare and growled. "Why are we stopping?"

"We can't just ride in there with guns blazing, Brantley. The judge wants Hoff alive, remember?"

Shit. No, he hadn't remembered. He had conveniently forgotten that detail.

"If you want any hope of a future with that woman of yours, you'll start to remember," the Marshall warned, clearly reading Brantley's face. That's what happened when you rode with men for months and months. You got to know each other.

Brantley rubbed roughly at his face. He'd never been a team player—but for Rebecca he would do this. He would figure out a way to take Hoff alive and end the threat against Rebecca for good. That would earn him a pardon and a chance at that future he'd envisioned with her—unless of course she'd moved on and found happiness.

While that thought caused an angry, swirling, nausea and jealousy to swirl in his gut, Brantley also knew he wouldn't do a thing to ruin her happiness. Not when she had admitted to him that happiness was the one thing she truly wanted most in the world.

"So, whats the plan?" Deputy Hawskins asked. He was a small man without much experience with much other than sitting behind a desk—but the Marshall had picked him to ride with them because he was loyal to a fault and would do anything the Marshall asked of him.

"I'm gonna go in alone," Brantley stated. "I'll kill Gilliam and Samson and I'll capture Hoff."

The Marshall chuckled. "Surely you're full of shit. You aren't riding in there alone. They'll kill you on sight."

Brantley didn't think so. He'd known Hoff most of his life and he had a feeling Hoff wouldn't just shoot him on sight. Hoff would want to drag it out a big longer than that. He'd let Brantley close and that would be his downfall. Hoff had never seen Brantley truly bloodthirsty—because Brantley had never been a bloodthirsty man. Hell, even the poker dealer who'd shot him in the shoulder was still breathing... Brantley wasn't a murderer—or at least he hadn't been.

And Brantley was also pretty damn sure Hoff wouldn't know he was running with the law. All Hoff knew was that the law was after him. No doubt he thought it was because of Rebecca's husband.

As far as Hoff knew, Brantley was dead and had been for a while.

Wouldn't he be surprised.

"Brantley we can't let you ride in there alone. We're supposed to be doing this together," the Marshall warned him.

"I'm not asking your permission," Brantley replied stubbornly. "I want to do this alone—if I fail and they kill me, you all handle them and take all the glory for yourselves. Either way it ain't no risk to you."

Marshall Graves yanked off his hat and smacked it against his leg. "Dammit, Brantley, we've been riding together for months. I consider you a damn friend. You can't be riding in there and getting yourself killed."

Friend? Hell, Brantley had never had a friend—not really. Did he consider the Marshall a friend? No.. he didn't. But he did respect the man—respected him enough to not risk his life with Hoff.

Hoff would kill all three of the men riding with Brantley simply in an effort to make Brantley suffer. No, Brantley was better off doing this alone.

"If you consider me a friend, then trust me. I want to end this and I want to end it myself. These men stole my life from me in more ways then one and I want it to be me that they see before they die." Brantley held up his hand when the Marshall opened his mouth. "Except Hoff—I'll bring him back alive—battered, but alive."

The Marshall and two deputies shared looks of varying degrees of displeasure. "I'm doing this alone," Brantley assured them. "Even if I have to die you bastards up and leave you here while I do it."

A sigh of defeat left Marshall Grave's lips. "Fine. The men and I will camp here. It's getting close to dark. If you aren't back by morning, we're riding in."

Brantley nodded and hopped on his horse. Marshall Graves grabbed the bridle and met Brantley's gaze. "Be careful, dammit. You don't deserve to die. You're a good man."

"I'm not," Brantley countered. "But thanks for saying so."

With nothing else to say, Brantley urged his horse into motion and left the lawmen behind.

It was nearly hard dark when Brantley stopped his horse and secured the mare to a shrub bush. He got down low and walked to the edge of the cliff side he was on.

Lantern light glowed from the window of the tiny shack below. Brantley pulled the collar of his duster coat up to guard the cold wind from his neck as he watched that shack for movement.

Three horses were hitched outside and Brantley could hear the din of conversation coming from inside. Brantley's fists clenched and unclenched as he watched the curtain move and Hoff's face looked out the window into the cold night.

He had several reasons for leaving the lawmen behind. One, he didn't want to see anyone else hurt in his hunt for vengeance. Two, he had a healthy helping of stubborn pride that had him wanting to do this alone. Three, and most importantly, he planned on letting out a blood-thirsty brutality that would shock even Hoff. True, Brantley couldn't kill him, but that didn't mean he would leave the man whole. After what Hoff had done to Rebecca, the man deserved every ounce of pain Brantley could deliver him short of death.

