Button Willow McKittrick

Even from a distance, Willow could tell the man needed a bath. Or a dunk and a vigorous scrub in the river. He wasn't just dirty; he was grimy. And the man was trouble, Willow could tell from first glance.

Willow watched from the small passageway next to the general store while the man tied his horse to a post and walked into town and straight into the saloon. The man didn't even tend to the horse before walking off to get a drink. Willow was no expert when it came to horses, but the mare seemed weak and in desperate need of water.

Every fiber of her being told Willow to steer clear of the man. He is a bad man, the ghost of her mother whispered. Still, she couldn't let the horse suffer. Willow balled her fists and pounded them on her thighs to screw up her courage, and walked to the hitching post. She filled a pail with water and set it on the ground in front of the horse, who immediately began to drink. After a few minutes, Willow began gently stroking the horse and humming it a light tune.

"What do you think you're doing?" boomed a voice behind her.

Willow spun and found herself standing face to face with the horse's owner. The man was filth personified.

"Taking care of your horse, since you didn't," Willow said, without a moment's pause. Her mother had raised her to care for animals. And to speak her mind.

The man ogled Willow. She watched as his eyes traveled up and down her body several times. She knew exactly where his gaze paused on each trip.

"What's your name, young lady?" the man asked.

Willow held back a shudder at the grime that practically coated the man. His clothes were dusty, his face was caked with dried sweat, and his hair was greasy. His heart, she had no doubt, was black and hard.

"None of your business," Willow answered. After a beat, she added, "just take care of your horse properly next time." She turned to walk back into town.

The man rushed forward, grabbed her arm, and spun her around. She wondered whether being violent was just the man's nature or whether the several shots of whiskey he'd likely just downed played a part. Didn't really matter, she decided.

Willow felt a wave of fear rush over her. She was trying not to show it, but the man scared her. She wished she had her rifle.

"My name is Willow McKittrick. My friends call me Button. You're no friend of mine, so you may call me Miss McKittrick."

Rage surged within the man. Without warning, he backhanded Willow across her right cheek.

Willow somehow managed not to cry out. She reached up and touched her cheek, looked at her fingertips, and saw a small trickle of blood.

Before Willow could say anything or run away, Old Abner Wilson walked up to where Willow and the stranger were standing. Wilson was a hummingbird of a man and at least eighty, but there was something about his bearing that commanded respect.

"Stranger. You best apologize to the lady," he said calmly. There was no mistaking the ferocity in his voice.

"And who are you, tiny little man?"

"Name's Wilson. And like I said, you best apologize to the lady."

"Or what?"

"There's no 'or'," Wilson said matter of factly. Willow wanted to kiss the old man.

The stranger must have realized that Wilson was not someone with whom to trifle. He turned toward Willow and in an exaggerated bow said, "I apologize, Button."

"That's 'Miss McKittrick,'" Willow and Old Abner Wilson said in unison.

The man bristled and said, "Miss McKittrick." He mimed tipping his hat to her, despite not wearing one. Willow knew that the bow, the fake hat tip, and the apology were not sincere. She also knew she was lucky Mr. Wilson had walked up when he did.

"You go on home now," Wilson said quietly to Willow. Willow gently squeezed his arm and headed back into town. She was relieved not to have to look again at the stranger.

"I suggest you conduct whatever business you have here in town and then be on your way," Wilson said to the stranger.

"I'm looking for a bed for the night. Been riding hard for ten days."

Wilson pointed to the north and said, "Next town's only a few hour's ride that way. If you leave now, you can get there before sundown."

~ ~ ~

Willow walked straight home. Despite her bravado she'd exhibited when facing the stranger who rode into town, she was still shaking when she got home. For a long time, she alternated between cleaning her rifle and sitting, agitated, at her table. She knew that the reason she couldn't eat was the adrenaline surging through her body. Finally, by sundown, she was able to eat a small bowl of soup. Instead of lighting a candle and reading, she went straight to bed. Her bravery had taken its toll on her and once again she was reminded of her mother's wisdom that bravery is not the absence of fear, but rather doing what is necessary despite the presence of fear.

At some point, while the world was dark other than the stars high in the sky, Willow woke with a start. She sat up in bed, perfectly still, and listened. Was there an animal outside? Sometimes a few of Mr. Johanssen's cows made their way toward her house. Maybe it was a coyote? Just as she was convinced there was nothing outside and was about to get back under her blanket, she heard another sound. A slow creak from one of the boards on her back porch. A sound not likely made by an animal.

Willow quietly walked to her front door, opened it slowly, and waited. After a few deep breaths, she went through the door and quietly made her way a few feet down the front of the house to where she'd leaned her rifle the night before.

"Lookin' for this?"

Willow knew the man's voice instantly, even if she couldn't see him in the darkness. As much as she wanted to say something to scare the man off, Willow's fear had grabbed her throat and was squeezing. She could barely breathe. She was having a hard time staying upright.

The man took a few steps forward and Willow could finally see him. Three things immediately became clear. First, he hadn't bathed since she'd seen him earlier. Second, he'd made another visit to the bottom of a whiskey bottle since his earlier trip to the saloon. And third, he was there to hurt her.

"Let's go inside, Button." There was menace soaked into his quiet voice.

Willow somehow managed to stumble back into her house. She knew being inside alone with the man was a mistake, but she didn't see a way around it. Maybe she could get her hands on a knife or some other kind of weapon.

Once inside, the stranger closed the door and set the rifle on the ground just inside the door. Willow's eyes drifted to the kitchen and the man immediately snapped, "Don't even think about it." He motioned with his head toward the bed. "Over there."

