5 Gunmen Attacked a Wealthy Rancher at a Saloon — No One Expected What Widow’s Daughter Did Next

Chapter 8

The night grew colder.

Nora moved through the alleys like a wraith. She took down two more men near the livery stable, catching them as they tried to set fire to the hay bales. She disarmed a third behind the telegraph office, cracking his wrist with the barrel of her Colt before he could fire a warning shot.

The town had become a labyrinth of shadows and silence. The outlaws were losing their nerve. They had come expecting an easy robbery, and instead, they were being hunted by a ghost.

From the rooftops, Wheeler and his men kept up a steady stream of fire, pinning the outlaws in the alleys, preventing them from regrouping. Every time a group tried to gather, a bullet would kick up dust at their feet, and they would scatter again.

Nora found Sergeant Wheeler’s position on the bank roof. The old man was reloading his Springfield, his breath misting in the cold air.

“How many left?” she asked, crouching beside him.

“Twenty, maybe twenty-two,” Wheeler said. “They’re spooked. They’re not used to fighting a town that fights back. But they’re still armed, and they’re still dangerous.”

“Vance?”

“Haven’t seen him since the street. He’s smart. He’s waiting.”

Nora nodded. “I’m going after him.”

Wheeler grabbed her arm. “Nora. That man killed your father. You’re a good fighter, but you’re emotional. Don’t let him use that against you.”

“Sergeant, I’m not going out there to kill him,” Nora said. “I’m going out there to arrest him. There’s a difference.”

Wheeler studied her face. He saw the truth in her eyes. He released her arm. “You really are your father’s daughter.”

She slipped away, dropping from the bank roof into the alley below. She landed in a crouch, the Winchester ready.

She found Vance where she expected him — in the stable, alone, his back to the wall, a revolver in each hand.

He was waiting for her.

“Knew you’d come,” Vance said, his rasping voice echoing off the wooden walls. “You’ve got the same problem your father had. You care too much.”

Nora stepped into the stable. The only light came from a single lantern hanging from a hook. The shadows danced and swayed. She could smell the horses, the hay, the sweat of fear.

“Put down the guns, Vance. It’s over.”

Vance laughed. “Over? I’ve still got twenty men out there.”

“They’re running. They’re hiding. They’re not fighting anymore. You’ve lost.”

He studied her. The jagged scar on his throat caught the lantern light. “You know, I thought about you sometimes. The girl who got away. I always wondered if you’d come looking for me someday.”

“I’m not here for revenge,” Nora said. “I’m here because you threatened this town. I’m here because the law says you answer for your crimes.”

“The law.” Vance spat the word. “The law killed your father, girl. Not me. The law put him in a uniform and sent him into a canyon where he didn’t stand a chance. The law made him a target.”

“He was a good man.”

“He was a dead man.” Vance’s eyes hardened. “And so are you.”

He raised both revolvers.

Nora did not flinch. She did not raise her Winchester. She simply stood there, her hands at her sides, and looked at him with a calm that seemed to unnerve him more than any weapon could.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Pull the triggers. But you should know — I’ve got a derringer in my boot, and by the time your bullets hit me, I’ve already put one through your throat. We both die in this stable. Is that how you want it to end?”

Vance’s fingers tightened on the triggers. His eyes darted to her boots, trying to calculate, trying to decide.

The moment stretched.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across his scarred face. “You’ve got guts, girl. I’ll give you that.”

He dropped one of the revolvers. It clattered against the dirt floor.

“But you’re still a child playing at law.”

He raised the remaining revolver and fired.

Nora dove to the side. The bullet whistled past her ear and buried itself in the wall behind her. She rolled, came up on one knee, and brought the Winchester to her shoulder. She fired without aiming.

The bullet struck the lantern.

The glass shattered. Oil splashed across the floor. The stable plunged into absolute darkness.

Vance cursed. He fired blindly, three shots in rapid succession. The muzzle flashes illuminated the stable in brief, strobe-like bursts. Nora had already moved. She was behind a stack of hay bales, her breathing slow and controlled.

“You can’t hide forever, girl!” Vance shouted. His voice bounced off the walls, making it impossible to pinpoint his location.

“I’m not hiding,” Nora said quietly.

She drew her father’s Colt. She closed her eyes.

The dark is a blanket, Nora. Wear it.

She listened.

She heard the horses shifting nervously in their stalls. She heard the drip of oil from the shattered lantern. She heard the soft scuff of a boot against the dirt floor.

Vance was moving. He was circling to her left, trying to flank her position.

She opened her eyes.

She rose from behind the hay bales. She fired once.

The bullet struck the revolver in Vance’s hand, tearing it from his grip. He screamed, more from shock than pain. The weapon clattered to the floor.

Nora crossed the distance in three strides. She pressed the barrel of the Colt against Vance’s chest.

“Garrett Vance,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “You are under arrest for the murder of Marshal Elias Kincaid, for armed robbery, for attempted murder, and for a dozen other crimes that will keep you in a federal prison until you die.”

Vance stood frozen, his hands raised, his eyes wide in the darkness. He could not see her face, but he could feel the absolute certainty in her voice.

“You’re not going to kill me,” he whispered.

“I’m not a killer,” Nora said. “I’m a marshal. And the marshal always brings them in alive.”

She pulled the Colt away from his chest and brought the heavy barrel down across the back of his head.

Vance dropped to the dirt floor, unconscious.

The stable was silent.

Nora stood in the darkness, breathing hard, the silver star on her chest catching the faint moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the roof.

She had done it.

She had faced the man who killed her father, and she had not become him.