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 7 – A Reputation Grows
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Midmorning on the day after leaving Menardville, Jed came across a wagon stopped by the side of the road. A couple of crates, a canvas shoulder bag, and two bedrolls were visible in the buckboard. At first Jed didn't see the two men on the other side of the horses. A big gray-haired man leaned over, hands on his knees and moaned. A tall thin black man patted his back.
"That's right, get it all out now," soothed the younger man.
"Nathan, just leave me," replied the ill man.
"I ain't leaving you Josiah!"
Jed reined in his mount as he reached the pair. The younger man's head turned to look at the blond rider.
"You fellas alright?" asked the young Kansan in concern.
"I'm fine," answered the slender black man with a slight southern drawl. Nathan gestured to the older man. "He drank too much last night after Doc McCoy's funeral…"
Jed's head turned to take in the surrounding countryside. There wasn't a town as far as the eye could see. The two men must have been travelling a while.
"Paying for it now," added Nathan.
"Looks like you've come a long way. Doc must have been a good friend," replied Jed.
"Known Doc since the war," sighed Nathan. "Josiah and I were both assigned to Doc's regiment."
"You're young to be a doctor," observed Jed.
"I'm a healer now, not a doctor yet, but back then I was a stretcher bearer," corrected Nathan. He gestured towards the crates in the wagon with a hopeful smile. "Doc taught me a lot. When he took sick, he sent for me, told me he wanted me to have his books."
Jed motioned towards the big man, still bent over.
"He a doctor too?"
"Nah," answered Nathan. With a compassionate glance at his friend, he added, "Josiah was a preacher back when I first knew him."
"Crows," groaned the solidly built older man.
"There's no crows around here. The war is long over," reminded Nathan. With a glance at Jed, he explained, "We both saw a lot of bad stuff back then. I think he buried too many soldiers."
The ill man pushed himself upright slowly, glanced at Jed, and then stepped, or staggered, towards the wagon. A big hand patted the side of the buckboard, before Josiah turned and slid down to sit in the shade by the wheel. The taller man moved towards his friend, extending one hand.
"Come on now Josiah. Let's get you back in the wagon, so we can get a move on."
The muscular man batted Nathan's hand away.
"Just leave me," he growled.
"Come on now, gotta get you up into the wagon," urged Nathan.
The heavy-set man turned his face away. Josiah looked at Jed briefly, before he closed his eyes and began to snore.
"Josiah!" exclaimed the exasperated Nathan. "It's gonna be at least a week or more before we get back to Four Corners at this rate."
Jed dismounted from his horse.
"He looks heavy. Do you want a hand getting him back in the wagon?"
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"Hello the camp," called a soft Texas twang.
Jed's head jerked up. The tired young man hadn't heard the rider approach. He'd been intent on trying to coax this little bundle of twigs into some semblance of a campfire. A silhouette of a man and horse appeared on the low rise to the east. Out of pistol range, noted Jed. And his own rifle leaned against his saddle out of reach. Whoever he was, the man was cautious. If Jed was of a mind to shoot him, he'd be gone before Jed could reach his rifle. Or Jed would be dead. The teenager couldn't see how the stranger was armed from this distance, but Jed figured, if the stranger had planned on bushwhacking him, he would have already done that. Without the friendly greeting.
"Who goes there?" responded Jed.
"Tanner," answered the voice. "Would you be willing to share your fire?"
The young Kansan looked at the poor excuse for a fire. Jed sighed. Two days from Menardville, the land had changed. This dry, dusty area had little growth. Not much in the way of wood, barely any sagebrush. That little fire probably wouldn't stay warm long. The jackrabbit he'd shot earlier wouldn't taste good half raw.
"Ain't gonna be much of a fire, but you're welcome to it," Jed called.
The rider moved slowly toward Jed. As the man rode nearer, the distant shape solidified into a long-haired man wearing a tan cavalry slouch hat, buckskins and a mare's leg tied down at his side. The two young men looked at each other appraisingly. The Texan appeared older than the young Kansan by maybe eight to ten years.
