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“Well,” Donny muttered, stubbing out his own smoke against a wooden post. “God rest his soul and all that.”

The horses were quiet in their stables. Even they seemed accepting of Ferris’s fate.

“Oy,” Patrick called loudly and kicked the sole of Ferris’s foot. “Up you get.”

The man came to slowly, eyes rolling. His pupils dilated at the sight of Gunner leaning over him. “Hello, Ferris,” Gunner said.

Even as a boy, Gunner had been possessed of the ability to shrivel a man where he sat. Patrick wagered there were none in Kenton Hill who did not fear him. He’d seen the turn of their pallor in his presence.

Ferris now resembled a trapped rodent, trying to curl in on himself. Already, he blustered. “I—I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what, Ferris?” Patrick asked.

His breaths snagged in his chest. His syllables came ever more disjointed. The Colsons hadn’t yet touched him.

Donny took a pistol from his pocket and pointed it in the vague direction of the cot.

Ferris quaked. The unmistakable smell of piss scented the air.

Gunner didn’t move. He looked to Patrick, now confused. “Mercy killin’?” he asked. “I thought we was here for sport.”

“We are,” Patrick assured him. “Put the fuckin’ gun down, Donny.”

Donny reluctantly lowered his gun, nose wrinkling.

“Scottie and Briggs are just rounding up some of your colleagues, Ferris,” Patrick told the man on the ground. “They’ll be joining us in a moment.”

As though summoned, feet could be heard slapping off the compacted dirt outside. Briggs stuck his burly head into the stables. “Got ’em, Patty,” he said.

Patrick nodded. “Get him on his feet, Gunner. Let’s see how fast this pig can run.”

Gunner grabbed Ferris’s arms, ignoring his whining protests. “Gunner,” Ferris coughed. “Please, Gunner… We were friends.”

Gunner merely scoffed, taking Ferris’s scruff in one hand and forcing him out into the night.

Standing like strays between Scottie and Briggs were five others, allknown former hawkers. All now in more morally gainful positions. The Colsons gave second chances, just not to traitors.

“Hello again, boys,” Patrick said to them, making his voice louder than the growing wails of Ferris. “Pardon the interruption to your evenin’. We’ve brought you here to help us decide your associate’s fate.” They shifted uneasily, not wanting to look at Ferris, nor any Colson. They all stared at their boots instead. Except one, who glared at Patrick with obvious defiance.

“All of you,” Patrick continued. “Have been given new jobs. A fresh start, if you like.”

“Shovelin’ shit,” said the bold one, Leon. “Or chasin’ rats round the canals.”

“But employment nonetheless,” Patrick countered, undeterred. “And yet, Ferris here has decided to throw away the opportunities handed to him. You look like a betting man, Leon.” Patrick held aloft a coin, flipping it to show both sides. “If it’s heads, then I shoot Ferris as he runs.”

Leon’s eyes went wide. Ferris whimpered behind Patrick.

“Tails, and I’ll let you decide who gets to shoot him.”

Leon looked once to Ferris, pupils widening, and then he nodded. “I want to flip the coin meself.”

After a brief contemplation, Patrick threw the coin to him, “Be sure to give it back, won’t you? Times are hard.”

Briggs and Scottie chuckled.

Leon’s fingers shook around the coin. He squared his feet and shoulders as though preparing to throw a grenade. He gave Ferris a nod in solidarity, then flipped the coin on his thumbnail.

It spun and spun, then fell and fell, right into the waiting cradle of Leon’s palm.