"I told you this was a bad idea," Miles snapped, speaking in the general direction of where he thought Bass might be.
He didn't know exactly, because he'd been walking with a blindfold and had been for the past hour. They'd been on their way to Austin for a "boy's weekend," a bachelor party of sorts prior to Miles' wedding. They were just a day into their journey when they'd come across evidence of the displace war clan that had been troubling the area for the past several months.
The clan must have been small, because for the most part their raids had been kept to a minimum—going after small traveling parties and leaving the larger trade caravans unmolested. On occasion, a small party would venture into a town in the cover of night and do a little robbing, but that had only happened a few times and for the most part, they left any homeowners that may have been present unharmed.
With Rangers everywhere, it had been amazing that they'd managed to remain undetected for this long. Not that the Rangers hadn't tried—they'd just failed miserably, despite how close to the capital their camp must have been.
Bass had, of course, gotten a wild hair up is ass about tracking. He'd been restless and beyond bored ever since he'd let Miles convince him to "retire" in Willoughby after the war. This at least presented the opportunity for some action, he'd argued. And then he'd whined about how he missed having a good fight every now and then.
His pardon had been contingent on his good behavior. As such, he couldn't even get into so much as a bar fight without risking its revocation. Texas had been quite clear on that one; keep his nose clean or he could find himself swinging from the nearest tree or with the executioner's needle in his arm.
And so, despite his better judgment and the fact that they were only armed with a gun and a blade apiece, Miles had given in to Bass' stupid whim. They'd hidden the wagon just off the road and he'd followed Bass' lead as he'd started to track their "prey." This had been with the understanding that if they actually managed to succeed where the Rangers had failed, they would immediately go get some backup.
Miles had reasoned with Bass that they weren't armed well enough to take on even a small war clan. They were good, but they weren't that good and on top of that they'd both been out of action for six months. If they actually managed to find their main camp, the Rangers would probably be more than happy to let Bass go charging in there like an idiot with them. If anything, they'd consider him an excellent meat shield.
They'd definitely found their trail. Unfortunately, the clan's scouting party must have figured it out. They'd gotten the jump on them. Coming out of nowhere, they'd somehow managed to subdue Bass almost immediately. Miles reminded himself to ask his brother about that one later—if they managed to get out of this in one piece. It had been like Bass hadn't even seen the blow coming…
"You didn't have to go along with it," Bass' voice drifted to Miles from somewhere behind him. "Why is that whenever I suggest something, you blame me because you decided to agree and it goes wrong?"
"Because you're suggestions are always fucking stupid, you idiot!"
"If they're so stupid, then doesn't that make you the idiot for listening to me?"
"Shut up!" One of their captors ordered.
"God, can't we just shoot them now?" another whined.
And yet another spoke up. "My god, it's like dealing with my damned kids."
A fourth one just snickered at that as a voice from well ahead of them called. "Will you stop goofing off and hurry it up? We don't have all day. Someone might actually miss these two morons."
"Not likely. If this is how they always act, they might pay us to keep them—or kill them," Voice number one grumbled under his breath.
Knowing better than to annoy their captors too much, Miles didn't reply to Bass' taunt. It told him what he'd wanted to know at any rate. Bass was about ten feet behind him and to his right. If they kept bickering nonstop, the clansmen would only separate them further—or shoot them with their own weapons and be done with it.
Before they'd been blindfolded, they'd, of course confiscated those. One of the mooks (he thought it might be voice three, but wasn't sure) had been given them for safekeeping. It was obvious that they were only armed with clubs and blades. They hadn't pulled a single firearm during their capture. After the war, guns and ammo had gotten scarce again and more than likely, their guns would go directly to the warlord in charge of the clan.
They walked on for a little while further. They'd been taken off the main road and through the brush just a few minutes prior. Knowing they were getting to far off course, Miles started in again. "God, this is just like you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Bass snapped right back.
"You did the same thing in Hartford," Miles told him.
"What about that crap you pulled in Salem, huh?" Bass countered. "Pot and the fucking kettle, pal."
Miles considered this. "Okay, I'll give you that one… but you're still a dick."
He stopped walking then.
"Get moving, asshole," voice one sneered.