"You got a name?"
"Curry."
Tanner dismounted. He reached for a bundle at the back of his saddle. Jed heard the familiar sound of sticks bumping against each other.
"Found some dry wood a ways back," said Tanner when he dropped the bundle down beside Jed. "Iffen you don't mind, I got some beans I want to heat up."
"Don't mind," replied Jed with a grin. "You want some rabbit with them beans? There's enough to share."
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Not much else was said until after their shared dinner of beans, rabbit and slightly stale biscuits had been consumed.
"Depending upon how fast you're travelling, a half a day's ride east on this trail should bring you to Round Rock," volunteered the Texan. "Ain't much more than a mercantile and a saloon, but the storekeep don't try to gouge a body… at least not too much."
"Good to know," responded Jed. It felt funny talking after so many days of just him and his horse. "Not too much west of here until you reach Menardville. Cattle drives are hiring if you're looking for work."
"Heck I'd take about any honest work. Even clerking at a store, or sweeping porches," responded Tanner's slow Texas drawl. He shook his head. "Can't do buffalo hunting here anymore, but a cattle drive just ain't for me."
"As it turned out, a cattle drive ain't for me either," replied Jed with a wry grin.
Tanner cocked an eyebrow upwards in a silent question. Jed stiffened and clamped his mouth shut. He shouldn't have said that. Now Tanner wanted to know why he went all the way to Menardville for a job and didn't get one. Maybe a half-truth would answer the unspoken question.
"Trail boss thought I was too young," dissembled the curly-haired blond.
"Trail boss lost out," responded Tanner. He leaned back on his bedroll and pulled his hat down over his eyes. "It's been my experience that a man can do most anything if he sets his mind to it."
The Texan's phrasing wasn't lost on Jed. Tanner didn't think he was too young. It felt good to be thought of as a man capable of most anything. Jed settled back on his own bedroll. That night, he got his first good night's sleep since leaving Menardville.
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Next morning, the two quiet men watched as the sky turned pink with the glory of the rising sun.
"Real purty, ain't it?"
Jed nodded wordlessly. Tanner reached into his saddlebags and pulled out some old newspapers. He handed them to Jed.
"To get the fire going again," urged Tanner. "At least long enough to heat water for coffee before we break camp."
Jed reached for the paper, then stared in silent disbelief at the headline of the Waco Bugle. Murder in Waco! Shootist Kid Curry sought for questioning! Jed looked at the date on the old newspaper. It couldn't be! The young fast draw's heart raced. Tanner misinterpreted the youth's silence.
"If you want coffee that is," added Tanner. "Ain't no never mind if you don't."
"Waco?" whispered Jed aloud.
"Huh?"
Jed finally realized the older man was talking to him. Blue eyes looked up to meet another pair of blue eyes. Jed pointed to the paper in his hand.
"Fella named Johnson was killed over in Waco," answered Jed.
"Didn't know, I can't read," admitted the Texan with a shrug.
Tanner rose to stand and moved towards his horse, while Jed remained seated reading the news article. Tanner knelt by his horse and began patting his horse's legs one at a time, checking the animal. Finished, Jed crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it angrily against the banked coals. Tanner turned with a concerned look.
"You know you can't believe everything you read. Might not be true," added Tanner. "Was that fella someone you know? A friend of yours?"
"Nah, nobody I knew," replied Jed.
He looked over at Tanner. The quiet man watched him. Jed shook his head, glad he hadn't blurted out the name of the accused murderer too. I didn't shoot anyone in Waco, Jed thought to himself. I know I didn't. I was already in San Angelo when that happened. Why are they blaming Kid Curry?
"It's just a shock," added Jed. "I was in Waco a few weeks before that fella was killed. Thought it was a right peaceable little town."
"Not too many of them around," drawled the Texan.
