The ground was hot and parched, cracked like crazy paving, making it hard and unforgiving as the old man landed on his back with a bone-shattering thud. Gasping for breath he squinted up at the blazing sun overhead with his right eye; the other was already swollen shut. He was hurt bad. His ribs ached, his nose poured blood, his jaw felt like it was busted and he was sure he was going to lose the last few teeth which had been valiantly clinging on to his old gums.
In a way he felt partly to blame for his situation. The new claim he was working was turning out to be more rewarding than he first thought it would be, and he had been so intent on panning a previously untried section of creek bottom that he hadn't seen, or heard, them coming. Before he could make it over to his shotgun two of them had grabbed him.
There were six men altogether, outlaws he assumed. Five of them were rough and unfriendly-looking, but one in particular, a heavily built man with a long black beard and dark evil-looking eyes, stood out from the others. This one appeared to be the leader, at least they all did what he said, but that could just have been due to him having a real mean streak. The sixth member of the gang was a youngster, fast outgrowing his clothes by the way they fitted him, and despite sporting a low-slung gun belt was probably still a little wet behind the ears. He had stayed in the background, quietly tending to the horses while the others beat on him.
"There ya go, old timer." Triome Fines' boot nudged the old man's bruised side as he towered over him, casting a large shadow across his face. "Ya wouldha saved y'self a beatin' if y'd just told us where the dust was ter start with."
The old prospector didn't believe a word. This man looked like he thrived on violence.
Fines took a deep swig from a half empty whiskey bottle gripped tightly in his hand. Beating on the old man had proved to be thirsty work and getting him to disclose where he had hidden his gold had taken a lot longer than he'd figured.
"Got it, Trey. It was right where the old coot said it'd be," Patch McDonald announced with a wide tobacco-stained grin as he emerged from the tiny cabin holding four small hessian sacks. He jogged over to where his leader stood.
"Give it here."
Fines snatched one of the pokes packed hard with gold dust from Patch's grimy fingers and weighed it in his hand as if calculating its worth; then he held it aloft. For the first time that afternoon his face broke into something resembling a smile.
"Looks like we've made us a lucky strike, boys!"
The gang cheered. Their leader was happy — for now. They doubted it would last. Fines was an ornery man when sober, but once intoxicated he could be downright vicious. His temper was notoriously quick and whether drunk or sober, with a gun or with his fists, he was a formidable adversary. Nobody in their right mind would dare to upset him.
"What we gonna do now, Trey?" asked Tucker, wiping the bloody knuckles of his right hand down his grimy shirt front.
Farly sniggered lasciviously. "I'm gonna buy me a woman."
"Me too," agreed his kid brother Dewey, who had never had an idea of his own in his whole life.
"We're gonna live high on the hog fer a while, that's what we're gonna do," said Rip, who was probably only a couple of years younger than the man laying at Fines' feet. "Ain't that right, Trey?"
Fines tucked the poke into his shirt and took another swig of whiskey. "Sure. We can do all that — once I finish my business here."
He drew his old Remington revolver.
"Yer no use ta me no more, old man. Can't have ya runnin' yer mouth off to the law neither," he said, his thin lips curling into a snarl.
The old prospector mumbled something unintelligible through his blood filled mouth as the Remington was pointed at his forehead.
"That's enough! You've got what you came for," declared a voice from behind him, a voice which was clear and calm despite its lack of years.
With an exaggerated sigh Fines holstered his gun and turned to face the person who had boldly, but unwisely, spoken out of turn.
They had picked up this young whelp little more than a month ago. The kid was obviously down on his luck, making what could hardly be called a living at a rundown livery stable in a small town the gang hadn't felt inclined to learn the name of. Fines had been on the lookout for another gang member for a while; someone to replace Crozier who had made the mistake of riling him one night when he was drunk. The mistake had turned out to be a fatal one and they had left him counting worms on the edge of a lonesome trail somewhere in New Mexico. This kid had been working out pretty well — or so he thought.
"You best get back ta waterin' them horses, boy, or you'll be gettin' the same as him."
"I said, leave the man be."
"Well now, ain't this a fine situation?" drawled Fines. "A greenhorn figurin' he can tell me what ter do."
He barked a loud, false laugh. "Whatcha gonna do now boy, try and beat me ter the draw?" He turned to grin at the others. "Looks like we's gonna be splittin' this dust 'tween five 'stead of six."
With his large, calloused right hand hovering next to his holster Fines took one more mouthful of whiskey before tossing the bottle aside. He stared straight into the eyes of the young man who had challenged him expecting to see the doubt and fear on which he liked to feed. He saw neither. Instead, the youngster stood calmly, his feet placed hip-width apart and his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He appeared confident, a characteristic often seen in someone his age and one which Triome Fines was certain was about to be his undoing.
