By Sword and By Bullet

Inspired by true events.

The bullet hits just beneath my ribs.

No warning. No time. Just heat—searing, tearing—like a red-hot brand driven through wet flesh.

I drop to the earth, mouth open wide, trying to cry out, but there’s no breath. Just blood. I taste it immediately—thick and metallic—like an old penny dissolved to liquid. No. Worse— like sucking on the wrong end of a used and rusted horse show nail. It floods my teeth, trickles down my chin. My hands find dirt. My knees buckle inward.

The world tilts.

I hit the ground hard.

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Osawatomie is burning. I can smell it but my vision is clouding. I’m twenty-four. Too young too die. But death doesn’t care. I can tell. It’s come for its pound of flesh. I recall how we got here—what I’ve done. And I know I owe this. I may be young but my sins are old—ancient. Am I not my brother’s keeper? And who is my brother?

I hear the gunfire still—behind me now—shots snapping through trees, men shouting, hooves pounding. Smoke rides the wind. Cinders drift across the sky like fireflies gone wrong.

My fingers claw at the soil, but I can’t feel them anymore. Can’t tell if I’m crawling or just twitching. My side is warm—too warm. I press into the pain, trying to hold myself together.

I can’t die. Not yet. Not before I say it. Not before I try to understand.