John reached his hand behind him and scrabbled around in a cupboard for a match. Finding one, he struck it on his pants and lit a lantern. Flickering light filled the room, and John stepped backwards in horror as the pale figure of Mrs. Mary Hewitt revealed itself on the floor. He recognized her only by the dress she was wearing – the same one she’d worn when she accosted him outside the Sheriff’s office that morning. Her face was unrecognizable. One of this shots had struck her through the left cheek, and the entire left side of her face was splattered across the floor. John retched, and tore himself away from the gaze of her single remaining eye. What was left of her face was locked in a horrific scream, and her eye was wide with shock.

The revolver fell from John’s hands and hit the floor with a dull clatter. He slowly staggered away from the gruesome scene in his living room. He was done. He’d killed his neighbor, and his wife had been stolen away from him. The bitter irony of the ease with which he had dispatched Curtis’ demands that he do something about the kidnappings ate away at him. Nothing could ever be the same now. He was a murderer. John sprinted back to the bedroom, grabbed a jacket and a box of shells for his revolver from inside the closet, and vaulted himself up and out of the window. As he hit the ground, he heard Mr. Hewitt yelling from the doorway. John crouched low and hurried along the back perimeter of his house to where his horse was tied up. He threw the saddle on the animal and leaped onto its back. He dug his heels in and the reared up, whinnying. Its front hooves slammed into the ground and John galloped off, not daring to look back over his shoulder at his town.