Fines was the first to reach, but he hadn't even laid so much as a fingertip on the grip of his pistol when a shot rang out. Clutching his belly with both hands he staggered back a couple of steps before slowly dropping to his knees, his dark hooded eyes unusually wide as they gaped at the blood quickly soaking through his shirt front and dripping to the ground from between his fingers.
Without so much as a casual glance at the others, the youngster calmly walked over to stand in front of the wounded man. Then, exactly as he had seen him do to the old prospector only minutes earlier, he levelled his revolver at his head.
Punishment for Fines' crimes — of which he was certain there were many — he knew should be decided by a court of law, but something deep inside him kept insisting that justice needed to be done right here, right now. His own family, every one of them peaceable, hard-working, God-fearing folk, had met their end at the hand of a man such as this, and if they had to die, somebody as evil as Fines certainly didn't deserve to live. Anyhow, ending the life of a gut-shot man would be considered an act of mercy, wouldn't it?
The click of the hammer sounded much louder than usual as pulled it back with his thumb. It surprised him, but it didn't stop him from squeezing the trigger.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
With a thud that made the boardwalk beneath his feet shudder Kid Curry dropped the heavy sack of feed and stood, hands on hips, scowling at his partner.
"I could do with some help here!"
When there was no reply Curry looked a little more closely at his cousin. The man's eyes appeared to be fixed on the busy street.
"What is it?" he enquired, warily. Hannibal Heyes could be difficult to read at the best of times, but with his hat tilted low over his face like it was right now, it was downright impossible.
Curry leaned against the wagon, his own eyes squinting in response to the bright sunshine, curious to know what had Heyes so engrossed to the exclusion of everything else. As far as he could tell Lindow, Arizona was no different from any other small western town. People appeared to be happily going about their business, a few horses stood dozing at a hitching rail, and several wagons rumbled their way down the rutted main street.
Mentally he ticked off the possibilities.
First of all, he figured it was unlikely that the former outlaw leader was planning a robbery. He didn't appear to be pondering the large brick-built Wells Fargo bank, or the nearby assay office.
Although going straight had not always been easy, they were managing to stick to their new way of life in the hope that the Governor of Wyoming would grant them an amnesty. There had been a couple of times when they had been sorely tempted to return to outlawing, mostly when work was hard to come by or when earning a living was proving to be particularly hard on the back. In the end, the thought of living the rest of their days without the threat of being arrested and thrown into prison, or worse still shot and killed, made the effort worthwhile.
The second possibility was that Heyes had spotted a familiar face; someone who could identify them and turn them in for the substantial bounty on their heads. A lawman? A bounty hunter, perhaps? Curry stared harder, but couldn't see the glint of a silver star or the face of anyone he recognized.
He gave up. He had no idea what was going on with his partner.
"Uh, I hate to rush ya an' all, but is there any chance of you doin' some work today?" he enquired, sarcastically.
When Heyes still acted as if he hadn't heard him Curry ground his teeth in irritation.
"Will you get movin," he griped. "We've gotta load up and get back to Old Man Swann's farm before sundown or he'll throw a fit. And I ain't about to lose a single dime of my hard-earned pay just 'cause you have a hankerin' to stand here daydreamin'."
Heyes remained transfixed. He had seen many prospectors both young and old over the years, but for some reason the old fellow hobbling down the middle of the street that sunny June morning had grabbed his attention, and before he could do anything to stop it his mind was overwhelmed by an unwelcome and unnaturally vivid memory.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
Faint whiffs of blue smoke trailed from the barrel of young Hannibal's gun and the acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the hot, still air, filling his nostrils and catching uncomfortably in his throat.
"Y' gonna sh-shoot us t-too?" stammered Patch, the three pokes of gold dust still clutched tightly to his chest.
"Not if you get outta here, right now."
Hannibal's unflinching brown eyed stare carried a great deal more menace than he was aware of. This, combined with a slight pause before answering, as if the thought of shooting the rest of the gang was still under consideration, seemed to unsettle the remaining outlaws even further. Without so much as a backward glance at their fallen leader they made a cowardly dash for their horses and swiftly kicked them into a gallop. He had been lucky. They all disliked Fines enough that not one of them had attempted to draw a gun in his defence. Even so, it wasn't until the drumming of hooves faded into the distance that Hannibal deemed it safe to holster his revolver and turn his attention to the injured prospector.
"Let's get you in outta the sun, old timer," he said, kindly.
The old man was unsteady and his injuries so numerous that it had taken every bit of strength that Hannibal could muster to help him to his feet and into the cabin. After gently lowering him onto his cot he fetched a bucket of water from the creek and tried to clean up the cuts and soothe the worst of the bruises. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to fix the broken ribs or fractured jaw.
For the whole of that first night Hannibal remained beside the cot, in the dark, keeping a guilty vigil. He sat on the ground with his head in his hands silently remonstrating with himself for not stopping the beating right at the start; something he would continue to do for a long time to come.
