The Man Who Hated Ned O'Leary (Dig Two Graves 2)

Cole’s eyes grew wide when Lars drew his revolver, and went straight for the trigger. Ned’s cry was as loud as the shot. Cole’s heart stopped for half a second when the scent of burnt gunpowder blew into his face, but Ned managed to drop to the floor and save his head from the bullet that left a hole in the wall. Never before had Cole been grateful that Lars was a bad shot, but in tight quarters and with enough bullets, even a child would hit its target eventually.

“For fuck’s sake, just die already!” Lars roared and took a step toward Ned’s cowering form.

Hesitation was death.

Cole reached back, grabbed his own six-shooter and blindly pulled the trigger once, then a second time, aiming at Lars’s hand.

The pistol rolled across the floor, leaving behind a trail of blood, but as Lars hissed, grabbing his injured limb, Cole saw a red stain growing at Lars’s side.

The room that had just smelled of sex now reeked of violence, but by the time Cole realized what he’d done, Lars was already collapsing, pale and with his mouth slack from shock.

“Y-you… you shot me,” he uttered, staring at the blood on his hand.

“No,” Cole breathed and grabbed a clean handkerchief that had been hung to dry. He dropped to his knees, yanking the tails of Lars’s shirt out of his pants to uncover the wound.

That first bullet had broken a rib that was now peeking out from bleeding flesh, and Lars watched it in disbelief, pale and gasping for air. “Do something!” he cried, grabbing Cole with the other hand as if he hadn’t noticed that his thumb was missing.

Cole pushed the fabric against the wound, but blood seeped through right away, staining his fingers. He’d handled injuries so many times but had never felt as sickened. The blood loss was too fast.

Lars begged him to stay, but Cole frantically ran to his saddlebag for some gunpowder and matches. Could he use those to cauterize a gash that had bone poking out as if an animal was trying to chew its way out of Lars’s body? If not, what else was he to do?

By the time he returned, Lars laid on his side, with blood soaking through clothes and creating a small pool on the floor. “I’m here,” Cole said, staring at the mangled flesh, but with blood pouring out with every breath Lars took, the reality of their situation dawned on Cole. A bit of fire could not mend this. “You’re dying.”

Lars sobbed, reaching out for Cole. “Stay with me? I don’t want to be alone,” he choked out with terror staining his blue eyes.

Cole couldn’t think anymore. He pulled Lars close, supporting him with his knee and arm, but the coppery scent of death was so overpowering he struggled to breathe.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I told you to stop and you wouldn’t,” he whimpered, grabbing Lars’s uninjured hand.

Lars squeezed back and scowled. “Because I wanted him dead!” Blood came out of his mouth with a cough. “I… I shoulda listened to you, and never come here for the Wolfman.”

Cole shook his head, holding on to hope that this was shock, but on the inside he was already mourning his friend. His throat was so tight he couldn’t speak, so he just rested his forehead against Lars’s and rocked with him while hot blood soaked into his clothes.

It was only when he realized Lars was no longer breathing or squeezing his hand that a long wail tore out of his mouth and filled the whole cabin.

What had he done?

Chapter 11

Lars was dead.

And Cole had been the one to kill him.

And for what? For the man whose life Cole had sworn to take.

This couldn’t be happening.

But as the person who’d been Cole’s only company for the past two years went limp in his arms and stared into the ceiling without the mischievous twinkle that made him who he was, it was impossible to deny the facts. And once Cole’s will to keep his cool crumbled, he was physically unable to stop shaking.

Lars might have been a bad man by most people’s standards—short-tempered and mean, but he’d proven his true worth as Cole’s friend when he’d risked his life to get him off the gallows. He’d stayed loyal while Cole had acted anything but.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, partner,” he whimpered, struggling to catch his breath, but seeing Lars’s eyes stare at him in accusation was too much, so he gently lowered his eyelids and hunched over the still-warm corpse.

He didn’t know if the mourning dove coo that came from the corner eased his pain or infuriated him to no end. In a world long gone, Ned and he used it to communicate sadness or compassion for the other’s pain, but now it felt like an attempt to exploit Cole’s weakness and pull him back into Ned’s clutches. Would it have really been so bad if it was Ned lying dead in a puddle of blood? At least then Cole would have gotten some closure.