He didn't figure the lawmen would appreciate seeing that side of him.

Once the curtain fell and Hoff's face disappeared, Brantley began to make his way down the cliff face, following an old donkey trail. He took cover behind a boulder and waited.

Hours passed, hard dark fell. A full moon and thousands of stars dotted the cloudless sky. Brantley could hear the river water moving, trickling, splashing against the ice on its sides.

Finally, the lantern inside the cabin was snuffed out. They were going to bed. And still he waited. Brantley had ridden with these men for most of his life. He knew them. He knew their habits. And he knew that every night, no matter how cold, no matter rain or snow, Gilliam took a walk.

He had always said it helped him relax enough to fall asleep. It would also be what got him killed.

Sure enough, Brantley didn't have to wait much longer before the skinny bastard made his way out of the shack. He pulled a ragged wool coat tight around himself and his breath swirled around his head as he made his way to the river.

Remaining crouched, Brantley stalked toward his prey. Silent, fast and determinedly. Pulling his knife from his belt, Brantley came right up behind Gilliam and stood straight.

Gilliam seemed to notice that someone was behind him. He stiffened and turned but Brantley was ready. He clamped his free hand over Gilliam's mouth to prevent the man from yelling and drove his ten inch blade deep into the skinny man's gut.

Gilliam' eyes widened. Brantley removed the knife and then drove it in again. Gilliam's legs gave out and Brantley went down with him, keeping his hand over his mouth to maintain his silence.

"I always said I'd be the one to kill you, you skinny bastard.

Blood oozed from Gilliam's mouth, soaking Brantley's hand. One last time, Brantley removed his knife before aiming higher and driving it in one last time, piercing Gilliam's heart.

Brantley didn't move until the life had completely faded from the other man's eyes. Only then did Brantley release his hold on Gilliam's mouth and rise to stand. He wiped his knife and hand clean on Gilliam's coat before turning his attention to the cabin.

He knew that Hoff and Samson would be asleep. Gilliam never left the cabin until everyone was asleep.

To sneak or to just barge in, blow a hole in Samson's fat, hairy face and introduce Hoff to the new Brantley. A smile creased his face. Brantley never had been much for subtlety.

Drawing his gun, Brantley strode to the shack door. Taking a deep breath, He kicked hard, sent the door slamming open with a crack and stepped into the shack. The full moon illuminated the interior and, without hesitation, Brantley fired a shot into a groggy Samson's head before resting his sights on a rather surprised Hoff.

"Brantley?" he asked, his voice making it clear he was terrified despite the blank look on his face.

"Stand up, Hoff. Nice and slow."

Hoff began to rise. He put his hand beneath his blanket and Brantley knew what he was doing. He fired a shot, sending a bullet slamming through Hoff's wrist and causing the man to yell and stumble backward as he clutched his bleeding hand to his chest.

"Why don't you kick that gun to me, Hoff?"

"You fucking shot me?!"

"And you killed me." Brantley cocked a brow. "Paybacks a bitch."

Hoff cursed as he used his boot to move the blanket aside and then kicked the revolver he'd been going for toward Brantley. Brantley tilted his head toward a rickety chair by a small table.

"Go sit down."

"No." Hoff, squared his jaw. "If you're gonna kill me, then kill me. I won't give you the satisfaction of breaking."

Brantley nodded. "I thought you'd say that."

He pulled the trigger again and sent a bullet through Hoff's lower leg, driving the other man back to his knees. Brantley grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him across the floor before tossing him in the chair.

Hoff's face was red and slicked with sweat as he did his best to keep from crying out. "You son of a bitch," Hoff hissed.

Brantley drew back his fist and punched the other man hard in the jaw. "My mama was a damn fine woman," he snapped.

Hoff spit blood. "It's been you all this time? You chasing us and killing us... what about the outlaw code? Why are you working with lawmen?"

Brantley laughed harshly. "Outlaw code? We're way past any outlaw code, Hoff. After what you did to her, you're lucky I've let you breathe this long."

Hoff's eyes widened a bit. "That rich bitch? This is all because of her?"

Brantley punched him again before pulling the loop of rope from his belt. "Sit still," he growled.

When Hoff attempted to fight him with his good hand, Brantley drove the barrel of his gun into the bullet wound on his leg. Hoff did scream then and finally he collapsed against the chair, breathing hard and seemingly out of fight.

