Destiny's Cycle: Nine, Page | 5
"Finders Keepers"
The river snaked westward with willows and thick, barked cottonwood trees clinging to its crumbling, flood-ravaged banks, in its center small, sandy humped back islands covered in rich vegetation appeared randomly. Spreading away from the river, grass grew tall, becoming a never-ending whispering brown sea, that made the land appear flat, mile after mile of flat boredom.
However, a full day's ride had revealed this to be untrue, for, beneath the grass, the land rolled, giving way to vast basins and sharp crevices. The unrelenting roots of the prairie grasses had forced their between lumpy, jagged slabs of limestone erupting from the soil amidst the camouflaged, gaping burrows created by the creatures of the plains.
"Little tricky at times, but a nice area," Heyes said busily searching the flickering cottonwood leaves, to finally find the brown speckled, golden-breasted bird, singing. "Hey, Kid, you recall how the meadowlarks would…." His words trailed away.
His words caused them both to drop back to their boyhoods when the inquisitive birds would perch on the fence posts about their homes, watching them with quick, little twists of their heads as they sang their bright, warbling song. Swallowing hard, Curry softly replied, "I remember."
"Apologies," Heyes responded, looking from the sluggish, flowing river, "still, it is a nice area to ride through."
Curry gave him a quick smile of acceptance, "figured it would be, and we're going to follow it all the way across the Colorado line."
"You study a map somewhere?"
"Nope. Talked with a gentleman named Mead, said he used to do some big buffalo hunts out here, and knew the land well."
"Hmpf," was the grunted answer, they both knew Heyes preferred maps and doing his own research to another's words.
"I know, but Mr. Mead was well spoken of by plenty back in Wichita, and he told me going this way, we would not be without water on the open prairie; also we could restock at the lil' burgs that have been cropping up alongside the Arkansas River."
Heyes drolly piped back, "Arkansaw River, Kid."
"Nope, I meant Arkansas. I was about town enough to figure out that is what the folks called it."
Heyes frowned over at his pal.
"What?"
"We are no longer from around here."
Curry shoved his hat back a bit, "anyway, I asked Mr. Mead about it, and he good-naturedly told me, everyone has pronounced it that way since 'the War' 'cause it flows through Kansas first, and they figure it to be OurKansas River, no matter what the Rebs had to say about it."
One dark eyebrow lifted, "That so."
Curry nodded, "since the locals feel that way, thought it might be better to say it like them."
"Might at that."
The river had bent back on itself, and at the point of the bend, several large cottonwoods were bunched together, their massive roots rolling out across the ground like slack, circus tent ropes. Automatically, they guided their horses more toward the prairie, not wanting to catch a shoe on the twisted, thick bark. Leaving the shade, Curry reached up, tugging his hat down low to shield his pale eyes.
"Go on and raise that other hand while you're at it. You do the same, Heyes."
They froze, their eyes slanted to each other.
"This here double-aught does not care what you do, 'cause this close, it's bound to do more than wing you, no matter what you blame well try."
Both outlaws hands reached skywards and shifting in his saddle to get a look, Heyes said, "Sir, I do-"
Except he was cut off, "Uh Huh! Do not be movin' none!"
Heyes stilled, his face becoming even stiller, his dark eyes narrowing.
"I got 'em, Harold." The unknown voice said, almost as jubilantly as a child who knows he has achieved his goal. "It is safe for you and rest of the boys to come on across."
Four riders emerged from the other side of the river; the lead rider wore a had once been an excellent cut, broadcloth suit. Except now, it had the shine of being worn nearly thin. The man smiled widely as his horse splashed across the low river, the riders surrounding him, having all their pistols pointed at Curry and Heyes.
The swaying bear claw attached to the watch chain stretched across the man's rounded belly, glinted, catching Heyes' eye, and the corner of his mouth dipped his dimple becoming prominent right. Then with a soft snort, he burst into a congenial, charming smile, "Harold MacKeefe, good to see you."
"You are supremely correct, Heyes," Harold responded, touching a finger to the brim of his flat hat. "Now go on and reach over with your left hand and toss the Kid's pistol aside."
"What's this all about?"
"Not recalling, giving you permission to jabber, simply do as instructed."
