The population of Break Creek in the spring of that year stood at 124. There had been three births, but seven deaths, that summer, and both the Wellington and Paquette families had left the community altogether. The Wellingtons departed after the landslide in July, a landslide that many believed had led to the poisoning of the underwater streams that fed the wells in the community. The Paquettes left late in September, for a reason that none of those who stayed begrudged them – they were scared.

No new families arrived, and by the time of the harvest, the population stood at 101.

Over the last few weeks, the air had become filled with tales of ancient Indian spirits; curses from two-hundred-year-old witch trials; even the glass that had broken in one of the windows of the small chapel that served Break Creek was blamed. As the harvest came to an end, the townsfolk had come to a conclusion. There was one in their community who was rarely to be seen. One who, when everyone else came to help in the landslide, did not come. The same one who did not come to offer aid when the Browne farm was on fire. One who lived far away from the others in a cabin on the ridge. One who they had all become afraid of. And one who Tom Brule was now leading his party against. They were armed with rifles, pitchforks and anything else they could gather.

–000–

In the small tavern at the heart of the town, Joe Clayton cursed the two hours that had passed with no sign of Tom and his party. The agreed signal was a fire on the ridge where the cabin sat, which was clearly visible from the window Joe sat next to. Two hours had been plenty of time, and it was clear something had gone wrong. Sitting around Joe were his two oldest sons, his three brothers, and his brothers’ oldest children. There were fourteen of them in total, and in their hands they all held the same make and model of Winchester rifle. The Clayton family was well-established in Break Creek, being three generations in, and owning a well-respected horse ranch. The weapons had been purchased especially for tonight, and whilst Joe could easily afford them, he hoped the fancy repeating rifles would somehow earn their price in the future too.

They had been purchased from a fellow everyone in town had come to know as the Stranger. The Stranger was a trader who had been passing back and forth through Break Creek all summer, his main clientele being the gold prospectors up in the mountains north of the creek. How he had come to be known by that name, no-one was quite sure, but everyone welcomed him. When the landslide occurred, the stranger handed out shovels from his wagon, never asking for compensation. When the fire occurred, he stopped and helped ferry water from the creek to the flames. Whenever he passed through, he always took the time to chat to those he came across, and was always ready with a helping hand, no matter how banal the task. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Stranger, the summer could have been a lot worse. Joe raised his glass to him as he stood up, and left the tavern with his band in tow.

Joe and his family were well-used to hunting together in the hills around the town, and were able to move swiftly and silently up to the ridge. When the cabin was in view, they spread out in a line.

Joe whispered, “Not going to give this son of a bitch any chance. As soon as we get near that door, fire.”

Inside the cabin, in the dark, Tom Brule lined up the members of his party, with their guns facing the door.

“Not going to give that son of a bitch any chance when he returns. As soon as he gets near the door, open fire.”