This is a story where the bad guy wins. Where the snakes in the grass of the past rise up and strike the unwary. Where some decent folks get taken advantage of, and where the riches go to those who do the deeds. Where one man will tip his hat to fate, and another shoots his arrows at moving shadows, hoping for a hit. There'll be two sets of twins, slowly circling in toward each other, and a man with one hand. One hand left. His left. Superstitions. Vultures, greenhorns, wagon wheels . . .  When will this land grow up?

The Tenney twins were camping in an abandoned shack just the other side of the hills from town. Everybody knew that they were out there, but no one thought to bother or disturb them. They were native sons, born and raised in these parts, and for the most part, had been good boys. Now that they were tall, and stringy, and wired up like a hundred miles of fence, all taut and straight and sure, they garnered some respect. Folks said that either one or the other would one day be the sheriff of these parts. Maybe the two of them together. Would be a first, but, where one went, the other went as well. It was just the nature of the two of them together. That they were always found together. Finishing each other's thoughts. Helping one another. Like having an extra set of eyes in your head. An extra set of legs, and arms, and an extra heart. Either one of them was good enough for anyone, and there were two of them. Camping out there in that crumbled-down shack, lighting a fire in the evening, cooking up a meal. Finishing each other's plates of beans, and never letting any coffee go to waste. Even their horses looked alike. One had a large brown spot on the left side, and the other one had one on the right. Only difference.

Augustine Tenney was lying in the bunk, and he rolled out in his sleep and hit the floor. Waking up his brother with the thud.

Anthony Tenney looked over at his brother from his own bedroll, saw him lying on the floor, and asked what happened.

"You alright? Looks like you fell right out of bed."

"I . . .  I must have slipped."

"Slipped? Looks like you slid. You having dreams again?"

"Aww, I don't know. I don't remember. Let's just let us get a bit more shut-eye, before that sun comes shining back around again. Got lots to do today. There's lots to get to."

The two twins got back to sleeping. In the morning, they rose, and stretched, and sopped up some of the leftover gravy with what was left of their biscuits. Drank scalding coffee made from running the boiling water through some day-or-two-old grounds. Not the strongest, but the temperature of it helped wake them up. The bad taste of it, too.

"Might as well just pour the water through some of this dust around here. It'd be thicker, at least. Instead of this old shit."

"Yeah . . .  We need to get to town, get us some supplies."

"That's what we're gonna do today, isn't it? That's what we talked about doing."

"We will. We will. You got your pistol ready? Cleaned and loaded?"

"You know I do. You watched me working on it just yesterday."

"You got your bullets on you?"

"Brother . . .  Sometimes you worry me. Always fussing on the details like you do. Almost acting more like a mother to me than a brother. I mean, I'm much obliged, you looking out for me and all, but . . .  You don't need to worry on it so much. I'll be fine."

"I know. I know. I saw you're ready. It's just . . .  Ain't you nervous? You just gotta know they're in there, waiting on us. Knowing we'll be coming in one day."

"Well, so what if they are? We can take them. Don't you think? We can . . . "

"We can get our fool hungry heads blown off, is what we might be doing. Just walking in there like we ain't got any concern. End up carrying bullets up to heaven with us, is what we're gonna end up doing. Bullet holes and grief. That what you're wanting?"

"No. Of course I wouldn't want that. But some real coffee would be good."

The Tenney twins both laughed at that, and after a quick scrub of the dishes and a look around, checking to make sure they were prepared, they saddled up and began to head to town. Riding slowly, even though they knew the way. They knew just about every trail there was to know around there. A few of them they'd made themselves. Why the Norths hadn't ever come out to where they'd been camping was kind of a mystery, but Augustine reckoned it wouldn't look good, them coming out like they was in a hunting party. Everyone in town knew the Tenneys hadn't committed any major crimes. It was more like a blood feud, just something that had happened between the Tenney brothers and the Norths. Folks who knew them both had tried to talk some sense into them, to get down to the bottom of it and see if there was some way things could settle. "There's just no way," the Norths would respond, not endearing themselves to the locals much in saying it. What with the history of feuds and such, everybody waited until it all played out. Hoping for the best, but knowing someone was going to have to die about it.

Meanwhile, the man with one hand, Mr. Roston, sat up on the hill, in his big fancy two-story house, surrounded by the things his money had bought for him. With servants, and helpers, and men who'd do whatever it was he needed doing. Ranch hands, miners, hired guns . . .  Mr. Roston owned most of the whole town by now, and he had his eyes on what was left. Like a lot of bad men of the West, he was greedy, mean, and acted like he didn't have a soul. The Norths were on his payroll, and he was hoping they would turn out like he did. His own son had been killed years before, and in the time since then he'd somewhat adopted, as it were, the Norths. Took them in, kept them fed, kept them busy . . .  His idea of 'adopting' them was basically just to use them, as they were fast with their guns and good shots. Always had been. As they grew older, even more so. Being twins, they had very similar abilities. It was like having two of the best gunslinger around. The best, except for the Tenneys. Everybody knew they had it over the Norths when it came down to it. That's where the real roots of the feud between them were. To see which set of twins would prove to be the better, quicker shots. It really just came down to that.