Over the next few days he nursed the old man as well as he was able: he even shot a rabbit and attempted to make a broth, hoping that some nourishing food would help revive him. Sadly, whatever he tried made little difference and early one morning he awoke to find the old man was no longer breathing.
During the long hours of summer daylight when his patient had been sleeping he had ventured into the creek, up to his knees in water, panning for gold, and despite his inexperience succeeded in adding a considerable amount of dust to the blood stained poke he had eventually thought to remove from inside Fines' shirt. Spending time outside also served another purpose. It gave him the opportunity to keep watch in case the outlaws should summon up enough courage to return and exact their revenge or retrieve the gold they had abandoned.
Even though working the creek for a short while would be extremely profitable, Hannibal knew that the lonely life of a prospector was not for him. Gregarious by nature, he needed to be with people. More to the point, he needed to be with one person in particular — his cousin, Jedediah Curry. They had gone their separate ways a couple of years ago and he really missed him. Excited by the idea that the gold dust could be exchanged for actual cash so that he could devote all his time to searching for Jed, he secreted the precious poke in the torn lining of his old jacket and saddled up his horse.
The ground was much too hard to dig a grave so, suffering the unpleasant attention of hundreds of flies, he dragged Fines' putrefying corpse into the cabin and laid it alongside the old man's cot. Then, all he needed to do was to sprinkle the dry planks with a little kerosene from the lamp and strike a match. Not wishing to stand and watch it burn he quickly tied lead ropes to Fines' horse and the prospector's mule and rode away.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
In Lindow, where an uneasy Kid Curry continued to scrutinize their surroundings for signs of trouble, Hannibal Heyes finally managed to pull his gaze away from the street, only to stare down at his boots in sad contemplation. He sighed quietly to himself.
His past was strewn with very dark times. There had been too many deaths; a good number of them members of his family, but another stood out in his memory. Triome Fines — the first man to die by his hand.
Heyes had always been aware of a fire deep inside him, a fire which had ignited one idyllic May afternoon when, trembling with shock and grief, he had stood and watched while roaring flames consumed his home, his childhood and, he once thought, his life. It took him a long time and a lot of effort to control it and, for the most part, he had succeeded. All that remained were faintly glowing embers. There had been a few instances when he had allowed the flames to re-kindle, often feeling little or no remorse at the outcome. Thankfully, those times were long gone.
Reuniting with his cousin had been the best thing that could have happened to Heyes and had probably saved him from finishing up at the end of a hangman's rope. Curry was already a known gunman and had therefore slipped easily into the role of enforcer in their partnership. So skilled was he that he didn't need to shoot to kill, preferring instead to outdraw, shoot the gun out of an opponent's hand, or slice the holster off a gun belt with a precisely aimed bullet. During the six years when they ran the Devil's Hole Gang, Heyes had rarely needed to touch his gun. The Kid had seen to that. His reputation alone had been enough to stop any of the more unruly members from challenging their leadership or from becoming trigger-happy during a robbery. These days, Heyes relied upon him to deal with anyone who posed a threat, either to their lives or to the much sought-after amnesty.
On the rare occasions when he did have cause to use his gun, Heyes was still extremely capable. He was also fast (he liked to think almost as fast as the Kid) and could hit tin cans thrown into the air or shatter glass bottles lined up on a log with relative ease. If a little gunplay was required he could be sure to miss on purpose, sometimes by very small margins. But, if things turned ugly, what Heyes didn't have was Kid Curry's quiet detachment and control. For him, that intoxicating combination of adrenaline along with the burning rage that often accompanied it, made a fatal shot an absolute certainty.
The fact that he had killed at all would haunt Hannibal Heyes for the rest of his days. Memories would emerge like ghosts from the shadows and envelope him when he least expected it, just as they had done today. He had lost count of the number of nights he had woken with a start only to spend hour after hour wide-eyed and restless until dawn. The Kid had questioned him about these bouts of sleeplessness on numerous occasions, but Heyes had never felt able to share the reason with him. It would forever remain his secret.
Heyes shook his head in a final effort to clear the image of Triome Fines from his mind. He needed to return to the present, to the Kid, and to the job they were being paid to do, before any difficult questions came his way.
Finally, in response to his partner's comment about daydreaming he smiled wanly. "Sorry, Kid."
"You're actin' a little spooked," Curry pressed, his concern evident. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Everything's dandy."
Despite his partner's dismissive response Curry sensed everything was far from 'dandy', so he placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"Well, if I didn't know better I'd say you've just seen a ghost."
Heyes took a slow, deep breath and affectionately patted Curry's hand. Even without knowing the facts, there were times when his partner could get unnervingly close to the truth.
"C' mon, Kid," he said as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. "Let's go get the rest of this feed."