Content Warning: This story contains themes of execution, gun violence (including a gunshot to the head), and references to murder. Reader discretion is advised.

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The unintelligible words of a murmured dirge hung like a dense fog over the villagers clustered before the gallows. Soft and solemn streams of early morning light fell on their backs and bathed the faces of the three condemned men in hopelessness. One was native to the village, his crime not widely known. One was a murderer wanted in the city of Belensia. The other was Grant, a marshal from Belensia hunting the killer next to him.

Solomon ground his teeth hard enough they should have cracked. Grant was his partner—what fool thing had he done to earn a noose around his neck? And how the hell did he have time to get into trouble? They’d only arrived in the nameless village the night before.

Sol shouldered through the villagers, his bounty’s prayers for mercy drifting toward him. The other two sinners stood resigned to their fates. They all had their hands bound behind their backs. Grant’s clothes were torn and bloodied in places, and his face looked no better. His blonde hair hung in chunks of dried blood and one eye was almost swelled shut. The fugitive looked even worse, but his clothes bore the added wear of running from the law for nearly a week.

Sol stopped just before the scaffold, not sure who held the power to stay the execution. Seeing the executioner reach for the lever that would bring them all to justice, Sol forgot his hesitation.

“Hold!” he shouted. The headsman paused, his expression unreadable beneath a dark hood. Sol followed his gaze as he turned to a woman seated at the other end of the platform.

She wore a thick fur mantle and bore a red stripe of war paint across her eyes. Her sable hair hung in thin braids ornamented by colorful beads. The moment she stood, the villagers stopped singing. Sol fumbled for anything to say, but the cold challenge in her eyes numbed his thoughts. She looked ready to rip his eyes out. Grant was the first to speak.

“Cutting it pretty damn close, aren’t you, Sol?” he spat. “You could’ve gotten me out of this a little earlier.”

“What the hell did you do, Grant? I turned my back for one minute, then you’re gone.” He shook his head disgustedly and ran his fingers through his ragged hair. This was exactly the kind of situation he hoped to avoid; he was supposed to keep Grant out of trouble. “What the hell did you do?”

“Enough!” the woman on the scaffold said. Her voice rumbled, silencing them both. Forcing a veneer of calm, she eyed Sol. “Who are you?”

Sol licked his lips nervously. “I am Solomon Ranaan, a lawman of Belensia. Who am I addressing?”

“Chief Gwenhwyfar Glaw.” She looked between Sol and Grant, noticing the silver badges they wore. The way she looked at him when she turned back to Sol made his spine tense. He didn’t doubt she would put a noose around his neck if he said the wrong thing. “Do you have a reason for interrupting this execution?”

“Damn right he does!” Grant said before Sol could answer. “You made a mistake stringing me up. Sol will see to it you get what’s coming to you.”

A sharp look from Gwenhwyfar silenced Grant. She put a hand on her hip, the movement drawing Sol’s eye to the pistol hanging inches from her fingers. She could hang him or she could shoot him. She looked eager to do both.

“Grant, I suggest you stay out of this.” Sol adjusted his worn duster so his own pistol showed, but she didn’t flinch at the implied threat. She only looked angrier. He pointed to the man in middle of the platform. “This man is wanted for murder in Belensia. My partner—” he indicated Grant “—and I followed him to your village. He will be tried and sentenced by the court.”

“Were you going to take him by force?” Gwenhwyfar asked.

“If necessary, yes. I hoped he would come willingly once my partner and I cornered him.”

“Would’ve taken too damn long,” Grant muttered.

Sol ignored him. “With your permission, Chief, I’d like to return this murderer to Belenisa so he can answer for his crimes.”

“He’s about to answer for them.”

“He needs to be tried by the court in Belensia.”

“And what fate will they resign him to?” Her emotionless façade cracked, but only for a moment. “Do you not hang killers the way we do?”

Grant spat at Gwenhwyfar’s feet, saliva spattering her boot. “You’re hanging me and I didn’t kill anyone!” The crowd rumbled its displeasure as Sol drew his gun. Gwenhwyfar’s weapon appeared in her hand at the same instant.

For a moment, both weapons pointed at Grant. He swore under his breath when he glanced down and saw Sol’s gun trained on him. Gwenhwyfar followed his gaze and immediately turned her pistol on Sol. The crowd pressed forward, trapping him against the scaffold. She didn’t seem to realize Sol wanted to kill his partner at that moment—an easy mistake since Gwenhwyfar stood next to him.

Sol figured her bullet would go through his right eye before he could blink. And damn it all if he didn’t want to put a bullet through Grant’s head for this! It’d make him feel better, but it wasn’t what he came here for.

Sol gently released the hammer of his gun. “One more word out of you and I’ll send you straight to hell, Grant,” he said. He held his hand up in a placating gesture, slowly holstering the weapon. He looked over the barrel staring him down, hoping Gwenhwyfar only wanted to kill him half as much as he wanted to kill Grant.

Though she looked like she regretted the decision, Gwenhwyfar lowered her gun. She did not holster it, however.

“I’ll save you a seat,” Grant muttered.

Sol cut off any further interruptions with a sharp glance. He dropped his hands. The villagers stepped back enough to ease the tension but remained a threat. He looked back at Gwenhwyfar, relieved that she no longer seemed eager to kill him.

“Will you allow me to return to Belensia with my partner and this fugitive?”

Gwenhwyfar considered the two men for a minute, then turned her back on Sol. He thought she meant to leave without answering him, but she seated herself at the end of the platform. Sol edged closer for a better view as she rested her elbows on her lap.

“No,” she said finally. Sol wasn’t sure he heard her correctly, but her unyielding expression erased his doubt. He waited for an explanation, but none came. He cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence.

