Disclaimer: Neither 'Alias Smith and Jones' nor 'Magnificent Seven' belongs to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit.
Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.
A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.
Chapter 3 - Mr. Smith meets Mr. Jones?
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"Well, well, well, this does change things," Harrow chuckled unpleasantly. "Smith and Jones?"
The noisy saloon slowly quieted. Heyes and nearly everyone else in the establishment now watched the confrontation at the poker table. The banker leaned towards the gambler. His lips curled up in a snide smile. His voice lowered to a whisper that Heyes doubted anyone besides the people closest to this table could hear.
"Before we run you outta town, I think we'll just be taking back our money…"
"Surely you don't believe Sullivan's wild story?" objected the southerner. His confident voice carried clearly across the still room. "I've been playing poker here for the last three days. You can ask anyone I've played with. I am skilled at what I do, I do not cheat!"
A murmur arose from people throughout the crowded room. Heyes could see some men nodding as if in agreement with the gambler, but he really couldn't tell if most of the people talking supported the southerner's claim or not.
"Maybe, maybe not Smith," replied Harrow in the same low tone he had used before. His eyes took on a hard self-satisfied gleam. The thin man reached towards the stacks of coins and papers in front of the gambler. "But believing you're a card cheat and a conman gets me my money back and then some."
The chestnut-haired gambler's left hand moved to block Harrow's grasping fingers. Behind him, Heyes could hear movement. Heyes glanced over his shoulder to see Orville stagger away from the bar. His dark brown eyes returned to the poker table. He almost missed the appearance of a shiny derringer in the gambler's right hand. The palm pistol pointed directly at Harrow.
"You invited me to play poker with you sir," reminded the gambler still speaking loudly for everyone in the saloon to hear. "Your abysmal skill would not require any subterfuge to separate you from your money."
The small gun in his face didn't seem to frighten the banker. However the gambler's assessment of the banker's card playing abilities resulted in an ugly scowl. With a sidelong glance at the crowded room, Harrow gave a nod to a burly man at the back of the room. The southerner noticed as the big man and another man seated beside him started to rise.
"Harrow, call off those thugs you call bodyguards."
"That little thing only has two bullets," huffed the banker. "You can't shoot everyone here."
"No," agreed the gambler. An audible click sounded as he pulled the trigger back. "But I will shoot you first."
Harrow's eyes narrowed. He gave a curt nod to the two men who slowly sat down. All the while, the derringer remained pointed at the banker. The flashy gambler rose to stand. He scooped up his winnings, stuffing the money hurriedly into the pockets of his red swallow-tailed coat. The click of a rifle bolt being pulled back sounded across the saloon. Heyes turned to look at the bar. The bartender held a rifle, pointed at the gambler.
"Mr. Randall don't like customers shooting in the bar. Bad for business," stated Burt in a flat tone.
Heyes glanced from the bartender to the rude man that had bumped into him earlier. The inebriated man now stood mere steps away from the poker table. The Kansan could see a sidearm holstered under the sore loser's coat. The odious man fumbled for the weapon.
"Did anyone tell Orville that?" called out Heyes.
"Orville?" the bartender's voice raised higher as the man tilted his head in consternation.
Throughout the bar, heads turned to look at the man in question. The sore loser now pulled out a heavy pistol. The bartender's rifle wavered a moment from pointing at the gambler as it moved to in the direction of the clumsy drunk.
"You know Mr. Randall's rules Orville," sighed Burt. "We can't allow…"
Heyes didn't wait to hear the rest of Mr. Randall's rules or to see if Orville would put the gun down. He picked up the vacant chair beside him and threw it at the man's legs. He couldn't get involved in a shootout. The slender man pushed between the tables, headed for the door. Behind him he heard a crash as Orville fell backwards against a table. A second crash sounded as the table collapsed onto the floor. Shouts, screams and more furniture crashed before he reached the swinging batwing doors. Heyes glanced back. The saloon was in chaos. Orville struggled to get up, but his feet tripped Sullivan. Both men went down this time. Other folks were standing, pushing and shoving each other. Another table went over. He couldn't see Harrow or the gambler, but Palmer watched, laughing, safely out of the way at the rear of the saloon. The bartender raised his rifle, pointed at the ceiling. A shot rang out. Plaster crumbled down on the people below. All of a sudden, the gambler was right behind him.
"Don't stop now!" ordered the smaller man. "Keep moving."
The gambler shoved Heyes out into the street. Nimble fingers flipped a little hook into a metal eye, stopping the doors from swinging. The gambler's delaying tactic wouldn't slow any pursuit for long. They both ran for the livery. A dozen or more horses were outside in the corral, but both of their horses were in stalls inside the cool, shaded barn. Heyes opened the stall, glad his saddle and saddlebags were right beside his horse. He hurried to saddle his black gelding, wishing for a moment that Kyle or Lobo had been here waiting with horses already saddled. Wait a minute, thought Heyes. Did he really need to make a get-away? He hadn't done anything wrong.
"No time for that," warned the gambler.
Heyes looked at the man. He led a beautiful chestnut by the reins to the rear entrance of the stable. A fancy saddle merely laid across his horse's back, similar to way the gambler's saddlebags laid across his shoulder.
