A Day Early, A Dollar Short – Chapter 3

A dark form highlighted by the morning light caught the Kid's attention as his horse carefully picked its way along the rocky trail. A turkey buzzard drifted lazily on an updraft, swirling gracefully in a circle, dipping and rising on the thermals above the aspen-shrouded mountain. How could something so ugly on the ground be so beautiful in flight, mused Curry? As he watched, another bird joined the first, performing an aerial ballet, then another, and another until a squadron of scavengers filled the air.

The Kid's stomach soured and it had nothing to do with his recent illness. There was only one reason for so many buzzards to flock together. He swallowed bile. He was torn between wanting to hurry along the trail skirting the cliff face and wishing he could manage to turn his horse around on the precipitous path and go back the way he had come. As he neared a tight bend, his eyes closed while he steeled himself against what he might find. He felt his horse turn the corner and tense up before erupting with a nervous snort. Blue eyes flew open to see one of the large raptors sink to the ground and hop towards the corpse of a dead horse reposed at the bottom of a long, gouged route ripped through the steep hillside. It wasn't hard to read what had happened. He'd been following two sets of tracks, now there was only one. The other had died a terrible death but even at this distance the Kid could tell it wasn't Heyes' bay and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever God cared about ex-outlaws.

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Mac fought through the thick shrubs, stepping over tangled roots, bending branches out of his way, and avoiding jagged, broken limbs. From the looks of it, Heyes' horse must've left the trail at a full gallop. He chuckled. Critter might just make his job a helluva lot easier. It wasn't hard to track the outlaw's path and he wouldn't be surprised to find Heyes skewered on a low-hanging tree branch. He'd be disappointed, though; he wanted the pure pleasure of snuffing Heyes.

He wished he'd just up and killed Heyes outright when they first crossed paths. If he had, Dickie would still be with him. He sniffed. Damned, he'd loved that horse beyond all reason; bred and raised him right there on the farm; broke him real careful for Andy. The boy'd only been eight when Mac had given him Dickie, but he'd manfully handled the responsibility of caring for the beast. He could still remember the look on Andy's face when he put him in the saddle for the first time. Both he and his son had been so proud. This time a tear spilled and he wiped it, and the memory, away on a grimy shirtsleeve.

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A small rock tumbled downhill as Heyes and his bay wove their way through a stony field. He wished he could hurry the animal, but the footing was too treacherous. Concealing his tracks by using rocky ground was slow going at best and he didn't have a choice about which direction to take. Both man and beast were parched. They had to find water and water flowed downhill. He would follow the first dried up feeder stream he came across. He'd already decided against going back up to the trail, the climb would've taken too much time and energy. He was too weak and he couldn't be sure the fall had killed Mac. The man might still be after them.

His foot swung free of the stirrup. It was too painful to put any pressure on the swollen limb and he had to constantly shift position to keep his leg from contacting the saddle. It hadn't looked any better this morning when he'd cleaned it and changed the poultice, but it hadn't looked any worse. He'd have to be grateful for that. He was still feverish and fuzzy-headed and it took all his concentration to stay upright and not drift off to sleep. The tea he'd brewed from the chokecherry bark had helped take some of the edge off, but it'd tasted terrible. At least a generous dollop of whiskey had made the awful brew a little more palatable, but he'd missed his morning coffee and ended up washing out his wound with the rest of the concoction. Heyes patted his shirt pocket reassuring himself his bindle of white willow bark was still there. He'd save that for a last resort.

What day was it? He couldn't be sure. He was having difficulty keeping track of time but it didn't matter anymore. The amnesty was as good as gone, all those years, all that risk, and it was gone. Maybe it would be better to just lie down and die. The look on the Kid's face when Heyes told him he'd lost both the packet and the amnesty would kill him sure enough.

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One of the buzzards turned to face the Kid as he crept towards the dead horse. The huge bird opened its beak threateningly and spread out its wings in warning. The others kept at their grisly meal. Each time he took a step forward, the angered bird would feint at him, snapping its beak and driving him back in a bizarre game of give and take. He had to get closer. He needed to see if there was another body hidden behind the huge corpse but he couldn't just shoot the feathered ghoul. What if the rider had survived? He couldn't risk a gunshot. The last thing he wanted to do was to let anyone know he was here. Losing all patience with the stalemate, he took off his hat and rushed at the birds, flapping his arms and hat. The scavengers coming in for a landing veered away, but the four on the carcass extended their wings, hissing at him, and bravely standing their ground. He skidded to a stop out of reach of their razor-sharp beaks and began lobbing small rocks and stones at them with deadly accuracy. He hit one in the face with a satisfying smack and the gruesome scrounger took to the sky, the others swiftly following.

