Vengeance Creek: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

6

“I thought I told you never to tell anyone I’m a deputy, Al,” Thomas said to Baker.

“Thomas,” Baker said, “everybody else in here knows it already. It was just those strangers—”

“I don’t care,” Thomas said. “If I wanted people to know—strangers—I’d wear the damned badge.”

“Okay,” Baker said, “sorry.”

Thomas pushed his empty mug forward.

“Another?”

“Yeah.”

“You usually nurse one,” Baker said, picking up the mug. “This’ll make two.”

“Three,” Thomas said, “counting the one that was spilled. Besides, what are you, my father?”

“Thomas—”

“I already have a father,” he said. “Give me another beer.”

“Comin’ up.”

Thomas made a point of not turning around to look at the two strangers. No sense inviting another confrontation. Somebody might not walk away next time.

“I’m going home,” Dan Shaye said. “You comin’?”

“I think I’m gonna walk around town some more, Pa,” James said. “Make sure everything’s all right.”

They had just done that, so Shaye suspected James had something else on his mind. Maybe that gal Thomas had been talking about.

“Suit yourself, James,” he said. “Just don’t get yourself into trouble.”

“I’ll be careful, Pa.”

“Good night, then.”

Shaye walked home to a quiet house. He knew instinctively that Thomas was out, and not inside, asleep. Maybe that was where James was going, to find his brother.

Thomas finished that next beer and pushed the mug away. He was surprised at his own anger. He suspected it had been burning in his belly for a year, and two beers plus the better part of a third had probably fanned the flame. He felt ashamed when he realized who he was angry at.

He was considering another beer, wondering if it would put out the flame or fan it into an uncontrollable blaze when he felt someone sidle up next to him.

“James.”

“Big brother.”

“Want a beer?”

“How many have you had?”

“Enough.”

“I’ll skip it.”

Thomas turned his head to look at his brother. “How’d you know where I was?”

“I looked.”

“Why?”

“Something’s been botherin’ you, Thomas,” James said. “I thought you might wanna talk about it.”

“James—” Thomas started, but he stopped abruptly.

“Thomas?”

“Let’s get out of here, James,” Thomas said, “and I’ll talk to you.”

They turned away from the bar and headed for the door together under the watchful eyes of Ben Cardwell and Sean Davis.

“Why don’t we follow them?” Davis asked. “We can get rid of them tonight.”

“Yeah,” Cardwell said, “that’s all we need is two dead deputies showin’ up in the mornin’—and the rest of our men aren’t here yet.”

“With the two deputies dead, you and me can do the job alone,” Davis said.

“Sean,” Cardwell said, “who makes all the plans?”

“Well…you, usually.”

“And how do things turn out?”

“Well, okay, usually.”

“Then shut up,” Cardwell said, “and stop tryin’ to do the thinkin’. You ain’t cut out for it.”

Thomas and James walked back toward the center of town, where it was quiet.

“What’s goin’ on, Thomas?” James asked.

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

“Come on, Thomas,” James said. “I know you’re the older brother, and you’re always there for me, but sometime you gotta let me be there for you…you know?”

Thomas looked at his little brother and realized he was right. If he was always going to be there for James, who would ever be there for him? His father? He couldn’t very well do that, could he? After all, wasn’t that who he was mad at?

“Tell me something, little brother,” Thomas said. “Do you ever get angry?”

“What?” James asked. “Well, sure, yeah, I get mad sometimes.”

“At who?”

James shrugged. “I get mad at Ethan Langer, for killin’ Ma and Matthew.”

“But he’s dead,” Thomas said. “You can’t stay mad at a dead man.”

“What are you sayin’, Thomas?” James asked. “Who do you get mad at?”

Thomas hesitated. How would his brother react when he told him?

“I—I’m mad at Pa.”

“At Pa?” James asked, surprised. “But…why?”

“I guess…deep down I blame him for Ma’s death, and for Matthew’s.”

James stopped and grabbed Thomas’s arm. “What are you talkin’ about?” he asked. “Pa feels more pain about Ma’s death than any of us—and Matthew. How could you blame him…that’s just not fair.”

“Well…I don’t feel it all the time,” Thomas said. “Sometimes it just…comes over me.”

“Have you ever talked to Pa about it?”

“No,” Thomas said, “I would never tell Pa that.”

“Why not?”

“It would hurt him.”

“If you’re so mad at him, why don’t you want to hurt him?” James asked.

“Because I love him.”

James shook his head. “I’m confused.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Thomas said. “Look, James, this is just something I feel sometimes, okay? There’s no need to tell Pa about it. Agreed?”

“Thomas—”

“If he ever needs to be told,” Thomas said, “or if I ever need to tell him, I will. But it should be me who tells him, shouldn’t it?”

James hesitated, then sighed and said, “Yes, I suppose it should.”

“Okay, then,” Thomas said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Then let’s go home and go to bed.”

James nodded and the two brothers began to walk again, this time toward the house they shared with their father.