Wiley didn’t bring up what he’d said the night before and Everett surely wasn’t going to ask.

Wiley was a criminal after all and he was a Ranger. A Ranger that was going home after this, ready to be praised for taking the Roscoe gang off the streets.

That would leave them on two sides of the law even if Everett agreed with what Wiley said, it could never happen. They would be worlds apart after Neil Roscoe was dead. Worst of all, he could still feel the imprint of Victor's warm hand and leg from where they were tangled with his over the night.

Moving to the other side of town, Victor and Everett set their sights on Otto Armstrong. Renewed from sleep Victor’s voice was light,  “Let’s look inside the Sportin’ house. Most likely they’ll have seen him.” Side by side, their boots clomped up the wooden steps.

Inside an older woman sat sewing. Grey hair framed her wrinkled face as she continued to work at a brown blanket without looking up at the men. The sportin’ house was sparsely decorated, the red flowered wallpaper was peeling and tinted beige from age. A line of stairs was pressed against the back wall of the main room.

As soon as the doors behind them creaked to a close Victor gruffly said, “I’m looking for Otto. Tell me where he is.”

Uncaring about his tone, the lady said, “Upstairs, first door on the right.” Her thumb pointed backwards to the staircase only for a moment before leisurely returning to her sewing.

Turning the knob they entered into a small furnished bedroom. Atop the bed was a bewildered sportin’ woman and a confused Otto Armstrong. “Ma’am,” Everett lifted off his hat as the woman screamed, mortification bewildering her features… She ran out of the room wrapped in a brown blanket and her clothes bundled in her other hand.

“Victor?” Otto tried to stand, luckily he was still dressed. Reaching for the holster, Everett brandished his weapon. “Sit.” Abiding by his order, Otto sat, the bed crinkled beneath his weight. Victor didn’t lift off his hat.

Fixing his pants, Otto Armstrong was not what Everett was expecting. He’d envisioned a caricature of the man based on the wanted posters after all these years. A large crooked nose that had been obviously broken a few times overshadowed his bushy straight mustache.

“Why are y’all here?” Armstrong shifted beneath their blank stares, unsure of what was happening. One minute he was having the time of his life and the next he sat at the edge of the bed like a scorned child. Temper flaring he repeated himself, this time more aggressively, “Why are y’all ‘ere?!”

Whipping Otto with the butt of his pistol and ignoring the man’s question, Everett leaned in front of the bleeding Otto. He barked out an order, “Tell me where Roscoe is.”

Otto chuckled to himself in understanding. Victor and this Ranger boy were going to kill Neil Roscoe. Stupid fuckers, he chided internally. They were going to die  a horrific death, good riddance. He spat and turned towards Victor as he leaned against a wall to his left, “You’re nothing but a naive, weak, slugger of a man. Don’t think nothin’ different. You can’t kill Neil Roscoe.”

“Someone once told me that life ain’t fair, we all gotta pay our dues. Well Otto, this is your due. Say hi to Wilbur for me won’t ya or tell me where he is.” The knife worked harder against his throat. A careful, agonizing threat. Within Otto’s bedroom the tension was winding around Otto’s chest with vigor. Victor was hardly a boy to give up on his goal, which was not a good sign for Otto.

Otto knew why Victor wanted him and Roscoe dead; they'd made him into a man with blazing sticks and blood. In his mind revenge was for the weak-minded. Victor should’ve killed him when he’d left. To do it now was for nothing but show. “You know, the ache ain’t gonna lessen boy. You learn to live with it. But I expect you thought it would stop once you see me dead.”

“Roscoe is in Vicious Roost.” Otto relented.  Vicious Roost was nothing but a ghost town. The perfect place for a hideout for a man like Neil Roscoe. What a coward, Everett thought. After they killed Wilbur Cross he must’ve made his way there.

He didn’t take another step. Slipping a knife into Otto Armstrong’s neck the blood spurted around the room. Otto Armstrong was dead, dying, he stared up at the men with wide eyes. As though he didn’t think they were men enough to do it. Apparently he had thought wrong. A grimace slipped over his features that brimmed with anger before drifting away as he stopped breathing.

Letting out a shaky breath Victor grabbed Everett’s wrist and led him out of the room. Unwilling to get caught by Armstrong’s men, they left Serpent’s Ridge in a climbing sprint and worked their way towards Vicious Roost.

Victor was quiet afterwards, not a word spoken. Both rode slow as they weaved through the desert. The ground beneath them was like the cracking spots on a turtle’s dried shell. Crumbles of sand dusted the ground, winding themselves around prickly cactuses.

“I wanted to feel better. Like a weight lifted off my chest after I killed Armstrong. But I feel no different. Why don’t I feel different?” His drawl thickened and wrapped around his words with a palpable frustration.  Armstrong was a terrible man. There was no side stepping from that truth. He’d done a lot worse than kill, rob and pillage. Every bit of the power he’d amassed in the Roscoe gang had been forged in spilled blood. Victor’s frustration plunged deeper at the thought that should at least felt better about taking a ruthless man out of the game played on Texan soil, but he didn’t.

The only things he felt were anger and frustration alongside the perpetual ache. Why isn’t this working?

“What are ya gonna do once he’s dead?” Everett asked, changing the subject. He hoped Wiley wouldn't continue wreaking havoc around town and make the Rangers get called in again. Everett’s horse, Ranger, stepped out of the way of a tumbling weed before trotting back into step alongside Victor.

“I’m not sure.” He shrugged nonchalantly, “Maybe get a farmhouse and raise some cattle.” Maybe the ache will finally lessen, he thought to himself. When he was a boy he’d always imagined taking over his parents' farm. But there was no farm anymore. There were no parents anymore. Still the idea hung in his mind, propping itself up as though it is even a plausible idea.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He smiled wide and thoughtfully. Everett had seen Wiley smile on only a few occasions. If someone had asked him to describe Wiley’s smile a month ago Everett knew he would’ve laughed right in their face, Wiley don’t smile. Wiley can’t smile.

Now, he’d describe it as warm honey and golden sunlight. That was the issue with Victor Wiley; every piece of him taunted Everett with something he could never have.

“I’m gonna go home.” Everett answered as he stared at the dusty horizon ahead.  He hadn’t been home in a long time. The Rangers had pulled him from his small hometown. He hadn’t even exchanged a letter with his ma nor pa in over a year. It’d be nice to see them. To hear another story.

“Yer gonna milk the killing of the Roscoe gang for all its worth? Get a nice shiny badge and office?” Everett smirked at his obvious mockery but in all honesty he hadn’t thought of being a Ranger over the last few weeks. All he wanted to do was go home and hug his family. Being a Ranger could wait.