Free Bullets Over Bedlam by Peter Brandvold

body for burial. The wooden horse—a black, rearing stallion—was the last piece his young son, Jubal, had carved before Three-Fingers Ned Meade had hanged the boy above Wolf Creek, west of their hometown of Crossroads, Nebraska Territory.
    Holding the braid in one hand, Hawk scooped the horse off the floor with the other. He ran a thumb over each, then slid both back into the pouch. “Keepsakes.”
    When he’d stuffed the other possibles back under the flap, he returned the bags to the chair, keeping the pistols angled toward the bed, and walked naked to the balcony. He threw open the doors, standing in the cool breeze that pushed against him and tousled his dark-brown hair. Turning, he added another small log to the fire, then climbed back into bed, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up at the beamed ceiling.
    She scuttled up beside him, placed a hand on his chest, and gazed into his face. “Have I convinced you to stay?”
    He ran his hand through her hair, caressed her smooth cheek with his thumb. He held her gaze but said nothing.
    Her forehead creased with perplexity. “What is it you are searching for?”
    â€œPeace.” Hawk lay his head back and returned his gaze to the ceiling. “A place in this world where my wife and children won’t be killed by madmen.”
    In the berserk state that had overtaken him in the wake of his family’s demise, the irony of trying to find, or create, such a peace with his six-guns was lost on Gideon Hawk.
    Juliana stared at him for a time, then glanced at the saddlebags hanging over the chair. Her own gaze darkening as she saw that he was lost to her now, glowering off into space, she gave a shudder.
    She drew her body close to his, absorbing his warmth. She wrapped an arm around his waist, rested her cheek upon his chest, and closed her eyes.

8.
    AMBUSCADE IN CHARLEY’S WASH
    F LAGG and the six deputies lost Hawk’s trail in a torrential desert rain squall, then picked it up again the next day. At noon, the sun burning through their hats and sucking the moisture from their bodies so that their eyes felt like glass marbles in dry, bony sockets, they let their horses draw water at a runoff spring. Stretching their legs, the men filled their canteens and built cigarettes.
    Flagg walked the top of a low knoll and stood beside an ancient, gnarled saguaro. He plucked his makings sack and surveyed the trail ahead—an old trace deep-gnawed by iron-shod ore wagons—through a maze of strewn boulders, broken sandstone pillars, and narrow, twisting ravines rising to blue mountains.
    Standing with the other men near the horses, Bill Houston studied Flagg’s back. Finally, taking a long drag from his cigarette, he strode up the knoll and stood beside Flagg.
    The tall, gray-haired, hard-eyed marshal stood staring into the high mountains looming darkly against the western sky.
    Houston took another puff from his quirley. Blowing smoke, he said, “Tell me somethin’ straight up, will you, Marshal?”
    â€œHaven’t I always been straight with you, Bill?”
    â€œWhy do you hate Hawk so much? He was a good lawman at one time. Understandable how he went nuts after his family was killed and a crooked prosecutor sprang the killer.” Houston mopped his brow with a blue handkerchief. “I ain’t defendin’ the man, you understand. He must be stopped. I’m just wondering why you hate him so bad.”
    Flagg cut a slit-eyed glance at the tall, angular Texan. “What makes you think I hate him so bad, Bill?”
    â€œThe way you flush up every time his name’s mentioned.” Houston paused, held Flagg’s cold gaze. “The harsh . . . measures . . . you’ve taken to find the man.”
    Flagg turned away, slipped his own cigarette between his thin lips. “He’s a lawman turned outlaw. Nothing worse in my book, Bill. Every time he deals his own justice, he’s