WARNING: Sometimes plot bunnies can be cruel. Mine currently are. They forced me to write this.
If you don't want to deal with someone dying, better stop reading now!
I do not own the boys or the series and I do not make any money from them. My only gain in writing about Heyes and the Kid is writing experience and a warm feeling when I receive comments on my stories.
The Shot
The man might have lived if he hadn't raised his arm at that moment. Then again, he might have died anyway. If not from a bullet to his heart, blood loss or wound fever could have killed him.
But he did raise his left arm, to point out something in the sky to his friend, while his right hand rested on the other man's shoulder. And the bullet entering his back did its deadly work.
-o-
It was already late morning when the two men left the hotel. The brown haired one looked fresh and happy, the blond seemed grumpy. Dimples showed on the cheerful face, making it appear carefree and a little cheeky. Its owner started talking to his companion animatedly while they leaned against the railing of the hotel's porch and surveyed the scene in front of them.
They were in an ordinary small town in Wyoming, with a main street and several small side streets. Main was bordered by buildings with large false fronts; most were wooden, only the merchant store was made of bricks. From where they stood they had a good view of all the places they seemed interested in: a sheriff's several houses down to their right on the other side of the street, a café about the same distance to the left, the saloon opposite their vantage point and the livery stable, where their horses rested after a long ride, two houses along on the left.
There was little traffic, this being a small town and given the hour. A wagon trundled past, two women entered the general merchant, a group of children skipped past, some treasure clutched in a burlap sack. At this sight, the blond man finally smiled for the first time, maybe remembering what it felt like to be carefree and playful. He said something to his companion and nodded towards the café. A moment later they stepped down from the hotel porch and leisurely ambled along the street, towards the place still serving breakfast at this time. The brown haired man clapped his right hand on the other man's shoulder in a comradely fashion. He was saying something to him and pointed at the sky with his other hand.
-o-
The instant the shot cracked through the small town, the blond man spun around into a gunfighter's crouch. His colt seemed to have leaped into his hand as if of its own volition. Steely blue eyes narrowed to slits as they scoured the street and buildings for the hidden shooter, possible danger. But the only movement he could spot came from the children disappearing behind a corner, running away, most likely scared by the gunfire. No more shots rang out.
Then he heard another noise; again from behind. And from the look on his face, this one actually frightened him. Once more he spun around.
-o-
The dark haired man hadn't moved when his friend ducked out from under his grasp. His brown eyes looked surprised, the mouth still hung slightly open. He didn't turn to the sound and didn't finish what he had been saying. Then, suddenly, his knees buckled, and he fell, face-down, onto the dusty street.
-o-
It was the impact of his friend's body on the ground that made the gunman spin around the second time. Eyes, that an instant ago could have frozen any foe, widened and showed fear for the first time since the shot was fired. The man tried to holster his weapon and didn't even notice when he missed and the weapon fell to the ground. He was down on his knees by his friend's side, calling his name, touching his shoulder, but he got no response. In disbelief he stared at the small hole in the back of the brown vest. Only a little blood had trickled out, almost invisible on the dark material. This should be good news, shouldn't it? A bad wound would bleed heavily. But when he ever so gently rolled the other man far enough so he could see his face, he knew the truth. A wound only bleeds as long as a heart is pumping the life-supporting fluid around. The sightless eyes of his friend almost made his own heart stop too.
He hugged the unresponsive body to his chest, cradled the precious face, didn't want to believe what he knew to be true. A small crowd was gathering, someone called for a doctor, someone else for the sheriff, but the man kneeling in the street didn't notice, too absorbed in his grief.
-o-
Once the dead man had been brought into the undertaker's, the surviving partner began looking for the shooter in earnest. He knew by now that it hadn't been the sheriff or a bounty hunter or some upright citizen eager to earn the reward on their heads. If that had been the case, he would probably be dead by now, too, or at least in jail. So, who had fired the fatal shot – and why? Nobody had come forward to boast of killing a famous outlaw. Had it been some personal grudge? That didn't make sense. For one thing, they'd only arrived in town the previous evening and retired to the hotel after just one beer at the saloon. No opportunity to make deadly enemies. For another, if one of the two was likely to leave people carrying grudges behind, it tended to be himself. Had the shooter simply missed his target? Then why not finish the task?
The blond man started his search at the place where the horror had happened only a short while ago, a lifetime ago. Once again, he stood facing away from the café and studied the street, the buildings; searching for the place where the fatal bullet had come from. Eyes, now empty of tears, looked like blue ice. The killer must have been hiding, because he hadn't seen anyone moving, except for the kids. He had to have been close because the shot had been fired from a handgun. He could tell, because, after all, he was an expert on guns. This narrowed the radius of his search. The roofs of nearby houses would have provided good vantage points with ample cover, but due to the way the hotel balcony jutted out, it would still have hidden them from sight from all buildings in the right range. So, the fatal bullet had been fired from the ground or a window. Highly alert, right hand near his colt, the man began walking along the street.
Past the hotel was a barber's shop. It offered no hiding places, with its straight front and large window. But just behind it a narrow alley joined the main street. The shot could have been fired from the corner, but wasn't this the corner the children had disappeared behind? Had they run past the killer? Away from him? It seemed unlikely. Still, the blond man's eyes scoured the ground for any signs. And then he spotted it; in the shadow under the boardwalk of the barber's.
It was an old heavy colt, a little rusty in places. Kneeling down, he reached into the gloom and retrieved the abandoned weapon. Sniffing it, he could tell it had been fired recently. This had to be the gun that had killed his friend.
It didn't make sense. This was a relic, old and grimy, sticky to the touch in places. Who would –
At this moment he spotted something else. There was a board loose at the side of the building and someone had crammed some fabric behind it. The gunman bent down and retrieved the material. It turned out to be a small sack, just like the one the children –
And then the truth hit him.
There had been no killer, no assassination. Just a bunch of kids playing with a relic they'd probably found in a barn or an attic. A twist of ill luck had made his friend step into the path of a bullet not meant to hurt anyone. A bullet, the children had probably not even known about. One single bullet, which ended a life, a quest and maybe a childhood.
-o-
About an hour later, a rider left the small town, leading a sorrel horse with a long bundle tied across the saddle. The sheriff watched him ride past his office and shook his head. He'd never heard of a case of more rotten luck. Then he looked back down on the note the stranger had pushed into his hand, together with some coins, asking him to get it delivered to a friend, a Sheriff Lom Trevors. He'd send it from the telegraph office in the next town when he did his rounds.
It simply read: "Smith shot dead. It's over. Kid".
-o-