Mr. Roston had gotten rich from mining. There'd been gold found on his property, and once the mine was started, the men found chunks so big they'd often rub their eyes in wonder. Large oval-shaped rocks of gold, like big tears inside the earth. The men would scrape the dirt off from around them, and they'd be as big as a man's thigh, sometimes, or skull-sized. Everyone got a piece of what was going on, but Mr. Roston took the largest for himself. He was the boss. He owned the land. He paid the guards well, to make sure no one got away with any of the gold, and for the most part, they did their job. A little piece or two might have slipped by, here and there, but the main haul was untouched. Making Mr. Roston one of the wealthiest men for hundreds of miles in any direction. He was a coward, though, through and through. Had his own men killed while they were sleeping, just to keep them quiet. In ways which were not honorable. Took their gold dust from them, their cornmeal . . .  Sneaky. Cold blooded.

The Tenney's father, Cliff Tenney, had been the sheriff in town. Had always been a righteous man, but one who never lorded it over his neighbor. Everyone knew he was an honest man, one who did his job and kept a level head about it. When he stood up for a man who was going to be dragged outside of town, by Mr. Roston's men, and lynched, the people of the town knew the man must be innocent. There would be no other reason for Sheriff Tenney to step in like that. He talked of releasing him, not of putting him in jail to await a trial. So he must not have done what Mr. Roston, through his hired guns, had said he'd done. Yet, when the dust did finally settle on the situation, the accused man was dead, lying on the ground with a dozen bullets in him. And the Sheriff was beside him, breathing his own last breaths, hand still on his pistol, pistol still in its holster. Gunned down for no good reason. The townsfolk knew that Mr. Roston was a bad man, then, for sure. Whoever had still doubted it, now knew without a doubt. Sheriff Tenney had a proper burial, and was spoken of in mostly whispers ever since, but he was not forgotten. Not by his twin sons, especially.

The Tenney twins were riding toward town, and the morning was already hot. They didn't know what they'd come across once they reached the main street, but they felt that they were ready. Ever since their father was murdered, they hadn't lived in town much. They still did, at first, but then they slipped away. Roamed a while, and took on some jobs, but they eventually came back. They'd yet to be in town again, but it was now or never, now. They could each feel it coming to a close, and felt it was going to happen this very day. Neither one of them were killers. In fact, neither one had ever killed a man. If they had their choice, they'd never pick up another gun again as long as they lived. They'd much prefer to be peaceful, just live as farmers or store owners, husbands, raising kids and such. Something more worthwhile than revenge. If they could just ride into town, and get their supplies, and be done with it today, then, fine. That would be that. If it was trouble that they'd find, they'd go facing it head on. No more hiding, they thought. Let's get this over with. Our father's in the ground, and there's no ever bringing him back. But they weren't quite ready yet to join him there. So they rode into town together, carefully. They'd prefer to be non-violent, but . . .  They'd do whatever they had to do.

The Norths were still asleep when the Tenneys entered town. It was another of the hired guns who went and woke them up. They got excited, and strapped their guns on, and started to run right out there, when Mr. Roston said to stop. Said they'd all wait a while, and see what happened. "Let them think they're gonna make it," is what he said, chuckling to himself beneath his breath. "Let them almost think they're gonna make it . . . "

Mr. Roston's thoughts drifted back to when he was younger, back to when his hand was chopped off. He'd set out to find the men who'd killed his brother, and he had found them. Got caught up in a trap they'd set, with no way out, and they'd surrounded him. He'd vowed to take revenge on those who had killed his own flesh and blood, and there he was, tied to the ground, his hand lopped off with a hatchet, lying not too far away from him. How he didn't die from the loss of blood had always been a question rattling around his mind. An Indian had found him, had brought him to his people, and they had healed him. There was nothing to be done about the hand, but they'd helped to seal the wound, and saw him through his fevers and recuperation.

You might think, being helped like that, by people who'd asked nothing in return, he might have turned a page somehow. Might well have given up some of the badness weighing down his heart. All it did was add more fuel to his hatred. For the Indians who helped him, he had nothing but thanks. He'd never go against them. But for the bandits who'd robbed him, who'd taken the very life of his one and only brother? Never. He'd track them down if it was all he ever did.

Within two years, he'd done so, with the help of hired guns. He even rode among the posse. Wanted to be with the men who took the lives of those who had done him such wrong. They'd been thieves stealing from thieves, but that was no concern of his. There were bullets to the brains of those who'd chopped off his hand, and knives across the throats of those who'd killed his brother. Eye for an eye, a life for a life. Full-blown obsessive retribution. Mr. Roston's reputation as a man to watch out for was just about solidified right there. He left behind a bloody patch of land. But he never left the memories behind. His stump of a right arm reminded him of that at every turn. While learning to be left handed, without a choice. Still feeling some sensations as if his right hand was still there. He'd get sudden pangs of pains, an itch, or he'd reach for something with his stump, not being able to grasp or pick things up with it. He'd killed those killers, but he still felt filled with rage. Still felt incapable of being able to really ever put an end to it all. Still thought of his hand out there, the bones in the sand somewhere. Or long ago in the belly of a coyote, or dragged up to an ant hill by some hungry ants.