The Kid circled around the body noting the bullet wound in the horse's damaged forehead. That explained the shot he'd heard. He breathed a sigh of relief before turning his attention to the empty rifle scabbard and crushed canteens attached to the broken saddle, recognizing one of the canteens as his partner's. He examined the saddlebags. Whoever had put the animal out of its misery had left a lot of gear behind. The man wanted to travel fast; he was going after Heyes on foot.

Turning away from the body, the Kid scanned the path of destruction coming down the hillside. A single, dusty boot lay discarded under a small bush and the Kid felt his blood run cold. It was Heyes'-the man had taken Heyes' boots. Was his partner still alive? He scrambled up to it and looked for the other, finding it midway up the slope. Angry and furiously cussing as he climbed the hillside, Curry retrieved the second boot. Descending, he saw a single set of tracks cutting across the slope, clearly visible, and he walked towards them until he could see the impressions deep boot heels had made sinking into the soft soil.

The advantage was the Kid's now. He and his horse were fresh from their long night's rest and the slow progress he'd made on the rocky trail. He hurried back to his horse, tied Heyes' boots on top of his bedroll, and mounted before riding away from the carnage.

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Upon reaching the bottom of a narrow valley, Heyes found a damp streambed carved through the trees. He rode alongside it as much as the terrain allowed scanning the exposed rocks and stones until he found a small pocket of stagnant water. He reined up the bay and awkwardly dismounted; his head spinning. He steadied himself for a moment before tying the horse to a shrub. The animal shifted impatiently from leg to leg nearly as thirsty as its rider.

Heyes pulled the whiskey bottle from his saddlebag. He couldn't risk a fire to boil water, but he hoped the alcohol would kill whatever was growing in the dank liquid. Dropping to his knees with difficulty, he dipped the bottle into the pool filling it to the brim. He waited a few minutes and then drank thirstily, being careful to stop before the bottle was more than half empty, leaving some of the diluted whiskey. After re-filling and corking, he struggled to his feet using the branches of a thorny bush and gouging the palms of his hand before noticing the plentiful rose hips ripening along the banks. He knew he couldn't eat too many of them, they were too acidic. At least they'd provide some nourishment while his horse could forage on the brown grasses interspersed amongst the wild roses. A nicker drew his attention. His horse's ears were pricked in his direction, and the hopeful animal was pawing the ground.

"Easy, pal. Let me get this put away then you'll have your chance." He limped to the bay and tucked the bottle in the saddlebag, untied the reins, and led the horse to the water. The animal drank greedily, draining the pool dry. Heyes patted him, his mind on what to do next. Sooner or later, he'd reach civilization but could he last that long? The way he felt it wouldn't be long before he fell out of the saddle. He had to find a place to hole up until he got better or…didn't.

The horse began to wander along the streamside, tearing at weeds while Heyes leaned heavily against the saddle, taking the weight off his damaged foot. As his mount ate, he gathered the rose hips, eating some, and tucking more into empty pockets. He discovered a small patch of wild onions as well as a clump of prickly pear tucked behind a cluster of rocks. The fruit was long gone, but he broke off the smaller, thinner pads. Looping his arm through his horse's reins so the animal could continue feeding, he sat down on one of the rocks and used a sharp stone to carefully scrape off the needles from the cactus pads. A ray of sunlight penetrated the shelter of the trees and warmed the chill in Heyes' bones as he worked. He wasn't hungry, but he had to keep his strength up. The fever was wearing him down. Biting into a raw pad, he alternated between the cactus and the onions. The reins tugged gently at his arm as his horse grazed.

The last time he'd eaten cactus he and the Kid had been holed up in a box canyon hiding from a posse on their tails. Being on the run had taught them a thing or two about staying alive. As he chewed, his thoughts skittered aimlessly. Had Mac survived? Was he going to die alone? The Kid should be on his feet by now, but was he on the way yet? They'd always figured when they went, they'd go together. Heyes wondered if the Kid would ever figure out what happened to him or would his bones be scattered by animals, never to be found? As lurid images filled his fevered mind, his eyes grew heavy and his hands relaxed, his arm slipped from the reins. The last of his meal fell to the ground seconds before he did.

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Hurting, Mac had slowed to a mincing walk carefully picking his way through the mixed spruce and aspen forest. Windblown trees impeded his progress forcing him to step over or around them. His stacked-heeled cowboy boots weren't made for hiking and he wished he'd kept the flat-heeled ones he'd taken from Heyes. He couldn't go any further. The sun was dipping below the mountainside and dusk would be coming on quickly. He'd camp here for the night and give his aching feet a rest. Limping over to a snagged tree, he sat down and tugged off one boot and then the other, moaning as he rubbed his blisters.

