Destiny's Cycle: Two, Page | 5
"Ghosts"
The room turned toward Billie and the boy's expression, coupled with the way his Adam's apple was struggling in his throat, let all know precisely how close fear or, maybe brashness had him to pulling his pistol.
Kid Curry, though, remained impassive as the march of time as he waited for the moment when he would be required to put this boy down, just as he had so many before him. This game always ended the same, it ended with blood. Blood and, most frequently, screams.
It was the screams that disturbed Curry. Somehow they reminded him of the raiders at their family farms, so long ago, when he had been a boy. The blast of the Colt and even the spewed blood felt perfectly natural to him. But, it the screams, he loathed the screams. They wrung from him a secret plea that he could somehow halt this relentless trail of cordite and blood he had created for himself.
Behind Curry, Hannibal Heyes uncoiled from the chair, any sound he made lost to the racket of saloon patron's hustling from too close a proximity to harm's way. As he stood there, Heyes' jaw canted a bit to the side, his brows lowering, and he took a step closer to the action. 'Where did that fog come from around Billie Boy?' He took another step, his brows were furrowing so deep, the ridge of his nose had picked up a definite wrinkle. 'It seems to be boiling straight out of Billie.' A line of Macbeth nattered through Heyes' thoughts, '… double, double toil and trouble…' and he took another step.
Beside him, Kid exhaled, and in a low, detached voice, he stated, "walk away."
Heyes glanced at him, then back at the rising, swirling vapor, 'swear I can already smell the irony tang of blood.' He looked to Curry again, and without asking, knew Curry was not experiencing anything out of the ordinary. A flash of heat raced across Heyes' skin, leaving behind a trail of cold sweat. Closing his eyes, he pulled his lower lip through his teeth, but when he opened his eyes, the gray fog had coalesced, becoming...he swallowed hard, becoming shifty, shadows of men.
Men swathed in blood-drenched clothes, with cold, haunted, soulless eyes that were aimed, accusingly, at Curry.
Heyes' mouth felt painfully dry, and his hands rolled into fists, except not quite, because his right hand tightened about the smooth, hard butt of his Schofield. With a spastic jerk, he drew the pistol, bringing it to bore on the advancing specters.
Billie's eyes bolted wide open, and his hands rising palm out. "Mister, I ain't got any beef with you."
Curry's blue eyes, slowly, shifted to his partner, and he frowned at the line of sweat he saw trickling down the angles of Heyes' face. But what caused his gut to pinch was the frightened countenance shrouding his pal's face and an inner knowledge that Heyes was aiming at something other than Billie, something unseen.
Then Heyes took a step forward.
That single step placed him amidst men of their past, really men of Kid's past. Some Heyes could not fully recall, only where they had been when they were shot down. Those closest raised their grasping, clacking hands toward him, and as they shambled forward, their disjointed movements caused their ragged skin to flap apart, revealing gruesome, twisted, splintered bones. But the ghosts closer to Billie were worse. Their wounds oozed a black cream that reeked of rot while their contorted faces brought to mind the graves they lay in. 'They are not real,' a frantic corner of Heyes' mind bellowed, over and over, like the clattering clang of a fire brigade's brass bell, and yet, they were almost upon him.
The fingers of Curry's left-hand brushed Heyes' shirt sleeve, "partner?"
Heyes shied away, the corner's of his mouth tugging down, the rest of his face, smoothing out like silk, until not a line existed in his hard mask, and without a word, he tipped back the hammer of the Schofield.
Billie gulped, "Mister…" shuffling back.
"Partner!?"
Heyes' wide eyes flicked briefly to Curry, and he took another step forward, followed by another, striding straight through the accursed apparitions, which he had come to realize; only he could see. Still, they chilled him to the bone, twisting his insides until he wanted to spill all he had drunk this night out onto the floor.
Billie's glossy, blue-eyes kept darting from Heyes' crazed expression to the .45 caliber Schofield's barrel until he could no longer see it because the hard metal was digging into his chest. "Please, Mister, please, I didn't mean-."