"Out the back."
Angry shouts sounded from the street. Those men weren't going to listen to his innocence. Heyes tugged the reins on his own horse and followed. In the rear paddock, Smith, if that was really his name, opened the gate and shooed the other horses out before leading his own animal forward. The newly released horses milled about a moment before stepping towards the main street and the water troughs. More shouts sounded from the front of the livery. The gambler continued away. Heyes followed. The two men and their horses walked behind buildings, twisting and turning through narrow alleys. The gambler finally stopped to saddle his horse behind a squat, stone building.
"You stop now?" Heyes hissed in incredulity as he saddled his own mount. "Here? Behind the jail?
"It's best to avoid the obvious," smirked the gambler. He flashed a dimpled grin before settling a black flat-topped hat upon his curls. The graceful man swung up onto the spirited chestnut. "Would you really think two men trying to escape the law would head towards the jail?"
"I don't need to escape the law in Weaverton," snapped Heyes. "I haven't done anything but eat a meal and ask to play a card game."
A shout came from the other end of the alley. The townsfolk had spotted them. Both the gambler and Heyes swung up onto their mounts. The gambler nudged his horse into motion.
"They'll never believe it," replied Smith.
"I know," grumbled Heyes as he urged his horse on faster. "And those fellas got my dollar!"
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The two men rode hard for a good ten minutes before they slowed their horses to a walk. There were no sounds of pursuit. Heyes took stock of their surroundings. The hard packed narrow dirt road they were on followed a slightly higher path than the stage route visible through the trees in the somewhat flatter land below. At least they were headed south. Heyes probably wouldn't have to back track too much, but before he could resume his solitary travels, he needed to get rid of his unexpected companion. The dark-haired young man pointed to the stage route.
"Easier ride there. You could be in Fort Collins before sundown," Heyes suggested.
"You could," replied the southerner.
What kind of answer was that? Was the man agreeing with him? Or suggesting Heyes go to Fort Collins, wondered Heyes. The sound of the horses' hooves clip clopped along the dry road. In the distance, a hawk screamed as it dove for some prey Heyes couldn't see. The gambler made no other response. Heyes gave a sidelong glance at the man riding beside him. Heyes knew that stance. Shoulders back, his spine straight, the man rode with a military bearing.
"Another couple days' ride to Denver," added Heyes a little while later.
"Perhaps."
Heyes tried again.
"I hear they have some real fancy hotels and casinos in Denver."
No answer. Was this non-communicative man the same person that had been continually chatting, running a patter almost like a carney, while dealing cards in the saloon just a short while ago? The two men rode in silence as the trail turned and climbed away, losing sight of the stage route. It was another twenty minutes before the trail leveled out again. It wasn't until the trail sloped downwards that Heyes decided to speak again. Below them, a small brook twisted and turned near a stand of aspens.
"Probably outta water the horses, and I know want to top off my canteen."
Still no answer. The two men rode down the small incline.
"Is your name really Smith?" asked Heyes as they rode beneath the shade trees.
The gambler turned to face Heyes. Looking at him directly, Heyes could see the clenched jaw and tiny crinkle lines at the corners of his green eyes that told of pain. What happened? The bartender shot the ceiling, thought Heyes. He couldn't have been shot, something else was wrong.
"Do you always talk so much?" came a whispered drawl.
The southerner's his eyes rolled back in his head. Heyes reached out, but the man slumped forward across the saddle horn. Heyes' fingers clasped empty air where the gambler had been just a moment ago. He tried to grab the motionless man once more, but the chestnut startled and stepped away.
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"Easy… easy…," cajoled Heyes.
He reached for the chestnut's reins again. The equine back stepped, dancing away from his reach once more taking his unconscious rider with him. How the gambler remained in his saddle was beyond Heyes.
"Come on boy," coaxed Heyes.
The animal hadn't let him near the gambler since the man had collapsed. Heyes pointed to his own mount. Ground tied beneath the largest shade tree, his own black gelding stood within easy reach of both the stream and the lush grass.
"You need some water," urged Heyes.
Heyes shook his head in frustration. Was he really talking to the thoroughbred as if it could understand him? The huge chestnut snorted, shaking his head and mane. The gambler slid slightly in the saddle, his head and shoulder drooping more to the right with every step the horse made.
"And I need to get this fella off of you."
From across the shaded glade, Heyes' black gelding whinnied as if telling the gambler's horse that Heyes could be trusted. The chestnut stilled. Heyes took a cautious step closer. Gently he reached for the man. Heyes untangled the southerner's wrist from the reins and slipped first one boot, then the other out of the stirrups. Then he pulled. The smaller man's weight unbalanced Heyes. They both went down, flat on the ground. Heyes blinked to see the chestnut sniffing at the downed men. The horse's lips curled up as if in disdain.
"You're right," admitted Heyes. "This wasn't the most graceful dismount ever, but we're gonna get your fella taken care of now."
Heyes rolled the still unconscious gambler off of him and sat up. He looked up at the still saddled horse.
"I don't suppose you'll let me have that bedroll, will you?"
Even though it was early afternoon with plenty of daylight left, Heyes would have to make camp for the night. He really couldn't just abandon an injured man in the wilderness.
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