Adding to his discomfort, he'd lost Heyes' tracks not long after he'd found the clearing where the outlaw had shucked his handcuffs. It had taken a long time to skirt that rocky hillside and pick up a trail again. His hand dropped to the cuffs now dangling from his belt. How the hell had Heyes gotten out of them without a key and with his hands behind him? Mac had taken every precaution he could think of and the man had still gotten away. Everything he'd ever heard about Heyes appeared to be true. The man was wilier than the Devil himself. If and when he caught up to Heyes, he wouldn't make underestimate him again. This time, he'd plug him between the eyes the first chance he got.

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The big fire crackled merrily but the man warming his hands over the flames was morose. Worry was eating at Kid Curry and it wouldn't stop until he found his partner. He was pretty sure he was closing in on the man chasing Heyes and he'd hated having to stop for the night. He had to find Heyes before the man did. Trailing behind wasn't going to work and neither was blundering through the forest in hopes of stumbling across Heyes. So the Kid had come up with a plan.

He tipped his face up and watched the long column of smoke swirl upward. Satisfied that it could be seen against the dusky sky, he got up. His bedroll lay near the fire, stuffed with his saddle blanket and extra clothes. He glanced at his horse. Tied and unsaddled, the animal browsed on a small sapling. The stage was set. The Kid melted into the surrounding forest and waited.

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The smell reached Mac's nose before he saw it. He looked up from his dinner of cold beans and watched the tendrils of smoke drifting across the canopy of trees. He waited for the plume to thicken into a forest fire but the billowing grayness simply dissipated into the sky. He had company. Could it be Heyes? Who else would be this far off the trail? Whoever it was, he'd check it out but he'd be damned careful doing it.

He waited a long time for darkness to settle around him, watching the flickering light of the distant campfire glow brighter through the heavy underbrush. When it was dark enough, he pulled on his boots before he picked up his gun belt and got to his feet. He buckled the belt, tied down his holster, and then walked slowly and silently toward the flames.

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The Kid's eyes kept closing and he would occasionally nod off only to have the weight of his head awaken him again and again. Every once in a while he would shake his arms and legs to keep the blood pumping. The moon slipped slowly past the stars and was sinking to the east when a tiny sound roused him from his stupor. He'd heard something. He was sure of it. Revitalized, he peered through the trees, his attention keenly focused, as the sky lightened with dawn.

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Mac felt around for another stone in the thick brush. He'd been watching the man sleeping and was getting tired of waiting for him to roll over. He knew it wasn't Heyes. Not unless he'd somehow managed to switch horses and gear in the middle of nowhere. But who else would be stumbling around in these woods? Could it be Heyes' partner? Mac needed to see the man's face. His fingers closed around another pebble and he pitched it at the sleeping figure raising a small puff of dust, but missed again. Damn it all! He had to get the man to roll over. No way was he getting within reach of Curry. If it was him, he'd shoot first and ask questions later.

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Stealthily, the Kid crept up behind a man kneeling by a large bush. He was almost close enough to reach out when the man swung around, pistol in hand. Unconsciously, his own Colt leapt into his hand and his bullet sent the pistol flying from the man's grip.

"Aagh, $#%-don't shoot!" Mac thrust his pained hand in the air, the other hand gripping it tightly. Dark eyes peered at the Kid warily. Holding his gun on the man, Curry walked around him and retrieved the pistol, shoving it into his gun belt.

Mac followed him with his gaunt face. "I didn't mean no harm, mister. I was just trying to get 'im to roll over so I could get a good look at 'im 'fore I woke 'im up."

A cold, tight smile creased the Kid's face. "He won't be rollin' over. Or wakin' up."

Mac frowned. "You killed 'im?"

"I'm not in the habit of backshootin'.

"Me neither."

The Kid pulled out a corner of the governor's packet from inside his jacket and noted the glimmer of recognition in the man's eyes. "This says you are. Where's my partner?"

"I don't know where Heyes is, he got away. That's right, Curry, I know who you are," sneered Mac contemptuously. "So who's this?" he said, gesturing towards the bedroll.

"That's the oldest trick in the book and you fell for it."

Mac chuckled, "Your sneaky partner would be proud. Don't look at me like that, far as I know, he's still breathin'."

Murderous blue eyes glared back at him promising to snip the fragile thread anchoring Mac's soul to his body.

"You better hope he is."