Damnation Road by Max McCoy

Little Door Woman,” Gamble said. He was standing and was holding the Manhattan easy in his left hand. “You’d best close that razor and let go of her.”
    â€œOr what, moralist?” Burns asked. “You going to shoot me?”
    â€œThat’s the size of it.”
    â€œHa!” Burns said. He put the razor against the girl’s neck and began backing toward the entrance, dragging the girl behind him. Her feet were kicking out wildly, and as they passed the crates on which the whiskey sat, one of her pink heels struck the bottle of Old Crow a glancing blow. It teetered for a moment, then fell and shattered on the bottles beneath.
    â€œOh, that’s coming out of your hide,” Burns said.
    Gamble cocked the Manhattan and advanced, trying to get a clear shot that wouldn’t endanger the writhing girl.
    A puddle of whiskey had formed beneath the broken bottles, and as it grew it began sending rivulets downhill toward the fire in the stone circle.
    Gamble cursed.
    The whiskey ran between the stones. Suddenly, blue flame was zipping uphill toward the bottles of liquor.
    â€œGet out of here,” Gamble shouted to Penny Dreadful.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    The liquor ignited with a whump as Gamble followed Burns and the girl outside. The razor had drawn a smear of blood where it touched her neck.
    â€œLet her go.”
    The lodge was brilliant with the glow of the alcohol fire and flames were shooting from the smoke hole.
    â€œAfter I trade her off,” Burns said, “I swear I’m going to come back and show you—”
    He didn’t get the last of it out, because the girl had sunk her teeth into the hand that held the razor. The muscles in her jaws stood out as she bit down, and there was the sound of teeth grinding on bone. The razor fell from his hand into the snow, and Burns cried out.
    With his other hand, he made a fist and struck the girl in the temple. She fell backward, a strip of his skin still between her teeth. Blood welled on the back of his hand and fell in splatters upon the ground.
    â€œRun,” Gamble said.
    Burns reached out and grabbed a handful of the girl’s long black hair, jerking her back. Gamble took his shot, shattering the man’s wrist apart with a .38-caliber slug.
    Now free, the naked girl ran.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on out here?” Buell asked, standing in the snow twenty yards away. He was wearing only his union underwear and a pair of unlaced boots. His stick man and other motley residents of the Porch were arrayed behind him.
    Burns held up the hand which dangled from the ruined wrist.
    â€œGoddamn you,” he said.
    â€œI’m sure he will,” Gamble said.
    Then he fired a round into the left side of Burns’s chest. The man staggered backward, his face gone blank with surprise. Then he steadied himself and, as realization came, he fixed Gamble with a wicked stare. He knelt, used his left hand to pick up the razor, then rose. He took a couple of steps toward Gamble, his face glowing with rage.
    Gamble fired two quick shots, the slugs hitting just inches from the first wound. Burns fell over dead in the snow, the razor still in his hand.
    The report from the last gunshot echoed from the side of Lookout Mount, then it became very still. The fresh blood steamed in the snow.
    â€œThat was murder,” Buell said.
    â€œIt was self-defense,” Gamble said, the Manhattan still in his hand. He ejected the three spent shells and replaced them with fresh cartridges from his pocket.
    Gamble glanced around for the girl, but did not see her.
    Then Gamble ran back to the burning lodge and threw the door covering aside. The heat made him shield his face with his arm. He shouted for Penny Dreadful, but there was no response—only the strangely sweet smell of burning flesh.
    He holstered the gun and walked around to the horses. The animals were shuffling and stamping their hooves, trying to move away from