Free Far Bright Star by Robert Olmstead

said. “You will god damn kill when I tell you to god damn kill and not before.”
    Then they waited.
    His concern was not that these men would shoot, but that they wouldn’t shoot when the time came. Getting a man to shoot another man, however much he was threatened, was not a thing you took for granted. If men could kill with their mouths, there would be a lot of dead, but when it came to pulling the trigger on another man, Napoleon had seen men stare in awe as they were run over and slaughtered.
    He kneeled on one knee in the sand, the Springfield resting in the cradle of his arms. He could hear the separable sounds of their gathering in the silence. The deal was he could give up one man and save four. Given the circumstances, it was a good deal. But how could he trust the deal and if the deal was trustworthy, who would ever trust to ride with him again?
    Eventually we all die, Napoleon thought. Sooner or later, what does it matter? The moment of death is not important. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He told them there’d be a show, there was always a show, and to keep their heads down. At that correct moment a confirming bullet cut the air above him and then he heard the all but silent report of the distant gun. From long distance, a desultory fire began. He knew if they wanted him dead they would have shot him by now.
    The Rattler horse raised its head and eyed him. It sneezed, convulsing its body and then it lay back down and blew a gust of breath scattering the sand and grit at its nostrils.
    Another bullet passed him by. There is a sound a bullet makes when it cuts through the air. It’s a zip that sings and whoops and each is different. That one was a Spitzer, a round fired from a Mauser. Napoleon knew because he had heard them before. To hear them you have to be very close. Having been that close, close enough to hear, he never forgot what he’d heard.
    “Those bastards,” Turner said.
    “Keep your god damn heads down or you’ll stop one for sure.”
    “But the bastards are shooting at us.”
    “You are not being shot at personally,” he told the man. He could not remember when he stopped hating those who were trying to kill him. After all, he was trying to kill them too. He’d abandoned hatred somewhere on the plains of Montana or the jungles of the Philippines. He wasn’t sure, but no matter, it wasn’t good to hate. It always seemed to get in the way of doing the job, always seemed to take more than it ever gave back, always seemed to get the hater killed sooner than he otherwise might have been killed.
    Time passed with sporadic and errant fire but without any sign of them. He cast an expectant look in their direction and as if called forth they suddenly appeared. Riders shook out and began working their way in. They paused to fire and then moved closer. They were not in a killing mood. There was something they wanted and would rather not die in getting it. He set his jaw and held his position. Keep a good heart, he told himself, an eye full of light. Show no fear. Be free of dangerous passion. Let nothing confuse the natural instinct toward violence.
    The skirmishers moved closer, a Dorado on a magnificent white horse out in front. He wore pistols at his waist and rode in a graceful position, as if standing upright in his seat. The hilt of a saber showed from a scabbard on the right of his saddle. He wore cartridge belts strapped across his chest. That he was holding himself and his horse in reserve was clear to see. The horse was uncommon and he could not help but admire it, the arched neck, the swing of the back, the flexion and extension of the hindquarters. The horse moved as if touching the earth was not necessary, but pleasure and whimsy, as it danced from one diagonal to the other.
    Kill the brave one, he thought, and let the others go home. The mere presence of his death in the ranks would sew discontent and they would learn fear.
    The men who rode with the Dorado spread out