Destiny's Cycle: Seventeen,

Page | 7

"Too Quiet"

Scootching deeper into the chair with his sheepskin coat bunched up about his face, the deep darkness of a moonless night stretched out before him, blanketing all in its thick quiet.

Tucking his gloved hands beneath his arms, Curry considered retiring. But, he did not move. It was even quieter inside and as much as he teased his partner about, perhaps, giving him some peace and quiet. Curry found he did not like the reticent stillness of the empty cabin. 'I should have gone with him,' he thought, for at least the fiftieth time, since the sun had sunk from the sky. 'Said he'd be back before dark.' When he exhaled his worry, his warm breath hung in the air, twisting about him like a trapped fog bank. 'What if he's lying out there hurt and alone?'

Pulling his feet off the railing, Curry leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. The abrupt move shifted his lungs, and a wet cough erupted. The single cough became a flood of coughs hat disturbed the Devil's Hole's quietude, even more than the hoot owls, who had spent over thirty minutes, garbling at each other in the purple dusk; but that had been hours ago.

Spitting a slimy glob over the porch railing, Curry heaved a weary sigh, dropping his head into his hands, "Heyes, where the hell are you?"

"No lights, thought you'd turned in."

The chair skidded back, slamming into the wall as Curry leapt to his feet, flipping his buttoned coat clear as his palm wrapped about the Colt's polished, mahogany butt.

"Whoa, Kid! Whoa!"

"About put a hole in you!"

Wheat Carlson stepped closer, "don't need any extras, thanks."

"What do you want?"

"Been waiting up for Heyes to ride in." He put a boot on the bottom step. "Didn't realize you were still up, 'till I heard that lunger's hack you've acquired."

Curry dropped into his chair, another cough taking over.

Shaking his head, Wheat climbed the cabin's front steps, "Go inside, you're goin' to kill yourself out here; then what will all of us do with Heyes?"

"What?"

"You're the only one who keeps a handle on 'em. Hellfire, he'd blow like a ruptured tank without you around."

Tucking his hands back under his arms, Curry grunted, "I will be fine."

Hitching a leg up on the porch rail, Wheat took a seat, "You stay out here, you won't."

"Carlson, leave me be."

Rubbing at the underside of his chin, Wheat studied the sweating, pale, gasping man before him. 'He really does look like a worried, overgrown kid sitting out here.' Pulling his gloves from his coat pocket, Wheat slid them on, "I'll sit up and wait. You go to bed."

Red-rimmed eyes shifted to Wheat, giving him an urge to skedaddle back to the bunkhouse. Instead, he grumbled, "It's where you ought to be. It's where Heyes would want you."

Leaning back, Curry closed his fever brilliant eyes, "He went to town for me."

"I know he did."

"He isn't back."

"Know that, too."

Curry rubbed both hands up his face, and holding them there, he mumbled, "why were you waiting for him?"

Carlson grinned, ruefully, "Don't you ever be tellin' him. But, I like Heyes, he has grit. Truth is he is a fine one to ride the trail with."

Curry considered his words, and lowering his hands, asked, "Then why are you always at him until you have all his neck hairs on end?"

"When he's agitated, he watches over us all even more."

Curry tilted his head.

"It makes him a better leader to be on edge."

Curry thought to argue Wheat's train of rational, but overall, he felt too weary to breach the subject.

"Come on," Wheat stood, extending his hand. "I'll stand guard while you sleep."

Curry stared at the hand and its owner, before letting himself be pulled to his feet. Once there, a croak emerged from him, and another round of coughing took over, going on and on, torturing him; until he caught his breath and again spit.

"In," Wheat said, pointing at the cabin door.

Staggering in, Curry stumbled to his room and struggling out of his coat, holster, and boots, he could hear Wheat stirring up the stove fire. "Coffee's in the blue tin by the stove," he called, then unable to catch himself, he set to coughing. His performance went on for a good minute or two until with a moaning croak, he rung himself out.

"Damnation, Kid, lie down before you hack a chunk of lung on the floor."

Worn down and sore, Curry still grinned, quite simply, because he did not feel too far from what Wheat described. Not bothering to remove his clothes, he tumbled into bed.

At some point, he rolled over and thought he smelled bacon. Swimming up to wakefulness, he forced his eyes open. The brilliant, late morning light, drenching his room startled him, and he sat up like he had been jabbed with a hot poker. In the same instant, he set to coughing. Wrapping his arms about his ribs, he rolled from bed and lumbering to the piss bucket, hacked gobs of phlegm in it, before using it. Then flinging open his bedroom door, he lurched into the main room, "Heyes, you had me worried sick."

"Not Heyes," Preacher replied drolly, looking back from where he stood at the cast iron stove, "and you were already sick. Unfortunately, you are still gonna be worried."

Curry's eyes darted about the cabin, and knowing the answer, still had to ask, "He's not back?"

Preacher frowned, sorrowfully.

"Gotta go find him."

The bacon hissed angrily as Preacher turned it with a fork, "no reason."

Curry, hoarsely, answered, "no reason…" pointing to the front door, "he's out there alone."

"Wheat, Lobo, and Kyle rode out before the sky was even pink yet. They said they'd bring him back and I'm positive they will. They also said I was to keep you here."

"Good luck doing that," Curry muttered, stomping back to his room.

Covering one side of a plate with bacon, Preacher cracked four eggs in the skillet grease, grinning like a weasel at the flow of the inventive and vibrant curses emanating from Curry's room.

Kid Curry came storming out of the room red-faced, his eyes sparking with anger, and hollered, "Where the hell-" Another coughing fit took over, wringing through him until he sank down in a chair. Catching his breath, he looked bitterly over at Preacher, "Where the hell are my boots, holster, and coat?!"

