“A tramp left the old farmer bleeding in the prairie saloon”

She had no answer. She buckled her belt. The moon was high when Emma returned to Murphy’s. The Henry in her hands, the revolver at her belt, dried blood on her dress. Silence again.
Cole saw her, smiled. “I’m honored.” “Outside,” Emma said. “Why?” “Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot you here and then every man who draws a gun.” Emma cocked the Henry. “Fifteen bullets in the Henry, six in the revolver, twenty-one shots.
I see nineteen men. Two to spare.” For the first time, Cole’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re making a mistake.” “Probably. Let’s see.” She walked out into the street. Cole and his four gunmen followed her. Dutch Reynolds, Cutter Morgan, the Pike brothers.
All famous, all with blood on their hands. “Five against one,” Cole shouted. “So much the better.” Emma looked at them. Five killers, professionals, men made for war. “All right,” she said. The street empty, wind whipping up dust.
The moon painted everything silver and old blood. “Your father begged,” Cole said. “Not with words, but I saw it in his eyes. He wanted mercy. I gave him a chance. He couldn’t.” “I’m not looking for mercy,” Emma said. “And I don’t want to strike.”
“Then what are you doing?” “Settled scores.” Cole reached for the gun. “If you kill me, you’re hanged. My men will testify. They’ll say it was murder. That you brought this on yourself.” “Maybe, but you’ll be dead. Is that enough?” Emma thought of her father, the farm, every person in Red Creek.
She thought of who it would have to be to end this. “Yes,” she said. “Enough.” Dutch Reynolds fired first. Stupid. Emma fired from the hip. The Henry roared. Dutch fell, his chest ripped open. One down. Cutter Morgan and the Pikes fired together. Emma rolled behind a watering trough.
Three bullets pierced the wood, water gushed out. Emma emerged firing, Henry singing. Cutter took one in the throat. Two down. Tom Pike fired, grazed Emma’s sleeve. She spun, fired twice. Tom fell. The younger one screamed and reloaded.

Emma fired. She looked at the blood on his shirt, fell. Four down. Cole backed to the door. “Wait, wait, for God’s sake. Wait.” Emma moved forward. Henry aiming. “I have money. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, whatever you want.
You can have the farm, the bank, everything.” “I don’t want your money.” “Then what?” “I want you to feel what my father felt. Powerless, broken, knowing you lose everything and you can’t stop it.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” “Yes, you did.” Bang.
Bullet to the shoulder. Cole fell, dropped the gun. Emma came forward, Henry to the forehead. “Please, no. I’m leaving, I’m leaving Red Creek tonight. You won’t see me again.” “That’s right.
I won’t see him.” Emma’s finger on the trigger, one second, one shot, absolute justice. But she thought of Baxter Springs. Of seventeen dead. Of five years seeing their faces. Of going to hell for doing the right thing.
She thought of her father,in the difference between justice and vengeance. She thought about who she would be next. “Emma,” Doc Morrison’s voice. “Don’t do it. Your father is alive. You’re not a murderer. This is enough. This isn’t justice.
It’s mercy.” Emma got off the Henry. “You’re leaving Red Creek. Now. If you come back, if I hear you from a hundred miles away, I’m ending this.” “Is that clear?” Cole nodded. “Good.” Emma turned to the crowd.
“Someone patch him up and get him mounted. He has one hour.” She went back to her father, ignoring the bodies and the murmuring. Samuel was awake, propped up on pillows. “What happened?” “It’s over, Pa.” “Did you kill him?” “No.” Samuel’s good hand squeezed hers.