Even if Conn managed to dig his way out of here, what could he do?
Toole and his friends would be long gone, and he wouldn’t even have a horse to chase them.
Not that escape was likely. This dusty passage was probably his tomb.
All was lost.
And if he did die here, he would fail to keep his promise to Mary, Cole, and his father.
He would not avenge his brother.
And that was a bitter notion, worse even than death, made worse still by Sheffield’s tragic death, which, if Conn died here, would count for nothing.
Meanwhile, Toole would go on his merry way, killing more folks and maybe even using Conn’s rifle to do the killing.
That notion was salt in the wound for Conn.
Well, don’t just stand here feeling sorry for yourself,he thought, suddenly angry at himself in a new way.Do what you have to do. Get yourself out of this.
He picked up the lantern and started in the opposite direction, hurrying along the rough corridor, ignoring the painand hoping against hope that he could find a way out of this death trap.
“Please, Lord,” he prayed aloud, knowing he was incapable of extricating himself from this situation on his own. “I never pray. You know that. But You know my heart, Lord. You know what I was fixing to try to do. Please deliver me from this pit. Honor my thirst for a righteous vengeance, Lord. Please let me have my vengeance.”
39
Rafe sat alone at the table of the rented room, catching up on the news and feeling sick as a dog.
The girls were gone. He and Toby had blown through their money, and the women had abandoned them.
Soon, the old man and his wife would ask them to leave.
Toby lay in the corner, snoring.
Rafe went back to the newspaper.
A lot had happened since they holed up here.
Of the eleven men who’d ridden out to the Sullivan farmhouse that night, only six remained, counting Toby and him.
That didn’t seem possible.
It was just the other night.
Danny was dead. They’d known that. They’d seen Toole gun him down.
What they didn’t know was that this Sullivan had a brother. A twin brother, according to the paper.
And to Rafe, that felt like some kind of black magic or curse or something. Twins weren’t natural. As far as he was concerned, twins were the mark of witchcraft or something. All twins shouldbe drowned at birth. Probably save a lot of trouble in the long run.
Like this Conn Sullivan, the twin brother who had vowed to avenge his brother.
Rafe wished someone had drowned the both of them at birth. Especially this Conn.
Because while the gang was busting up at the abandoned cabin, Conn Sullivan was busy killing the fellas who’d gone to town.
Bo and Arthur had taken Tripp to the doc because he wouldn’t wake up after that other twin, the one they’d hung, had punched him.
Well, according to the paper, this Conn killed Tripp right in the doctor’s office. That was a low thing, right there, killing a man seeking treatment from a doctor. Talk about kicking a fella while he was down.
