By: Dalton Henderson

“CRACK”

“Don’t take ONE step closer!”

The bullet sliced through the air above his head, a sound that had unfortunately become familiar. Luke Hendry ducked behind a wagon and rotated the cylinder of his revolver, half as a nervous assurance and half out of habit.

“Name’s Luke Hendry—Sheriff of Kirwin. You know why I’m here.”

“I assume you’ve brought the money,” the man shouted in a smooth and sharp voice from a small cabin in the Wyoming foothills.

“Are the Billings still alive?” Luke asked, hoping to get a better idea of what he was dealing with—knowing full well even if he could convince the town to pool their money, it wouldn’t come close to what was demanded. He figured these men were not from here, otherwise they would have known to choose a different town.

“They are, and they’ll stay that way as long as we get what we asked for.” There was little apprehension in his voice, as though he’d done this before. The wagon Luke was behind was only about 20 feet from the entrance of the cabin, and both men could hear each other clearly. The men inside were holed up tight—no faces in the windows, no sign of movement—just voices from behind old wood walls.

“Have them call out. One by one. I want to hear them,” bellowed the young lawman.

Rustling and commotion could be heard from the cabin, and then silence. A woman’s voice broke into a whimpering exclamation, followed by two small children, a boy and a girl.

The woman was a widow named Mary Billings. Ever since her husband passed 3 years prior, she’d been working out of their house as a seamstress. She had an 8-year-old daughter named Elizabeth and a 5-year-old son named Elijah. Mary had recently left town to see her sister at Fort Laramie.

A few moments later the voice from the cabin sounded again, “Okay. You heard they’re alive. Now toss the bag to the door. Once we count it, we’ll let them go, and we part ways.”

The lawman figured the man on the other side of the door sounded young—not too different from himself in age. He also pegged him as educated—there was precision in his tone, and the way he chose his words.

“You’re asking for a lot. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Kirwin, but that’ll take more than a few hours. They’re working on it,” the lawman said, rotating the cylinder of his revolver to check for six rounds once again.

“Our note was clear, Sheriff. I’d rather not paint these walls with the blood of a woman and her children—but I will. And I’d rather not do the same with what sounds like a young lawman—but I won’t hesitate there either. If the money’s not here in an hour, she dies first.”

Luke could hear Elizabeth and Elijah begin to cry while their mother tried to comfort them.

“Quiet down!” came a voice from the cabin, a different one from before—one with a little more age in their growl. Luke slumped back down behind the wagon and looked at the sun dipping low over the horizon toward Kirwin. Luckily, it’d be dark soon. Involuntarily his mind drifted to earlier that evening when his wife, Alice, was standing in the middle of the road begging him not to go. Begging her husband to ride to Onessa to gather more lawman before going after the bandits, but he knew there would be no time. He pictured her now, alone on their porch, staring down the road she begged him not to ride.

“Was I wrong to come alone? Was she right?”

A couple moments in thought passed in silence before the sheriff’s mind snapped back to the situation at hand.

He yelled over the wagon,

“What should I call you?”

“You can call me Miles,” replied the younger of the two men.

“Well now, Miles… they’re gathering the money. It’ll be here soon. I can tell you, I’ve been sheriff four years, a lawman for seven. I’ve seen hijackings, robberies, murder—everything in between. And I’ve put these men behind bars, or in the ground.

With time, I’ve come to better understand the kind of men who do these things. But the ones who hurt women and children—they’re different. They don’t walk this earth the same way the rest of us do.”

Luke continued, “That woman you have in there is named Mary Billings, and those are her kids Elizabeth and Elijah. Mary was born in Kirwin, spent her whole life here. She’s the one who sewed the very pants I’m wearing. Elizabeth works in the stables—says she’s loved horses ever since she could talk.

And Elijah… he’s such a sweet boy, Mary never has to ask twice for someone to watch him—the women in town adore him.

I’m telling you this so you know what you are putting at risk. So tell me, are you like the others? Or are you something different entirely?”

After a few seconds, Miles replied, “What kind of man I am isn’t your concern. It’s easy to imagine a villain that fits your story, but the truth is this—their fate rests in your hands, Sheriff, not mine. To suggest that I’m solely responsible? That’s a convenient story.

