The syrup would go perfectly with the steaks he was frying and the biscuits that his wife had warming in the oven. He placed the jar on the kitchen table and produced an old brass lighter from his pocket. With it, he lit three large candles that occupied the center of the table, before sitting down.

Mrs. Thames rested her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.  Slowly, she made her way to the stove.  She removed the last of the steaks from the skillet and placed them on a plate.

“Are you cooking for an army, Franklin Thames?” she asked.

“Jake and Kate and his brother are coming by after church.  I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

“It’s alright dear.  Things’ve been so different lately it’s easy to forget.  I’ll make some more biscuits.”  She placed the venison on the table in front them and sat down.  “What were you two talking about on the porch?”

“Jake asked us to move in with them.  One house is easier to keep watch over and he said they’d help safe up the livestock.  I think we should do it, at least until things get better.”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, dear.”

Frank arose and grabbed a small bowl to pour the syrup in.  They ate the few biscuits she had prepared as well as several of the steaks, before contently retiring to their living room.  Frank reclined in his leather chair and pulled a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket.

“I might let you get away with smoking in the house old man, but if I’ve known Kate Sellers a day, I know she certainly won’t.”

“Maybe so woman, but I’m not in Kate’s house yet.”  Frank smiled at her as he lit the cigarette and took the first drag.

“You better watch your tone old man, or I’ll leave you here all by yourself.  Then who’ll listen to you bellyache?”

They laughed. Frank climbed out of his chair and disappeared into the kitchen.  He emerged with two tumblers, one half full and one with just a splash of scotch.

“Here you go, my dear.”

“What’s this?  You know I can’t stand the taste of that mess.”

“I know, but this deserves a toast.”  He handed her the glass.  “To a house full of kids, again.”

“I suppose I can drink to that, just this once.”  She smiled as they clinked their tumblers. She took the tiniest sip of the caramel colored liquid.  “Please, tell me again how you drink this.”

“One sip at a time, my dear.  I’m going to finish this glass and take a nap.  Wake me up in an hour or so, please.”

“Alright, I’ll make some more biscuits and put up the steaks until they get here.”  She struggled to her feet, before slowly walking back into the kitchen. Frank finished the scotch in two large gulps, smashed the cigarette in the ash tray and closed his eyes.

***

The headlights in the driveway awoke Frank from his nap.  He eased out of his leather recliner, walked to the window and peaked out of the blinds.  The vehicle’s silhouette was larger than what he had anticipated, but his mind was still foggy from his nap.  He stared out of the slit as he tried to process what he was seeing.

Four armed men quietly slipped out of the dark SUV and carefully moved towards the front door.  His heart jumped and his pulse quickened. His muddled mind finally understood.  He turned and moved towards the kitchen as quickly as his stiff body would allow. Frank yelled to his wife, “Margaret, hide!  We’ve got trouble!”

There was no response.

He fumbled about in the dark kitchen, searching for the lever action carbine he kept loaded and ready.  Where was it?

Finally, he brushed against the walnut stock of the carbine.  Frank pulled it tightly to his shoulder as he heard something crash against the front door.  The reinforced frame held true and bought Frank a few extra moments to gather his thoughts and get in position behind the kitchen counter.

He welded cheek to the stock and peered down the barrel.  He steadied his aim.  The front sight was blurry to his old eyes, but the door was clear as ever.  The living room windows welcomed in the illumination of the large moon that still hung in the sky.  He said a silent prayer and counted his blessings, however small.  An hour later and the moon would likely have been hidden by the storm clouds that were drifting his way.

Again, the intruder crashed into the door.  Frank fired two rounds through the door with brutal efficiency. It sounded as if it had been a burst from a semi-automatic rifle.  The ancient carbine’s action was as smooth as butter.  Thames worked the lever forward, then back; forward, then back.  He heard a thud on the porch outside.  A man’s voice erupted with groans and curses as he writhed painfully on the wooden planks.

Another man tried to lean in and fire into the house, but Frank hit him squarely in the forehead.  The intruder never made a sound as his knees buckled and he slid down the wall, not the Frank could have heard anything.  His ears perceived nothing, save the high-pitched ringing that plagued them.

He slid a counter drawer open and fumbled with the box of ammo that was inside. At the same time, he tried to maintain watch of the front door.  Frank had four rounds remaining in the carbine.

Suddenly, a blur leaped past the opening of the door.   Immediately afterwards a fourth intruder pushed his rifle into the opening and fired a dozen rounds indiscriminately. Frank pressed himself tightly against the floor.  He had dropped the box of ammo as the rounds had begun to fly.  Cartridges were strewn all about him.  He grabbed several of them and stuffed them in his pocket. Frank found several more and pushed them into the carbine.

He watched the drywall explode around him as the intruder’s rounds perforated his home.  Canning jars burst like bombs and debris flew through the air.  Dust and smoke filled the kitchen.  Frank tried to stand and return fire, but a second volley filled the air around him again.  He crawled out from behind the counter and along the wall until he reached the kitchen’s threshold.  From there, he could safely peer into the living room and beyond.

His body ached from the awkward movements that it was not accustomed to.  He alternated between trying to count the number of rounds that were fired at him and praying for at least Margaret’s life to be spared, if not his own.  He leaned around the threshold and steadied his sights at the wall beside the front door.  As the intruder’s rifle swung into view for a third volley, Frank unloaded all seven rounds into an area the size of a tombstone in the wall.  He sighed with relief as he watched the rifle clatter to the porch.

Thames rolled onto his side and coughed in pain.  Only then did he realize he had been shot in the legs and his shoulder.  Maybe he did not dive to the floor for cover, he thought to himself.  Perhaps he had collapsed.

He never saw the figure that was watching him through the kitchen window.  He struggled to sit up against the wall and catch his breath, but never accomplished that final task.  He never felt the high-powered rifle round as it pierced his skull and killed him instantly.

***

The stranger smashed the butt of his rifle through the glass pane in the door. He reached in with a gloved hand and unlocked the dead bolt.  He stepped into the kitchen in his black western boots and swaggered over to the old man.  He patted his lifeless body and found the hand-rolled cigarettes in his pocket.  He retrieved one and rolled it between his fingers for a moment, before lighting it.  Satisfied, he stepped over Frank’s body and strolled into the living room.

He stepped out onto the front porch and looked at the mess that lay before him.  Two of his associates were lying on the porch dead and the third was spitting and coughing up blood.  He removed the Beretta from his shoulder holster and rested it against the dying man’s head.  The man began to sob and beg for his life, but it mattered not.  The man in the black boots squeezed the trigger as if he was putting down a lame dog.  The body slumped onto the porch.