Vigilante Justice

A letter posted to the long-abandoned DeSalle.

Dear Mrs. Damon,

How I hope this letter finds you. I have seen three wanted posters with your face on them just today. They say two men were shot outside of town. I must assume they stood in the way of your hunt for that cursed Leon Ulitsky, so I cannot blame you. I would only blame <i>myself</i> if you were punished for seeking justice on my behalf. I would not have hired you if the police were not so slow to hear my cries!

I hope to receive news from you soon. The quiet of my house is unbearable. Just as my husband was murdered on a regular business trip, I cannot help but wonder now, couldn’t I, too, be struck dead while simply walking to the general store or boarding a train?

I would give anything to have my beloved back. I shall have to settle for the satisfaction of knowing Mr. Ulitsky has been killed as well. Please move carefully and search hard, Mrs. Damon.

Abigail Coulter

A letter written on mud-stained paper.

Mrs. Coulter,

I found Leon Ulitsky. You’ll notice I sent this letter without a piece of his skull, like I promised, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. He told me about the day he met your husband. Ulitsky’s death won’t end your grief, and I’m writing to end my agreement with you.

I don’t need to repeat those tired old sayings about how even justice won’t return our loved ones. Your husband is never coming back out of the ground, but that’s a blessed fate compared to what happened to my Ralph. We <i>shouldn’t</i> wish them back. If the Corruption makes the cattle die and beetles grow from trees, then maybe our wishes are dangerous.

I won’t say more, to spare you more pain. I think the best thing to do is to think of Mr. Coulter as he was. Hold that close, and don’t let anything you hear change it. Else you might see him again after all, and not in any way you wanted.

-Joan Damon

An entry from a worn cloth-bound journal.

That damn woman ran me ragged. Took everything I had to run as long as I did, and when she caught up, I was so tired I nearly let her kill me without a fight. But she wanted explanations first, so I got to talking. Maybe it’s worth writing down.

Sure, I killed the man she mentioned. The gang and I were holding up a supply train into the bayou and found a Caldwell man on board with shipment of Uppercuts. He thought he’d fight back, but I put a stop to that and took one of his guns for my trouble. Searching his pockets, though, I found the delivery address for his shipment: It was for Superintendent Huff Jones of the Louisiana State Asylum.

Didn’t think much of it at the time, but I learned the rest later, in whispers here and there, about what they’d done with those guns, and to who. If I’d known then, I’d’ve shot old Mr. Coulter twice. There’s no such thing as good men in this world: not doctors, not sheriffs, and certainly not me. But Joan lowered her gun and left as quietly as she’d come.

Guess I got lucky. I hunt alone, but if Joan and I meet again, I’ll hold my fire too. Just once. LU