Deadshot had no idea, and it seemed like the kid really didn’t know. “Tell me exactly what happened,” Deadshot instructed. “Did you know any of the men? Is your father involved in something illegal, maybe?”
The kid did not look impressed by his question, but Deadshot had to know.
“No and no,” the kid replied. “My pa is a good, honest man. I didn’t recognize any of the men. They just showed up out of nowhere. My dad and I were working in the field. We saw the men in the distance and knew what was happening.”
The story sounded way too familiar to Deadshot. A part of him didn’t want to know any more. “What then?” he asked, trying to focus on the kid’s story instead of his own memories.
“We didn’t have our horses with us... We ran as fast as we could. It was far, and by the time we got to the house, my ma and sister were already tied up. My pa told me to go get help, and that’s what I tried to do.”
“All right, kid,” Deadshot stated. “Let’s see how fast we can get to your ranch.” There was no point in asking any more questions. The kid had told him everything he knew. Deadshot sped up his horse, and so did the kid.
It all sounded way too familiar, and the fear in the kid’s voice tore at Deadshot’s heart. It had been years since he truly allowed himself to think about the day that changed his life, but in that moment, he simply couldn’t suppress the memories.
“What should I call you?” the kid asked, needing to yell to be heard as their horses raced down the road.
“Deadshot.” That was his name—not his given name, but his earned name. It was the name that represented him best and felt comfortable. He had only been called Matthew Fletcher for the first eighteen years of his life. As far as Deadshot was concerned, Matthew didn’t exist anymore.
Thinking about his real name didn’t help at all. Deadshot shook his head and groaned, pushing back the flashes of memory and trying to focus on anything else. He looked up at the clear night sky. There weren’t any clouds in sight, and the moon and stars were bright. He looked at the barely visible mountains in the distance. He thought about the task at hand. Nothing helped. The memories were pushing back with a vengeance, and soon enough, they were flooding his mind.
***
The Fletcher Ranch, 1826
“What’s that, Pa?” Matthew asked, pointing to a dust cloud behind their house.
His father threw a bunch of potatoes to the side and stood up straight. Looking in the direction Matthew was pointing, a worried frown formed on his face.
“It’s nothing, just a small tornado,” his father replied. As he spoke the words, his hand moved to the flintlock pistol he carried on his hip.
Matthew had seen tornadoes before, and although he was only eight years old, he knew that they didn’t look like that. His father turned to him and smiled. “Go to our fishing spot in the woods. You’ll be safe there. I’m gonna go check on your ma and brother. I’ll come fetch you when it’s safe.”
“No,” Matthew argued, but his father was already running toward the house.
“Go, now!” his father yelled as he picked up speed. “That’s an order!”
Matthew stood there for what felt like forever, torn between following his father and doing what he was told. The dust cloud settled, and his father disappeared into the house. Matthew took a step back, turned, and started walking in the direction of the woods. He was a good boy. He always listened to his parents, and his pa had given him an instruction.
He could tell that something wasn’t right. His heart was pounding something fierce, and every few seconds he stopped and glanced back at the house. He had made it halfway across the potato fields when he heard a loud cry, a gunshot, and more screaming.
Matthew spun around and ran as fast as he could. He had known that something was wrong. He could feel it, buthe wanted to listen to his pa. He would apologize later for disobeying orders, but first, he needed to help his family. Matthew’s little legs had never moved so fast before. He was gasping for air by the time he reached the house, but all he could think about was making sure his parents and little brother were all right. Harrison was only three and a half years old, and Matthew had promised to always be there for him. He wasn’t going to break that promise.
He could hear his brother crying and his father talking to somebody. His voice sounded desperate. Matthew had never heard his father sound like that. Tears had started to blur his vision, but he wiped them away furiously and peeked into the house. What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Matthew’s father was on his knees, his white work shirt stained with blood. “Please stop,” he begged.
In front of his father stood a big man, and in his arms, he held Harrison. “Stop what?” the man asked. “This?” he pressed his pistol against Harrison’s head. “Or that?”
On the other side of the man holding Harrison, there were more men—at least four of them. One of the men ripped Matthew’s mother’s dress open, and his father screamed in agony as his eyes darted between Matthew’s mother and Harrison.
“It’s your choice,” the man holding Harrison said as he laughed. “Your wife or your son.”
“Let them go. Kill me,” Matthew’s father begged.
Matthew was stunned, but he acted on impulse. Like his father, he carried a pistol on his hip. Matthew loved hunting, and his father had taught him to shoot from a very young age. At first, his mother had objected, but eventually, she had given in to Matthew’s pleading, and now he was a better shot than his pa.
Drawing his old flintlock pistol, Matthew hesitated for a slight second before aiming it at the man holding his mother. It was his best option.
In that moment, his father’s eyes met his, and a whisper of hope flashed in them. Matthew pulled the trigger. The lead ball barreled through the air and hit its target, piercing the side of the bandit’s head. He let go of Matthew’s mother, stumbled back, and collapsed to the ground.