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Jed rode into Round Rock later that day. He was hot, tired and thirsty. There wasn't a hitching post in front of the Mercantile. The teenager looped the reins of his horse over the hitching post in front of the saloon. The tall false front of the rowdy business shaded the animal and the watering trough. Jed reached a hand into the still water, warm, but not hot. His gelding nudged against his hand and dunked his head in the trough. Jed figured that meant the water was drinkable. The young fast draw strode over to the Mercantile. The door was locked. A small printed sign said closed, back at two.
"Sheesh," grunted Jed in dismay.
For a moment, the Kansan thought about getting on his horse and riding on, out of town. But he needed supplies. Jed returned to the saloon and pushed through the batwing doors. It was darker, and cooler, inside. The peaceable young man stepped to one side, keeping his back to the wall as he let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. Four men sat at a small table in the back, playing cards. The bartender yawned from behind the bar. A red-haired woman flounced towards him.
"Honey you want something?" the woman greeted him warmly, as if she knew him.
"Just waiting for the Mercantile to open," answered Jed.
The woman leaned closer. Jed tried not to stare at her low-cut bodice. The loose cotton fabric was held in place by a… a… flowered piece of fabric, laced up with strings that just begged to be untied. Good lord! Jed's face reddened. He quickly looked up at the ceiling. Where had that thought come from?
"Sugar," called the woman's low voice, her hand on her hip. "If you want to wait inside here, you'll have to buy something."
"Oh, yeah," nodded Jed.
The skinny blond moved past her without looking at her curvaceous body. Clem had told him it wasn't polite to stare. The red-head gaped watching him leave, surprised, or perhaps challenged, at his lack of attention. The bartender perked up at his approach.
"You want something?"
"Yeah," replied Jed.
Loud laughter from the back of the room sounded. Jed turned to look at the men playing cards. Snippets of conversation could be heard. Larabee… drunk… Kid… Dang it if it didn't sound like one of the men was telling the others about what had happened in Menardville. A meaty hand tapped on the bar beside him. Jed turned back to face the bartender.
"Sonny, we ain't got no sarsaparilla," the big man leaned forward with a chuckle. "What do you want?"
Jed stiffened. The man's assumption that he wanted sarsaparilla was annoying, but the word Sonny was downright irritating. Somehow, it seemed worse than being called Kid.
"If you ain't gonna buy something, then you gotta leave," added the barkeep.
"Beer," answered Jed. Then his blue eyes glowered. "And I don't like being called Sonny."
The bartender backed up a half step. The man's eyes narrowed at Jed's hard expression. This time, the man really looked at him. His eyes travelled down Jed's body, lingering for a moment on the colt strapped down by his hip. The man reached for a heavy glass mug. The man poured an amber colored liquid that foamed on top from a barrel. He placed the mug in front of Jed.
"On the house," the man replied with a nervous smile.
The bartender watched him closely as he picked up his drink. Jed felt the woman sidle up to him. She leaned into him, placed a soft slender arm around his waist, and hugged Jed tightly to her as he took a sip of the beer. It tasted awful. Jed would have spit it out, but not with the woman standing so close. He swallowed the unpalatable brew.
"Honey, do you want to buy me a drink?"
"My name isn't honey, or sugar," explained the youth in a low voice. "It's Jed, Jedidiah Curry."
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Three weeks later, a very tired Jedidiah Curry rode into Beaumont. He spent some of his money at the stable for his horse. They both appreciated the cool shadowed interior. Jed counted the money left in his hand. He needed supplies again, and oh what he wouldn't give for a hot bath, but the youth tucked his meagre funds away. First, he needed a job.
"Anybody hiring around here?" Jed asked the grizzled liveryman.
"Don't think so," replied the man. The older man put a hand to his chin and rubbed his graying whiskers. "August is usually slow. You should come back next month when the harvest starts."
August? Already? Jed hadn't realized. He slumped back against the stable. Maybe he should have taken that cattle drive with Artie. At least he and his horse would get fed regular. And he would have been out of Texas by now. Something of his dismay must have shown in Jed's eyes. The liveryman eyed him carefully, taking in the boy's long lean frame.