The shame of what was about to happen washed over Willow McKittrick. Her mother had told her about men's baser instincts and warned her to steer clear of situations like the one she found herself in at this very moment. I'm sorry momma. Still, she wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"What's your name, mister?"

"My name is Buck Denniston. My friends call me Bucky. And you may definitely call me Bucky." Willow knew he was mocking her for how she'd responded when the man had asked her her own name. "'Cuz you're gonna get lucky." The stranger cackled at what Willow presumed was an old stand-by of a rhyme.

Willow swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

Bucky Denniston slowly walked toward where Willow was standing. As he approached, she backed up until she was practically pinned in the corner of her bedroom, next to her bed.

"Mr. Denniston, could you at least wash up a bit first?" Anything to buy time.

Denniston laughed. Willow could see the dirt and dried sweat crack around the man's evil eyes. He paused and then surprised her when he said, "Sure, why not? Been meanin' to anyway."

The stranger walked to her wash basin and plunged his head straight in. Dirty water sprayed everywhere as he raised his head out and scrubbed his face with his hands. Dunk, spray, scrub. Dunk, spray, scrub. Eventually he reached out and used her towel to dry his face and neck. Willow could see the soiling on her towel from across the room before the man tossed it on the floor.

"Better?"

Willow said nothing.

Denniston quickly crossed the room to where Willow was standing. He roughly put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto the bed. Before she could scamper off, he jumped on top of her and pinned her wrists to the bed.

Willow wanted to retch from the man's breath. Whiskey mixed with raccoon mixed with evil. She struggled to get her arms free to no avail, and bucked her hips in the hopes of knocking the man off of her. Denniston cackled again, then smacked her with another backhand across her cheek.

Just as he was about to escalate things, Old Abner Wilson crashed through the door with his gun pointed straight at the stranger.

"Get off of her. Now."

"Or what?"

"There's no 'or'," Wilson said flatly, repeating what he'd said to the stranger the previous day. Without warning, he fired and the stranger tumbled to the ground, holding his shoulder. Blood oozed from the wound, through Denniston's fingers.

Two lawmen entered Willow's house as Denniston writhed on the floor and cursed. They walked quickly to hoist him up and took him out of the house. They were not careful. They were not gentle.

Once the lawmen and Denniston were gone, Abner Wilson quietly walked to where Willow was now sitting on the edge of her bed. "Are you okay?"

Willow wrapped her arms around her body and shivered.

"Here. Take this," Wilson said as he wrapped a blanket around Willow's shoulders. "Do you want me to stay with you for a while?"

Willow, still unable to speak, nodded almost imperceptibly. She leaned into Wilson's shoulder and her tears finally flowed.

~ ~ ~

The two lawmen lay dead by the side of the jail. No one noticed until sunrise.

~ ~ ~

Bucky Denniston's horse was gone. Willow, Abner Wilson, and the rest of the townspeople hoped Dennison was gone for good.

~ ~ ~

The next evening, Willow spread some baked pumpkin seeds around the perimeter of her house as an early warning device of sorts. Her rifle was at the side of her bed.

~ ~ ~

That night, Willow tossed and turned for hours until she realized sleep was not going to come. Deciding that she might as well be productive, she lit a few candles, then darned a pair of socks and continued sewing a new blanket. The blanket called for something called a waffle stitch, something Mrs. Avery taught her. She was excited to learn the new stitch, and she really loved the violet, iris, and lavender colors she was using.

After an hour or so, in the middle of the night, WIllow put her knitting down, picked up her rifle and a candle, and went onto her front porch. The town was quiet and dark. She could hear the coyotes off in the distance to the south. Just before she turned to go back inside, hopeful she could finally fall asleep, she noticed a sliver of light bouncing in the distance, near the edge of town.

Willow, unsure of where the light was coming from, continued to watch. Maybe it was a firefly? But the light, as small as it was, was larger than that. The light bounced and swayed. What on earth? She closed her eyes and mentally oriented herself. The light was near the edge of town, off behind the graveyard. What was out there?

Then it hit her. That's where Old Abner Wilson lived ever since his wife died years ago. The stranger!

Willow raced into her house, put her candle down, changed into a pair of trousers and a long sleeve cotton shirt, grabbed her rifle and whistled for her horse. Less than a minute later, she was riding hard toward Old Man Wilson's home.

~ ~ ~

Bucky Denniston was no stranger to violence. Despite the wound to his shoulder from the old man's shot, he had Old Man Wilson on the ground and was punching him repeatedly. Wilson tried to cover his head as much as possible, but he'd lost two teeth and was bleeding steadily from his mouth. His left eye was swollen shut. As Dennison pummeled his stomach and kidneys, Wilson felt at least one rib crack. He wasn't long for the world when WIllow rode up on her horse, coming to a stop just a few feet from the men.

"Well looky here," Denniston sneered.

Willow was terrified, but knew that Mr. Wilson now needed her, just as she'd needed him twice before.

"Get off of him," Willow said with as much force as she could muster. "Now." She tucked the butt of the rifle into her shoulder and aimed it at the horrible stranger.

"Or what?" the man asked, daring Willow.

"There's no 'or'," Willow said flatly, repeating what Mr. Wilson had said to the stranger twice before. Without warning, she fired.

The cruel stranger tumbled to the ground. This time blood oozed from a hole in Denniston's chest.

"That's a good line... 'There's no "or."'" Wilson coughed as he joked.

"Be still now, Mr. Wilson," Willow said. "Let's get you inside."