J.T. Bridger — Author
Chapter 1: Ambush
Thomas trudged through the swiftly deepening dusk. His leather satchel, heavy with tools and wire, dragged on his tired shoulder. The evening air had cooled his skin, but he felt caked in dust and dried sweat. He reckoned he had just about enough energy left to heat up a basin of water and wipe off the worst of it before bed. Just imagining the feel of a warm wet cloth on his aching muscles was relaxing. He picked up his pace in anticipation.
The fences along the borders of their property had needed mending in several places for a while. He’d promised himself he’d get it done well before his father returned from town. But then his mother had fallen ill and he’d decided to stay within earshot, doing whatever chores he could in the immediate vicinity of the house. Her fever had broken that afternoon after two days of worry.
He’d given her a sponge bath and a clean nightgown and got her to sip some beef broth and coffee with milk. He’d fixed himself a bowl of leftover stew, scooping it from the pot that still sat on the now cold stove, not bothering to heat it back up, with slightly stale skillet cornbread he’d made the night before. Then he’d headed to the perimeter of their property to take care of the fence, lighting a lantern to illuminate the last section when the sun set before his task was done.
Its flame sputtered out halfway to the house, but he didn’t need it; he’d lived on this land most of his life, as long as he’d been old enough to remember anyway, and knew every rock and uneven spot on the ground like the back of his hand.
His work done and his worry about his mother receding, he let himself imagine what his father might bring him from town. Thomas’s birthday had come two days before the trip into town, and he knew his father would likely return bearing some kind of a present. He hadn’t outgrown his love of candy and hoped for peppermint sticks, though molasses candy would still be a treat. Maybe a new pocket knife or his own brand new hat. It would depend on the price Pa got on the cow and how much money was left over after buying what they needed for the next couple months. A hat would be an extravagance, but eighteen did feel like a significant milestone. His shoulders straightened a little despite his tiredness.
He stopped at a lean-to built against their barn, whistling softly as he unburdened himself from his satchel. He took a tin pail from where it hung on a hook and shut the door to the structure, pulling a leather strap over a peg to fasten it shut. He could hear movement in the barn itself, like his horse was feeling restless, or maybe the remaining cows. A bit unusual for any of them to be that active after dark, but not odd enough to distract Thomas from his goals of washing up, putting on a clean union suit, and grabbing another bite to eat before bed.
Thomas stopped at the well next. The pump protested as he pushed on the handle, filling his bucket to the brim. He chugged down a ladleful, then another as the first only served to awaken the dryness in his throat and mouth. The rest of the bucket’s contents were to bathe with once he rekindled the fire in the stove.
As he approached the house, his steps faltered in surprise. The front window glowed with lamplight. His first thought was of his father, but it was too early for his return. Ma had been fast asleep when he left, the first good rest she’d gotten in days. Even if she’d awakened, she shouldn’t have gotten up and lit a light in the main room.
Maybe she’d woken up hungry; after all, he hadn’t gotten her to eat much more than broth in days. Still, his step quickened as he hit the short pebbled path leading up to their front door. The night was alive with little sounds—the constant shrill rhythm of crickets punctuated by the occasional owl hoot or rustle of small creatures trying to elude the owls’ detection—and Thomas was focused on getting to his mother and making sure she hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. So he didn’t immediately register the light crunch of rocks as someone stepped behind him.
But he did hear the click of a gun and the whispered growl: “Don’t move. Get your hands up.”
His heart bounded in his chest. He froze, one arm slowly rising until his hand was at chest height. The other, weighed down by the pail, stayed at his side. Not that it mattered, he thought—the only guns he had access to were in the house, which seemed miles away all of a sudden.
The muzzle of the gun he had not seen, only heard, nudged him between the shoulder blades and he flinched. The voice shushed him sharply, though he hadn’t made a sound that he was aware of, and spoke again. Had it only been a few seconds? His mind was overwhelmed trying to comprehend what was happening, his limbs icy and heavy with dread. “Put that down.”
He bent slightly and lowered the bucket, raising both hands on the way back up. “Now I got some friends in there, and they all got sidearms, so you better listen good. I want you to go up to the door and stop. Don’t open it til I talk to them, understand? Lest you wanna be fulla holes.”
Friends? Thomas’s thoughts went to his mother and his legs went weak. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it through his whole torso. He thought of asking about her but clung to a faint hope: What if whoever was in there hadn’t noticed her buried under the blankets in the bed she normally shared with his father?
The gun prodded him, harder this time. “You simple? Hear what I say?”
“Yeah.” Thomas’s voice sounded strange to his own ears, breathless. He cleared his throat and attempted to speak more calmly. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“Well, that’s good. Act right and you’ll get less trouble at least.” The disembodied voice sounded amused. His words were not comforting.
They walked slowly toward the door. Now Thomas could hear the other man’s footsteps on the rocky ground and realized he’d heard them moments before the voice. Too late to be of any help now.
On the wooden planks that served as a porch, he stopped, facing the door of his own home with his arms raised. The voice behind him called out. “It’s Sam! I’m comin’ in, and I’m bringin’ a new friend.”
Thomas and the stranger waited in silence for seconds that felt endless. “C’mon in,” someone said, their voice muffled through the door.
“Open it,” Thomas’s captor said, nudging him again. “Move real slow and get your hands back up when you’re done.”
Thomas unlatched it and moved hesitantly in, dreading what he’d see. The gun barrel goaded him forward.
The front room of their house was a bit bigger than three people needed. His father had envisioned having more children and a growing community of neighbors, making their home a gathering space. But Thomas had remained an only child and neighbors were still sparse and too far apart for frequent or casual socializing. Pa still brought up the thought, but more as a wistful memory of a lost dream, not as something he actually thought would happen. Sometimes the room and its unused extra chairs seemed empty.
Not tonight.
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