“Could you clarify, Chief?”

“I will not allow you to take your fugitive and your partner.” Again, Sol waited for her to continue. And again, she disappointed him.

“Could you explain why?”

Gwenhwyfar ran her fingers over her braids and sighed, obviously annoyed with his questions. “Your partner tried to force an arrest last night. Your criminal fought back. Two of my villagers involved themselves. One died by your murderer’s hand. The other was severely injured.” She frowned as if the thought troubled her, but she smothered the emotion so fast Sol thought he imagined it.

“And you’re hanging the both of them for that?”

“Yes.”

Sol frowned. It was exactly the same punishment in Belensia—but Grant served the law. Things like this happened. They reprimanded the offending officer, then sent him back into service. They didn’t kill a lawman for collateral damage. They had a seemingly infinite number of chances, but Grant burned through them at every opportunity. Sol was far less reckless, but he wasn’t immune to accidents. Eyeing the men’s nooses, he scratched his neck unconsciously, almost able to feel the coarse fibers digging into his skin.

“I can guarantee they’ll both face justice in Belensia,” Sol said firmly. “Grant will answer to our superiors.”

Without looking up, she asked, “Does your fugitive answer to your superiors as well?” Sensing she might still be convinced, Sol nodded. “Can you guarantee they will both hang?”

Instinctively, Sol wanted to lie. His eyes fell on the gun still in her hand. He wouldn’t trust a lie to get him out of this. “No, I can’t promise they’ll both hang. But Grant will be reprimanded for his actions.”

She rolled her pistol in her palms as she fell silent. Sweat trickled down Sol’s neck. He turned his attention to Grant and his bounty. Both looked skyward, wordlessly praying for mercy. Sol didn’t think they’d live through this, either.

“You may return to Belensia,” Gwenhwyfar said at last. She rose to her feet, the wild look back in her eyes. Again, she looked more like a feral beast than the village chief. “Take your criminal.”

“What about my partner?”

Gwenhwyfar shook her head. “Your fugitive stays if you take your partner. You say both will answer for their crimes, but you do not deal justice fairly. Both may kill, but one will walk free. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Grant serves the law just as I do.”

“He is a rabid dog that needs to be put down!” Even the villagers inched away from the scaffold. “Choose the criminal you will punish and leave.”

Sol opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. She couldn’t seriously expect him to just pick one and leave the other? But the severe look on her face left no room for argument. Sol looked back to Grant, and his partner stared back as if the answer should be clear. Sol wasn’t so sure.

“Get me out of this, Sol. We’ll just go back to Belensia and tell them he’s dead. Hell, we’ll take his body back.”

“Our orders were to bring him back alive.” Sol didn’t know if he was trying to convince Grant or himself. He didn’t like it either way. “The victim’s family needs to see him brought to justice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwenhwyfar nod almost imperceptibly—as though she approved of what he said.

Grant, on the other hand, looked ready to explode. He realized in that instant it was possible Sol would leave him to die. Sol’s mouth pressed into a hard line. Not only was it possible, but it seemed damned likely.

“He’s dead either way!” Grant sputtered. He fought against the rope binding his hands behind his back. “We’re partners, Solomon! Don’t you dare turn on me!”

Sol shrugged helplessly. He didn’t want to leave Grant at the chief’s mercy, but he couldn’t ignore the guilt niggling at his conscience when he thought of his partner getting off lightly. He should feel worse about his decision, but he didn’t. Something in his gut told Sol he only had one choice.

He was about to claim the fugitive when a disturbance broke out among the villagers. Sol turned as they parted for a breathless young woman pushing her way to the front. Gwenhwyfar shot to her feet, her jaw clamped tight. A light wind came from the east, carrying with it the mumbled words of the dirge. The villagers began to sing again.

“Chief, your son—” The woman’s voice strangled with emotion. She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry.”

If Sol thought she looked like a feral animal before, rage and anguish transformed her into an unholy demon. Her eyes flared behind the red war paint as she pressed the barrel of her gun to Grant’s temple. She pulled the trigger before Sol could even think to protest.

He felt the spray of his partner’s blood on his face as the bullet tore through Grant’s skull. Grant struggled to say something, but no sound came out. His jaw slackened. His legs gave out a moment later, but the rope around his neck snapped tight before he completely fell. His head rolled forward as he swayed in a gentle swell of wind. His knees scraped the wooden boards, but the sound was lost to the lament of the villagers.

Sol forced himself to look away, looking at Gwenhwyfar for some kind of explanation. Then he remembered what she said about the villagers who involved themselves in the fight last night. One was severely injured, she said. He glanced at the solemn woman beside him—she caught her breath and joined the morose singing.

“Lawman,” Gwenhwyfar’s voice called his attention back to the gallows.

She lifted the noose over his bounty’s head and grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him down the stairs. Almost as an afterthought, she waved at the headsman waiting by his lever. Sol barely noticed as the trap door swung open and two bodies dangled lifelessly. She handed the man to Sol unceremoniously.

Despite the decision he reached minutes ago, he didn’t like how Gwenhwyfar executed his partner. She had him in the noose already—shooting him was unnecessary. But Sol wasn’t about to tell that to a woman who just lost her son and avenged his death. Instead, he dipped his head respectfully. To his surprise, Gwenhwyfar returned the gesture.

“Thank you,” he said. He grasped his bounty by the arm and steered him away. He paused, wanting to offer his condolences for her son. Not sure if she would accept them, he kept walking. The villagers parted for them, the words of their dirge haunting Sol long after he reached Belensia.

For more on this story, I invite you to see what my classmates had to say about it in my post The Best and Worst of Critique Comments. More modern-day reflections on craft and the process behind this piece are in Reflections on Writing “Blood for Blood”.

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