Part Four: The Deadeye

“Momma, I’m going hunting,” Sid called out from the front door.

“Okay, son. Be careful.” Grace responded from the bedroom.

His momma always told him to be careful. And she probably would until her dying day.

“I will, momma.”

“Your father will be home from town soon. I’ll have supper ready not long after.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They lived in a two-room house his father had built himself. They had done all right for themselves, and while not wealthy, they weren’t scraping by. His parents owned one hundred and thirty acres of two-thirds pasture, one-third good strong timber.

Sidney was thirteen and an only child. Try as they might, Fredrick and Grace Clark would not be blessed with any more children. Grace always looked longingly at the families, in town or at church, who had several children. Her heart desired to bear more children, but she also learned to be content with that little boy who was quickly growing into a young man. He was her pride and joy.

She smiled at him as he stood at the door. He smiled back. She was pretty in her simple green dress. She was a hard worker and half the reason they had been successful. She knew how to scrimp and save to ensure monetary longevity.

Sidney closed the door, walked to the back of the pasture, and entered the woods.

He carried a slingshot, his father’s Remington Model 1875 pistol, and the Henry Repeating Rifle. He was prepared for squirrel or deer, whichever he could find.

He had gotten several squirrels and had downed another when he heard a shot coming from the direction of the house.

“That’s strange.” He muttered to himself. “What would they be shooting at?” His parents never had any need to shoot anything near the house. It was not a common occurrence.

His curiosity piqued, and he started back for the house. Three more shots rang out. He had a growing concern in the pit of his stomach. His father taught him to trust his instincts. He felt he should stay in the woods until he was confident nothing was the matter.

He had been working his way through the woods back to the house. So he stayed in the woods that skirted the pasture behind his parent’s home. These woods were on a hill that grew in a semi-circle around the homestead. He moved as fast as he dared, careful not to trip and fall.

The house faced East, and as he neared the North side and from the wooded hill, he could see several horses and men standing out front. They were all looking at the ground in front of the house. Then he noticed two bodies lying on the ground in pools of blood.

One of them had a simple green dress. The other body he recognized as his father.

He crept up to an outcropping of rock that jutted from the hillside. He eased onto his stomach, stunned.

Who were these men? Where did they come from? Why were they here? What had his parents done to deserve this?

One of the men, a balding man with a still-smoking gun, picked up a satchel near where his father lay. His dad must’ve dropped it as he fell.

The man took it to the one still on his horse. He rummaged through it and took out what looked like money.

Had his father come home with all that money? Why?

And then the thought dawned in his mind like the sun rising over the Ozark hills. Those men had come by and seen the satchel and shot his father. His mother lay closer to the house, his father closer to the men.

Suddenly, something welled inside him that felt like a blast of dynamite in his veins.

He hadn’t used any shots from the rifle or the pistol. He could defend himself if it came to that. But he was a good shot from either long or short distances. The men weren’t far away. And they had been focused on the dead that lay before them.

Before he realized what he was doing, he shouldered the rifle and leveled it on the rock jutting out from the hill.

He was alone. There was no time to go for help. These men would get away.

He squeezed a shot. There was an explosion at the base of the bald man’s neck. The Henry .44 caliber didn’t take any names.

He worked the lever instantly and without thought. Within two seconds, he squeezed another shot. He did this three more times within the next thirty seconds.

There had been eight men in total. Five men were down, and the other three had turned around and spurred their horses into a dead run. He followed them from the front of the house to the road and squeezed off one more shot. He saw the man jerk, but nothing else happened.

He stayed there on the rock for what felt like days but was only a few minutes.

He wasn’t sure what had just happened. He looked down the hill and looked away several times. And he saw the same seven bodies every time.

Numb, he put his hands beneath his torso and lifted himself. He had extra ammunition, and he reloaded the rifle. He unbuckled the strap that held in his Remington.

He slowly worked down the hill, keeping his eye on the road. As he got closer, he heard moaning. He ran over to his parents. It wasn’t them. They were gone.

He turned to the men. There were two of them starting to stir. They still had their weapons.
He emptied the holster and aimed. The Remington finished its mission.

Thirteen-year-old Sid walked to the barn, saddled his horse, and wept into town.

Sid walked into the sheriff’s office that day a red-eyed, streak-faced boy.

The sheriff accompanied him to the homestead and identified the men lying on the ground as the Bruere marauders. Sid had expelled five men into the afterlife; Louis Bruere, Victor Albertsson, Ed McCarroll, Hank Neville, and F.H. Pomroy.

There was a reward for the men for $1,000 each.

And so that day, Sidney was awarded what had been the primary cause of his parent’s untimely demise.

He would have rather had his parents.

Ten years later, Sid was riding home from Mrs. Franz’s place, and all of those memories flooded his mind. The Sheriff had warned him that the Bruer Gang would one day return to find whoever shot their family and friends. And he vowed never to be out past dark again.

Because you never know when a criminal will seek out revenge.