"You any good with that thing?" asked the older man.
"Huh?" Jed looked up, confused.
"That gun you got tied down?" prodded the liveryman. He reached for the bag of oats, even though Jed hadn't paid the extra fee for his horse to have oats. "Can you shoot it? Or is it just to look tough?"
"I usually hit what I aim for," answered the young fast draw. "Why?"
"Saloon's got a shooting contest this afternoon," responded the man. The kindly man poured oats into a feed bag. "First prize is twenty-five dollars."
A slow grin spread across Jed's face. Twenty-five dollars sounded like a fortune.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate you letting me know."
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A crowd of men of all ages lined up in the road alongside the Beaumont Blue Blazing Bar, and three women too. Jed thought he was probably the youngest person at the competition.
"Now ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, I need you all to step to one side," announced a portly man who looked to be in charge. "Need to let the stage pass folks… and don't shoot it."
Raucous laughter sounded at the man's words. Jed turned to look at the stage. A dark-haired woman peered out the window. Their eyes met. She hurriedly ducked back further into the recesses of the lumbering vehicle.
"George?"
Could it be? Jed blinked as the stage picked up speed, moving past the bar, headed out of town. Maybe he decided, or maybe that woman in the stage was just someone who looked like George. The curly-haired blond turned back to the shooting contest. The portly man was speaking again, getting folks lined up for the contest. Behind him, he heard a voice call out.
"Kid Curry?"
Jed gulped. The laughing crowd of people quieted as he turned around. The sheriff, or maybe a deputy, stood in the middle of the street. Behind him, he could hear people moving, hurriedly getting out of the way.
"Who's asking?"
The dark-haired lawman didn't answer Jed's question. His narrow lips curled up in a sneer.
"We don't want no gunnies in Beaumont."
"No gunnies?" Jed sounded surprised. "At a shooting contest?"
"No professional gunnies," snarled the man.
Jed's blue eyes widened in surprise. Sure he practiced a lot, but... Professional? What on earth were folks saying about him now?
"I haven't done anything," replied the soft-spoken young man. "How about if I just ride outta town?"
The man laughed at that. It was a cold hard sound that didn't seem at all funny. He lowered his hands, they quivered by his hips. Oh no… thought Jed, please tell me this isn't gonna be like what happened in Round Rock. The man reached… Jed reacted to the threat.
"Augh!" cried the rogue lawman.
The pained lawman's hand might have stung, but it wasn't bleeding. Jed knew. He had shot the holster right off the man's hip. The holster lay at the lawman's feet, while the loose pistol had bounced further across the hard packed road. The weapon lay in the dusty street a few feet from the man.
"I think I'll be leaving now," Jed's soft voice carried across the quiet town as he holstered his weapon. "Beaumont don't seem to be a real welcoming kinda town."
Jed's long-legged stride carried him past the lawman as he headed for the livery. All thoughts of the shooting contest were gone. A gasp from a pretty young woman standing in front of the diner alerted him to another danger. Jed spun around. Another shot fired. Dust kicked up on the road between the bent over sheriff's feet and his gun. The man reached again. Another shot from Jed sent the pistol skittering further away towards an empty water trough.
"You really want to do this?" asked Jed.
The lawman rose to stand, his shoulders slumped. The man shook his head, but Jed didn't trust him to not shoot him in the back. Instead of turning around, the young shootist backed up towards the livery, his pistol out the entire time. No one in front of him moved. Behind him, he heard the familiar voice of the liveryman.
"Got your horse ready."
Jed mounted quickly, possibly even faster than his fast draw. He gathered the reins in one hand, still holding his pistol at the ready.
"Try not to hold it against him," advised the liveryman.
Startled, Jed's blue eyes turned to stare at the man.
"What? That lawman was gonna shoot me in the back!"
"Percy's trying to make a name for himself."
"Why?"
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