When Mr. Roston would go out to his brother's grave, and would bow there, on his knees, staring at the marker . . .  Having vowed to get revenge, and having done so, yet still feeling like a failure somehow . . .  He expected there to be a ghostly grip upon his shoulder, his brother's voice from the beyond, telling him it'd be alright. He never heard that, though. He never heard, 'You already have' or 'Thank You', or anything but the wind. A hoot owl swooping by, and the shrieking of a rabbit. Dead leaves rustling in the trees above the graveyard. He didn't think he'd ever find real peace, and it disturbed him. All the gold in the world could never buy him that, and in the knowing of it he knew despair. He knew he'd never find real happiness. He knew he'd already lost too much, no matter how much wealth he discovered or hung onto. He knew that he was doomed.

He was in love with Miss Truly, though, or as close to love as a man like Mr. Roston could ever feel. She had loved the Sheriff, though. When he'd been murdered, and everybody knew that Mr. Roston had been the one to put those men up to it, had paid their fees to do the killing, Miss Truly closed her heart to him forever. Not that it had ever been even close to being open to him, but from then on, he would never have a chance. She wouldn't even look at him, or speak, or acknowledge him in any way. She thought of moving to the coast, but with her parents still around these parts, and what with them getting older and still needing her help around the place and what not, she stayed. She knew that when they passed, if she was able to, she'd leave. She'd sell the place, or give it away if that was what it took, and she'd pack her few important belongings and get as far away from there as she could. She'd never take another man to be her own, her heart being for the Sheriff and for Sheriff Tenney only. She'd really loved the man, and he had professed his love for her. They'd talked of getting married.

His wife, the mother of the twins, had died in childbirth, and he'd had a lot of long tough years raising them on his own. Once they were old enough, he'd told Miss Truly, "We'll join ourselves in holy matrimony." That had been the plan. He wanted his boys to not look on her as a mother, but as an equal. "Once they become men," he'd say . . .  But he was gunned down before that. His life was taken from him, and not just from himself, but from Miss Truly, and from his sons. From the townsfolk he'd pledged to look out for. His death had been a loss for the whole community. It was still resonating among them to this day.

The Tenney twins rode into town. Past the stable where their father had kept his horse, and the restaurant where he'd take his meals. Past the barber who would trim his hair, and who'd been one of his good friends. Down past the jailhouse and the saloons.

The Tenney twins eased their horses to a stop outside of Johnson's general store, tied them to the railing, and went on in. Their eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside, squinting and refocusing.

Anthony went off to find the rope, the matches, and other items, while Augustine moved toward the foodstuffs.

The word was out, the Tenneys were back in town, and the people began to talk among themselves about it. A few of them walked in the direction of the store, but when the North boys were seen riding down the street, most scattered. The Norths rode until they were outside the front doors of the place, then called for the other twins inside.

"Tenneys . . . " They both called, in unison. "You best come out."

Inside the store, the twins had heard, and were deciding how to react. They could ignore it, and finish rounding up their supplies. Which is pretty much what they did. They could step outside, and try to talk things over with the Norths, and probably get their heads shot apart. Which is most likely what would happen. The way those boys yelled 'Tenneys' sounded like bullets just raring to fly. Or they could go out there, guns firing, and take care of it once and for all.

They paid for what they'd chosen, stacked it all up against the wall by the door, and slowly stepped out, side by side, into the sunshine.

The hand of every twin that used a gun was at the ready. There was silence in the air. The people who were still around to watch were nervous and distressed. No one was willing to step in and stop it, but no one wanted it to happen, either. Four hands at the sides of four gunfighters. Four trigger-fingers thinking four steps ahead. Whichever set of twins drew first might come out the winner, and when the four hands blurred and moved themselves to action, most of the spectators closed their eyes and couldn't watch. Four loud pistol blasts rang out, and four again. Like thunder. Ending the young lives of two sets of twins, the four men dying because of what had been done in the past. Four fast shots that each took a life, and changed the town even more.

As the smoke cleared, and the townsfolk wailed and cried, the old grave digger walked out to look the bodies over. Mumbling to himself about how the gunslingers always left their messes behind, and never took care of any of the afterwards.

"At least this time, all the ones who threw bullets at each other caught one. No one left to clean up anything," he was thinking, measuring the first twin. Figuring if he measured one of each, he wouldn't have to do them all. Each set must be pretty similar, he'd decided, as he went about his work.

Mr. Roston chuckled to himself, and sat there at his table eating a hearty meal. He lived a long, full life, married a woman thirty years younger than himself, and had a couple more sons to hand his wealthy legacy down to. He had even more money when he died than when all of this had happened with the twins. He would think about the killings in his life as just stories from the past, more than something he should ever feel remorse about. He made sure to enjoy the best of everything.