"Sure, no problem," Miles said—right before he charged the guy, ramming him right in the gut. Both men went falling and on the way down, Miles used his bound hands to get the man's blade from him. Just as he'd remembered, Voice One carried it on the left and he hadn't even had it out of the scabbard all the way before Miles had used his hands free, having sliced the half-rotted ropes with it before grabbing the hilt.
He could hear footsteps from behind so he needed to act fast. He stabbed the man he'd taken down and raised it just in time to block the unseen attacker's weapon. The sound of a scuffle to his right—now a lot closer than ten feet—told him that Bass was making his move as well.
Striking out with his foot, he caught Voice Two off guard and sent him to the ground in a huff. This gave Miles time to gain his own feet and rip the blindfold off with his free hand. Without bothering to check on Bass, he gutted the second man before he could get his bearings.
He took a club to the shoulder then, grunting with the impact. He heard something crack and saw stars. It sent him to his knees, forcing him to drop his sword. The last thing he heard was Bass calling his name—and then nothing…
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Bass turned just as he'd taken down his second clansman. They'd miscalculated the fifth man's distance, however. Before Miles even had time to turn away from his own second opponent, the lead man had gotten too close and had swung his club down. Bass could hear Miles' bone break as it made contact with his shoulder.
He was already running towards them both when the club came down again. "Miles!" he called out, a desperate warning to get him to move, but it was too late. The club connected and Miles went all the way down. Bass grabbed the clansman from behind and used the sword to slit his throat. The man made a gurgling sound and then slumped to the ground.
Bass went to Miles and rolled him over. He was out light a light. Perfect. He heard a sound to his left and managed to turn just in time to block a hit to his blind side. The man that Miles had initially taken down was holding his side, but was not yet down for the count.
He managed to disarm Bass and went to strike again. Bass charged him and they both ended up in the dirt. As the warrior fell, his own sword went flying. They fought for a few minutes, but the clansman still had a knife on him. They continued to fight for the weapon—Bass was by far more skilled, but his opponent was younger and had weight and size on his side, despite his injury.
They rolled and Bass lost the upper hand. The other man was now atop him and the knife came down. He was just barely able to catch the guy by the wrist and keep the knife just above its mark. He shoved his attacker's hands to the right with all his strength and the knife went into the ground, just barely slicing the side of his neck.
Bass head butted him and with a flailing arm, found purchase on a fairly large rock. He picked it up and slammed it into the side of the younger man's head. He kept the blows coming until the body above him went slack. Panting, he shoved the unconscious man off of him. Without a thought, he reached for him and snapped his neck. "Try getting up from that," he said with a grunt.
Winded, he got to his feet. Right now, his only thoughts were survival. He went over to the first man he'd taken down. If he was right, that was the guy that had their guns. Panting, he ignored the blood trickling down his neck and rolled him over.
The small knife he'd concealed in his sleeve was still imbedded in the dead man's throat. He picked it up, wiped it on the corpse's shirt and slid it into his boot. Thankfully, Miles had taken the hint about Salem. If it wasn't for their disturbing ability to recall damn near every battle and bar fight they'd ever been in together, they'd probably be dead now.
As it happened, Hartford had been an actual battle—Salem had been a bar brawl gone seriously wrong. The town had been neutral turf and they'd been drinking heavily when a rival militia had shown up. One thing had led to another and the next thing they knew they were on their way out back to be shot. The bar's rules had been simple—weapons outside, but of course the rivals hadn't complied. Bass hadn't really either. He'd ditched his gun, but had kept a small knife hidden in his sleeve just in case. That one had ended up saving their lives in the end.
Bass searched him and found their guns. If these men had been smart enough to use them, the outcome would have been a lot different. As it was, they hadn't and now Bass went up to each of them—including the man whose neck he'd broken and put a bullet in each of their heads, just to be sure.
He grabbed their confiscated sword belts and went back to Miles, fully expecting him to have come around by now. "Come on, time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he said as he went to help him up.
Miles didn't respond. Furrowing his brows and starting to worry, Bass tried again. "Wake up, Miles. We don't have time for this." He slapped his face a few times for good measure.
Nothing. "Dammit," Bass grumbled. They sure as hell couldn't stay around here, so Bass picked up in a fireman's carry and fled towards the wagon. He wanted to put as much distance between them and this warclan as possible.