Brantley secured the man who had once been his brother to the chair. "I take it you killed Gilliam?" Hoff panted, his voice laced with pain.

"Always said I would."

"I always knew you'd never make it as one of us," Hoff admitted. "You lack heartlessness."

Brantley chuckled. "That's where you're wrong. I can be plenty heartless." He holstered his gun and pulled his knife.

"What are you doing?" Hoff asked, eyeing the knife warily.

"There's my dilemma, Hoff. I want you dead and I want you dead by my hands. But i've worked myself out a deal and if I want the pardon that's coming my way, I have to deliver you alive to the judge."

"I'm gonna fucking bleed to death, asshole," Hoff growled.

"No, you won't. You've been shot up worse than that and lived just fine."

Hoff glared up at him "Why aren't you dead? After what we did to you... any other man would be dead!"

Brantley clicked his tongue. "It's like you always said, Hoff. I'm as tough as old cow leather."

Brantley grabbed a struggling Hoff by his good arm. He got up beside him and secured Hoff's arm between his legs. "What the hell are you doing?" Hoff exclaimed, throwing himself against the ropes securing him to chair.

Brantley held Hoff's hand in a vice like grip, determined to not release him, no matter how hard Hoff hit him with his free hand, no matter how hard Hoff struggled.

"Cutting off your finger, you damn bastard."

***

Marshall Graves had waited long enough. Dawn was fast approaching as the sky began to turn pink and purple above them. He had given Brantley all the time he could give him—the other man had probably gotten himself killed.

Marshall Graves sincerely hoped that wasn't the case... He did consider Brantley a friend. They'd been riding together for months and he'd learned that Brantley, despite his past as a notorious outlaw, was truly a bad man.

He wanted Brantley to have that future the man had been working so hard to achieve.

"Let's mount up, men. We need to ride on in there and see what's going on." As they were busy saddling their horses and putting out the fire, a throat cleared behind them.

"Going somewhere?"

Marshall Graves whirled around to see Brantley sitting atop his mare. The man was a bloody mess, it was streaked across his face, covered his clothes and his hands looked sticky with the substance.

Looking behind Brantley, Marshall Graves saw three extra horses. One had a man tied up tight with a sack over his head and secured to the saddle. The other horses were empty, however following the line of the ropes tied to the saddle horns led the Marshall's eyes to two quite obviously dead men they'd been dragging along behind them.

"Holy hell, Brantley," Deputy Hawskins exclaimed before gagging. "What the hell did you do?"

Deputy Pascowl had already vomited in the snow. The smell of blood was so thick in the air that Marshall Graves knew he'd have it filling his nose and throat for the foreseeable future.

"Killed some people, deputy."

"Hoff?" Marshall Graves asked warily.

The sack covered man on the horse let out a moan. Brantley jerked the rope connecting their horses and that moan became one of pain. "He's just fine."

Striding to the man, Marshall graves, ripped the sack from his head. It was Hoff already. His eyes were damn near swelled shut, he had a broken nose and his lip was split but it was Hoff beneath the bruises and blood. Taking an assessment of the captive, Marshall Graves' stomach rolled.

"What did you do to him?"

Brantley shrugged. "Roughed him up a bit, shot him twice.... And I might have sawed off his finger."

That was all Deputy Hawskin's could stand. He blanched and a second steaming pile of vomit was soon decorating the snow.

Marshall Graves motioned for Deputy Pascowl. "I've got some laudinum in my bag. Get me some for this man. He's gotta be in pain."

"No," Brantley's voice was sharp and it stopped Pascowl in his tracks. "You ain't giving him anything."

"Brantley, that man is my prisoner and it'd be inhumane to let him suffer..."

Brantley was off his horse and standing toe to toe with the Marshall in an instant. Marshall graves would be lying if he said he wasn't scared. Brantley was a blood covered force to be reckoned with and there was nothing friendly about those glaring green eyes just now.

"Inhumane? He. Sawed. Off. Her. Finger. He didn't care about pain. Do you think the bastard did one thing to ease her suffering? I will shoot any man that tries to ease that son of a bitch's pain. He's my prisoner, Marshall Graves, and I'll treat him any way I damn well please."

Marshall Graves took a step back. He knew how to pick and choose battles. This was one war he wasn't going to win.

"Can we at least clean and bandage his wounds so he doesn't die of infection before we get back to the judge?"

Brantley grudgingly agreed. "Fine. It's more than that bastard did for her but do what you gotta do."

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