Where is Ms. Billings’ husband? From the way she was traveling—and the fact he’s not here—I’d guess he’s out of the picture. If we hadn’t picked them up, someone else would have, farther down the trail. Traveling like that, alone with children, was reckless.

The burden lies on YOU, and on the rest of the town, for letting a woman and two children set off without protection or a plan.”

The sheriff considered that a moment, then called back, “You must be educated—I can hear it in the way you talk. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have done more to keep them safe. But if you’re educated, then you should understand this: for that family to be in danger, a man—likely one with the same justifications you’re clinging to—has to choose to threaten them.

Every man walks a line between justice and corruption. You chose corruption. Just like every man I’ve ever locked behind bars. And no matter how you dress it up in excuses or inevitability, you bear the full weight of that choice—you, and your soul.”

“You think we have a choice?” Miles called out. “Only someone who’s had the privilege of choice could believe that. I bet you went to bed with a full belly most nights growing up—parents to tuck you in. And I’d wager there’s a woman waiting for you now, wondering when her husband’s coming home.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind through the trees and the soft whimpers from inside the cabin.

Miles continued, his voice quieter but edged with something darker. “In some ways, I envy you—that illusion you live in. Justice. Corruption. ‘Protect and serve.’ Makes no difference. If it wasn’t me who grabbed them, it’d be someone else. And long after you’re gone, Sheriff, there’ll still be thefts, murders, and robberies. Nothing changes. In the end, we’re just two men getting paid—doing what we can with what we’ve got.”

Luke sat back, his eyes drifting again towards Kirwin. The sun was completely down over the horizon, with the moon peeking through the clouds. He thumbed open the loading gate of his revolver to glance at all six rounds once more, and then replied,

“It may not matter to you,” Luke said, “but it matters to those three innocents in that cabin—and to the people who care about them. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’ll always be men like you. But if no one believed in justice, there’d be nothing left for men like you to take.”

As Miles replied, Luke eased out from behind the wagon, staying low and keeping to the shadows as he crept toward the cabin door. “Like I said, Sheriff… I can respect your folks for giving you that kind of illusion. Not everyone was lucky enough to live with their heads buried in the sand—”

“THUMP”

In an instant, Miles’ sentence was cut short by the door crashing open with a vengeance and the appearance of Sheriff Luke Hendry. Before anyone had time to react, Luke’s revolver cracked with deadly precision, striking the older of the two bandits in the center of his forehead. The man began to collapse to the floorboard and the Billings family began to scream. In the fractions of seconds that ensued, Luke looked to his left and locked eyes with Miles.

Miles had blue eyes and brown hair, with soft and handsome features. He stood about 6 feet tall, and couldn’t have been over the age of 25. Miles had already drawn his pistol, but for the span of a heartbeat, it hung frozen at his side, while he intently looked at the man before him. Luke was not burdened with the same fraction of a second delay, and he aimed in and fired a single round.

Miles raised his pistol and fired, but by the time his pistol was oriented towards his target, he could already feel the pummeling shock straight through his neck. His gun fired errantly, striking the top of the cabin as his body thrust backward and down into the ground.

Miles laid on the ground, holding his neck as blood quickly rushed onto his shirt and the cabin floor. Luke stood over him, watching the recognition drain from his eyes as he pried the revolver from his grasp.

He checked the cylinder of his revolver—four rounds left. He walked over to the other side of the cabin and untied the Billings family. He asked if there were any other men, and then told them to start packing the wagon that had been stolen. He told them he’d be coming out behind them shortly.

Luke had planned to wait for nightfall, using conversation to keep them distracted long enough to strike. He stepped back toward Miles, whose eyes still clung to the man above him—just seconds of life remaining.

“Why’d you hesitate?” Luke whispered, almost solemnly as the tunnel vision that gripped him since kicking in the door began to fade. He stood in silence, watching a young man die—his question left unanswered.

The last flicker of life disappeared from Miles’ body, and Luke stepped outside to bring the Billings family home. 

###

Dalton Henderson is a 23-year-old Army Ranger in U.S. Special Operations. “The Billings Ransom” is his first submitted story. It explores moral complexities and life-altering choices drawn from his military career and overseas deployments, reflecting on justice, corruption, and their consequences.