Snatching the Colt from Billie's holster skid. Stepping off Billie, Heyes threw a look from him to Curry, "Only an imbecile would invite death to stand beside 'em!" Then he bolted through the batwing doors, leaping from the boardwalk to stand in the street. Once there, he began ejecting the Colt's cartridges, each one landing in the dirt with a soft thud. Inhaling deeply, Heyes threw the revolver down the street.
Letting out a long breath, Heyes turned to face the orange ball of light slipping below the western skyline of the town. He inhaled deeply again, trying to clear the ghoulish stench of decay from his nostrils while concentrating on shaking whatever that had been in the saloon. When he was jerked backward, his feet becoming entangled, he crashed into Kid Curry.
"You 'bout got yourself ran down," Curry said, pointing to the wheels of a fast-moving wagon spinning by.
"Oh," Heyes replied, his gaze drifting toward the crooked batwing doors.
"What the hell happened in there?" Curry asked, jerking a thumb at Snitzler's Saloon.
Rubbing a hand down his face, Heyes stepped back up onto the boardwalk, "think I'm ready for bed."
"It isn't even dark!?"
Distractedly, Heyes replied, "yeah," walking away, "and tomorrow, we're leaving Wichita."
"You said this would be a lively town to rest our heels in."
"Changed my mind," Heyes replied, moving faster, and tugging his hat down, "we're leaving tomorrow."
Curry shook his head, "Well, I ain't tired, so once I see where our room is, I'll leave you to your rest."
Heyes stopped.
Curry pulled up.
Heyes' dark eyes slanted to his friend taking in Curry's tight, broad shoulders, thick build, and tight face. Seeing him so close, on the edge of anger, reminded Heyes that the Kid was too big to be bossed around anymore. Still, what he had seen in the saloon had everything inside him screaming that they needed to get out of town and that as Curry's pal, he should at least try to talk him into not going back out. Licking his lips, he tried to smile, but it fell flat, "Just thinking you should stay in, without me, you'll get yourself in some difficulty."
Curry's mouth formed into a hard frown.
"Kid, I'd just feel better if you stayed in."
"And, I'd feel better if you told me, what got you all twisted up, back there."
Heyes' face pinched, and he looked away, "maybe, tomorrow," and seeing they were in front of the Southern Hotel, he pushed through its green front door, slapping the brass bell on the counter.
A tall, matronly woman emerged from behind a curtained door, "Can I help you?"
"Like a room, preferably one that looks out over the street."
"Two dollars," she stated, pulling a key from the hook and spinning the register to be signed.
Digging out the fee, Heyes laid them on the counter, signing Joshua R. Reynolds.
Reading his name, as he wrote it, she smiled, "Mr. Reynolds, check out is at ten."
He nodded, taking the key and passing her a wane smile.
When Curry moved to follow, she snapped, "Sir," tapping the register, "city requires we keep track of who stays."
Taking up the pen, Curry, dipped it in the inkwell, scribbling on the next empty line.
The hotel clerk's small eyes watched Heyes drag himself up the stairs, and hearing Curry set the pen down, she automatically spun the register back to herself. Only to frown at his cramped writing, "what does this say?"
"Thaddeus James."
Her eyes lifted to the sound of Heyes' boots clumping along the upper hall, "Well, Mr. James, he feelin' all right seems a bit pale. I don't want no illness here."
"He's fine, Ma'am, just a bit over-tired."
She frowned, deep lines appearing between her brows.
"Promise, Ma'am, he is in prime health," and touching his fingers to the brim of his hat, he hurried after his friend. By the time he reached the room, Heyes was sitting on a bed, staring at the floor.
"You sure, you don't want to talk?"
"Tomorrow."
"Now, Heyes—"
Heyes' head snapped up, "leave me be, Kid."
Recognizing the look, Curry held up his hands backing from the room, "I'll check on you later."
"Do what you want."
Exhaling out a sigh, Curry shut the door and locking it, placed the key in his vest pocket.