Destiny's Cycle: Ten, Page | 3
"Canada"
"This really isn't necessary."
With a chuckle, Harold MacKeefe snapped the shackle closed, "I am keeping you right close 'till you pay off."
"Didn't think you meant I got to be your bedroll pal each night." Heyes grumped, edging as far from Harold as the chain connecting them allowed.
"If I did otherwise, the pair of you would take off north, so fast… well, you might overshoot Wyoming and not pull up 'till you were standing in Canada."
Tucking an arm under his head, Heyes' dark eyes went to Curry, who was for the fourth night being roped to a tree and forced to sleep upright. His expression vividly detailing how wearisome, he was of such arrangements.
Dawn arrived bright and clear, and when Heyes sat up, he swept a hand across the brittle, dry ground, and he thought, 'that is odd for Autumn, no dew, it's fixing to be one hellishly hot day.'
Climbing aboard their horses, he and Curry caught one another's eyes and the look they passed, reaffirmed, 'whatever move you make, I will back you.'
They were traveling, nearly, the same route Kid Curry had planned for them, although the shaded trails along the Arkansas River had faded away to the windswept, stoic beauty of the plains. Not that they had been noticing much of it, as their thoughts were overwhelmed with the desire to escape.
The difficulty was each morning their hands were tied behind their backs, and their horses ponied to another mount. Furthermore, they were not even allowed to ride alongside one another. No, Harold had them well in hand, and thusly, they had not been able to share more than a few words, and none of those private.
The heat rose with the sun, and the group plodded on in silence. Harold's gang tired of each other's company and Heyes simply not allowed to talk; a full day's cycle of wearing a gag had convinced him of the seriousness of this maxim.
It was not even noon yet, and the horses were sweating as wetly as the men upon them were. When they topped the basin, they had been riding across, there was a jewel blue band blanketing the far horizon.
"What you think, Boss?" Mitchell asked, his eyes traveling across the darkening, stripe.
"Do not be worrying any; it is a good ways off," Harold replied with definite certainty.
Having been born to the plains, Heyes and Curry both knew, the storm was not as far off as Harold believed. They warily looked left and right, in perfect unison, and, other than the rolling grass, there was nothing else in sight.
Frowning, Heyes noticed Curry, up ahead of him, shift in his saddle, driving his boots deeper in his stirrups and agreeing with him, did the same.
They rode on, the deep band had gained patches of brilliant turquoise green, and the top looked like foaming waves on a moonlit sea.
Walter coughed, sounding loud as a train whistle in the eerie silence. "That storm starts movin' this here way, I ain't stayin' in my saddle to be fried by lightning."
Harold MacKeefe's head turned like a snake to Walter, "You will do as you are told, or you will forfeit your share."
Walter twisted his reins, grumbled under his breath, and hipped his speckled mare into a trot, removing himself from MacKeefe's fierce glare. He happened to be the one, ponying Heyes' sorrel, and Walter's dodging his leader had brought Heyes up alongside Curry.
Even from the corner of his eye, Heyes could read the tension in his partner. They had faced a fair share of severe storms over the years, yet, nowhere did one compare to the unfettered ferocity of a plains blowup.
The heat had the horses huffing, and their hooves slipped on the greasy, buffalo grass as the slope became steeper, leaning forward in their saddles, the men shifting their weight to help their mounts. Cresting the top, a rush of icy, wind hit them, splaying out the horses' manes and whipping the grass until it hissed like a wild animal.
Gooseflesh spread across Heyes' body, and twisting he saw Curry's face was a fixed mask, making others think he was stoic about it all; Heyes knew better. He knew his partner had the same all-overish feeling crawling along his sweat-soaked skin as he did.
The rolling moonlight colored clouds were building, rising, boiling into a towering formation, massive enough for the Gods of this land to take note. Sensing impending wrath in the dark blackness, the horses whickered, their ears flicking back and forth as they twitched and hopped beneath their saddles.
Another howling gust spun Harold's fancy flat planter's hat from his head.
Heyes watched it jump and flip from sight, but his eyes widened when he realized the grass it was skittering along was utterly flat to the ground. He rapidly looked all about them, only confirming he was right. The grass about them was smashed out flat like it had been stepped on, and tilting his head back, he peered up at the heavens, at the spinning clouds above them to hoarsely gasp, "Oh, hell!"
Curry too had taken in their dire situation, and much darker curses were slipping from him.
At that moment, blinding forks of light branched out in great arcs, and the spinning clouds began to churn faster; and like a finger from God, a bolt struck, so big and loud, it rattled the group down to their bones. The smell of charred flesh swept back to Heyes, and with a yelp, he took a death grip of his saddle's cantle, slamming his heels down. His big sorrel took off, ripping free of Walter's twisting, snorting mare.
Following Heyes' example, Curry slammed his heels down, and his excited gelding needed little encouragement for the horse was already scared, and now his trail mate was leaving him. In a bunched leap, the big bay bolted, dragging the smaller horse, he was tied to, until the rope snapped.
Another lightning blast struck, and Heyes yipped, shrinking tight to his horse. Yet, when Curry's bay nosed up, so their horses were running neck and neck, Heyes chanced a look over, wanting to share the joy of freedom only to find his pal's face painted white with absolute terror.
Looking back, he felt the blood drain from his face, the clouds had succeeded in spinning into a fully formed funnel, and it was howling like the darkest, nightmare beast, pulling, sucking, devouring all it could reach.
When the lightning bolt blasted Harold from his saddle, a jolt of fear had raced through Heyes that one of them might be next. But this twister ravaging the prairie behind them was teaching him fear of the likes he did not know existed. For the very blood, pumping in his veins had become imbued with a burning, numbing fear.
Curry's blue eyes caught sight of Heyes' waxy, pale face, and he could see none of the bravado of his pal who got them out of difficulties, of his cousin who had protected him since they were young, and all he could see was the same cold, sweaty terror that was wrapped about his own heart. It was then some corner of his mind recalled the prayers his Mother would say each night, her words of protection and devotion spoken over him. He could not remember the last time he had said them, and wondered if that might have been a mistake on his behalf, he looked again to Heyes, on both their behalfs.