Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 165476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 827(@200wpm)___ 662(@250wpm)___ 552(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 165476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 827(@200wpm)___ 662(@250wpm)___ 552(@300wpm)
Dead or dying like all the others.
He flinched when the door burst open, too stiff to reach for his pistol in case it was a survivor. Instead, he saw Cole shake his head and reveal a woman stretched on the floor of the parlor, her white gown stained at the front with vomit. Ned knew that face. She’d been the one to advise them how to go about making love as men. She’d showed understanding, and kindness, and now she was cold, after a horrible death.
“What have the girls done to anyone?” Cole whispered, his form dark in the searing sun.
“Looks like to Tom it’s about what they haven’t done. He’s out for blood, and he doesn’t care.”
“Going soft, lovebirds?” Zeb called out from the other side of the street where he plunged a knife into the neck of a man whose hand still twitched. “Every house needs to be checked! I don’t want to see you stroking your dicks instead of doing what Tom has led you here for.”
Cole’s cheeks darkened, and he slammed the wooden column at the entryway. “This woman could have been my mother! Why not do in the sheriff? Why not just the men?”
“Strychnine don’t choose gender. It swings both ways, just like you.” The maniac actually laughed.
Ned shook his head. “Let’s part, it’ll be quicker.”
“May vultures eat your prick, Zeb,” Cole roared and headed for the saloon across the street, despite there being two men going through its upper floor already. Did someone lie dead in the bed where Ned and Cole had made love only two nights ago?
Ned didn’t spare Zeb another glance and sleepwalked down the street littered with corpses. It was too late to save the people of Three Stones, but he had to do something and headed for the small rail station where the telegraph office was. On the off chance that someone was still alive there, maybe he could send for help, or at least inform the next town over of the massacre.
The next train was scheduled to arrive in the afternoon, and the outside world would be left in the dark about this horror until then if he didn’t act.
The air trembled above the rail tracks snaking their way through the landscape, but an eerie quiet hung around the station, as if it were cut off and would never be in use again. With the town having so much to offer in terms of wealth, none of the Gotham Boys had come here yet. It was just Ned, a black bird circling above him, a depot close by, and the small waiting room, which betrayed no signs of life.
Ned tasted iron on his tongue as he entered to face the clerk slumped on a wooden bench, with a hole in his head. The revolver that had ended his life was still in the man’s pale hand. Had he sent out a distress signal before the deed? There was no way for Ned to tell, but as he glanced past the wooden counter, at the device sprawled on the desk inside the office, it occurred to him that maybe he could use it… somehow.
Sweat soaked through his shirt as he looked out of the windows, at the dusty street populated solely by the gang members and corpses, but as he glanced at the desk again, he noticed a sheet of paper with letters of the alphabet translated into dots and dashes.
If he was to do this, the time was now.
Ned jumped over the counter and got to the machine. His knowledge of its workings came from watching clerks, but since there was no one to ask for help, he’d have to improvise. The codes weren’t as simple as he’d hoped, so he hurriedly scribbled down the sequence for what he needed to communicate and, after another glance toward the town, tapped the knob.
HELP 3 STONES
HELP 3 STONES
HELP 3 STONES
The bandana covering his lower face couldn’t block the stench of blood and vomit, and now that he’d fulfilled his purpose, the enormity of what had happened here seeped in. There was no hope left for him. He slid to his knees and hid under the counter with a low sob. He shouldn’t have allowed this to happen. All this time, he should have been more diligent, communicated with the Pinkertons more often, and brought the Gotham Boys to justice before they reached this poor town. Instead, he always chose time with Cole over solitary trips to the nearest telegraph office. There was always the sense that reality could wait, but he’d been complicit in every crime committed during his time with the gang and too afraid to act at the times when he could have.
A coward.
Useless to the cause he chose.
Maybe he should go out there and turn his rifle on Tom that one time, taking him to hell where they both belonged.