Hannibal Heyes' jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring and leaning out, he grasped the Peacemaker's smooth, wood handle.
Harold raised his voice, "Heyes! Do not be forgetting, both your posters have illustriously labeled you, both, as dead or alive."
With a sigh, Heyes flicked his wrist, the pistol twisted in the air to land before their horses.
As he was doing this, a man, with a face as pockmarked as a bad road, snagged the newly purchased Schofield, and smiling smugly, he walked out retrieving the Colt.
"Well done, Mitchell."
At the praise, Mitchell swung round to Harold, smiling like a hound dog being offered a bone.
"Very well done, go on and bring me that jewelry."
Loping over, Mitchell handed up the shiny six-shooters, and Harold patted him on the shoulder, slipping the pistols in his waist belt. "Now, you two reach on back and grab hold of your cantles."
All softness disappeared from Curry's face, and when he reached back, his wrists were, promptly and fiercely, tied with a rawhide thong. Heyes did the same, but not before, straightening his hat and tightening the stampede strings to hold it in place.
"Always was one to buck an order, any way you could, weren't you Heyes… just anyway you could." Harold MacKeefe stated with a shake of his head. "Walter, it would be best if'n you used two rawhides to tie him, Heyes there can be slippery as a wet snake."
His patience, already, thoroughly exhausted and the pinching of the ever-tightening thongs on his wrists, doing little to improve his humor, Heyes snarled. "What the hell is all this about, Harold?"
"Why it is what it is always about," Harold replied, placing his folded hands atop his belly, "turning a profit."
Curry looked fast to his partner, but Heyes, having decided Harold intended to use him to open a mail car safe, was trying to get a better read on the man, "Last time we spoke, you said you were done robbing trains."
"Still am," Harold said, waving a hand toward the sea of grass, "it is far easier to perpetuate heists out there. Most travelers tend not to fight back like them hired guards the trains have incorporated."
Realization settled in, and Heyes inhaled deep, enough to make his almost healed lung pinch.
"I see my plans just became apparent to you."
Under his breath, Curry asked, "Heyes, what's going on?"
Heyes' tongue flicked across his lower lip, and he tightly replied, "Harold over there, intends to turn us in for the profit of our rewards."
Curry's blue eyes turned sharp as a winter sky, his gaze sliding to Harold MacKeefe.
"Well, now, I am right glad, I have your guard dog leashed, Heyes; he looks like he has some bite to him."
Curry's shoulders tightened, the muscled cords of his neck standing out rigid.
"Easy, Kid," Heyes said, really almost cooed knowing behind Harold's amiable, smiling attitude rested an every ready cut-throat killer.
Walter looked from one outlaw to the other and with a hearty laugh, hitched their horses up behind his own and a sullen-looking man's wide-hipped bay.
They had been towed across the prairie for hours, with Harold's gang keeping them beyond reasonable distance apart. Sitting atop the sloping ridgeline, where the lead riders had paused to await the others, Heyes noted his pal's skin was pinked up like a strawberry on a vine in the open sun.
"Harold, favor?"
The bushy-bearded man rode closer, "What could you possibly desire, Heyes?"
"Like to say, for you to release us, but certain that isn't a favor you'd be willing to grant."
"You are quite precise in your assumption," Harold chirped through a gloating smile. "See this here is a finders keepers situation, and I plan on keeping you both until you pay off." He scratched at his beard, "And, I mean that. I will keep hold of both of you, even if you force my hand, and my boys are required to slice your throats. Although, I do hope it doesn't come to that, as it wouldn't take long for you both to start stinking in this sun."
Heyes' lips pursed tight, then he forced out a smile, "speaking of the sun, my favor is… could one of your boys set Kid's hat back on, cause he is broiling under it."
Harold's eyes drifted to Curry, who was sullenly glaring at the ground, the back of his neck a proverbial beet red, "Anthony, see to it."
A burly, farmhand looking man, in a rough homespun shirt, rode over and grabbing the brown hat from Curry's back, he set it atop his head. Then, with a grin, he slid the stampede knot tight. However, having suspected this, Curry had flexed his neck and jaw, so when released, the knot was not gagging him.
Turning his horse, Harold looked pointedly at Heyes.
With a smile as menacing as wolverine advancing from his den Heyes said, "Thank you, Harold."