Flipping grease over the eggs, Preacher said, "made you breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"That is either a bald-faced lie, or I'm exchanging words with a haunt."

Staring hard at the man, he usually felt friendly toward Curry bit his lower lip.

Lifting the hot pot with a rag, Preacher filled the coffee cups sitting on the table and removing a flask from his pocket, dumped a good dose of rye in the black brew, cajoling, "Come on, Kid, coffee'll make your throat feel better."

With a sigh, Curry picked up the cup, "But, I want to go find him."

Having turned to remove the eggs from the skillet, Preacher was glad his back to Curry, because he could not hold in the smile that arose on hearing Curry's whining tone. Then, as Wheat had earlier, he found himself pondering how much the gunslinger sounded like his moniker.

Which made him wonder, how all of them had decided to follow men so much younger than themselves. Big Jim had been one thing, and back then, Heyes had been his pet. How was it, Heyes and his partner had become their leaders? But, before he could souse deeper into his considerations, he was interrupted.

"You planning on giving me them eggs and bacon or just staring at them 'till they're cold?"

"Thought you weren't hungry."

"Well, I am."

Setting the plate before Curry, Preacher said, "I knew you were. Never been a time, I haven't seen you pile into grub, like a pup too long off the teat."

Curry looked up sharply, his mouth already too full to reply.

A scratchy laugh worked its way from Preacher as he liberally dosed, his own cup with whiskey, "Now, when your finished, head on back to bed."

Swallowing, Curry gulped out, "Heyes-"

"Will be found."

Forking up more eggs, Curry glanced toward Heyes' closed bedroom door, a hint of a smile emerging.

"Your boots aren't in there. And, if you go looking, you'll find your coat is missing, and your saddles not in the tack room."

Slamming his fork on the table, Curry took a breath to rip into Preacher and instead exploded into a cacophonous hacking fit.

"Eat and bed."

Around the same time, lower on the mountain, three outlaws were trotting briskly into Tin.

Shivering like a dog shaking himself, Kyle called out, "Sure is cold."

"I'm right here, no use telling me," Wheat replied.

"Just glad we made it off Spineback Ridge leading down." Lobo said, "were a bit there, I figured the wind was going to blow me clear of my saddle."

Pulling up, the outlaws sat three abreast on Tin's Main Street, gawking at the empty town.

Kyle looked left and right, his blue eyes seeming extra-large, "It's too quiet, I don't like it."

Loosening his stampede strings, Wheat asked, "What day is it?"

Before either of his companions could answer, a church bell's sharp clanging ripped apart the winter morning, and they all nodded.

Standing in his stirrups, repositioning himself before dropping back in his seat, Lobo said, "that does explain the ghost town."

"If'n it's all closed up," Kyle looked to Wheat, "where we gonna look for Heyes?"

Sucking on his lower lip, Wheat sat silent and then smiled, "Let's check the Livery first."

When Kyle and Lobo pulled the double barn doors open, the horses inside pushed their heads, over their stall gates, to see who had arrived.

Pacing down the row of stalls, Wheat came to a halt, "Here's Clay."

From where he was leaning against the door frame, Lobo said, "that means Heyes is still here in town."

"You think!"

"No reason to get proddy, Wheat. Fact is ya should be happy." Kyle said, pulling off a glove and digging his block of chaw from his pocket. "I been worried we might've passed'em, somewhere on the way down, and not known it."

Wheat nodded, "yeah, I had thought of that, too."

"So, now, where do we look?" Kyle asked, he and Lobo both giving Wheat their full attention.

He stared back, his face settling into a wrinkled furrow.

Lob asked, "what ya thinkin' we should do?"

Clay pushed against his stall gate, whickering at his own companions standing outside the barn.

"Well…" Wheat said, glancing to the sorrel, "Let's get a saddle on Clay, and take him with us." Having made decision, Wheat strode to the open doors, eyeing the empty streets, 'Where you at Heyes?' After a long few minutes, he turned back, "Kid said he came down for him. . . what was he doing down here?"

Lobo grunted, "no," tightening Clay's cinch and the horse side-stepped into him, trying to stomp on his foot. "Swear, this animal has never liked me much."

Kyle laughed at Lobo and spitting on the soft dirt floor, said "When he was leaving, Heyes told me-"

"You spoke with him?"

Kyle nodded, "Uh-huh. I helped get Clay caught up and saddled."

"Just now, you're thinking of sharing this with us."

Kyle looked down, his worn boot scuffing up some dirt, covering the wet stain he had made.

"Out with it, Kyle."

"Ya sure are on the prod, Wheat."

"Kyle!?" Wheat barked while thinking, 'I'm getting an understandin' of why Heyes is on the prod, so often.'

"Said he recalled once when he was really sick, his Ma had dosed'em with honey to stop his coughin'. Said, it worked, ceptin' she gave'em so much, he still don't care much for it. Which I told 'em was hard to believe, 'cause ain't much better in this world than clover honey."

Leading Clay out, Lobo handed him to Kyle, "So, he came down for honey?"

"Yup." Kyle nodded, "we don't keep none at The Hole."

Reaching up under his coat, Wheat tucked in the loose tail of his shirt, "hmmm….suppose we don't."

"He also said he wanted to speak with the Druggist. 'Cause nothin' he'd dosed Kid with was doin' much good."

Wrapping his muffler back up around his face, Wheat said, "Let's go talk to the Druggist."

"Uhm, Wheat, it's Sunday."

Wheat's shoulders slumped, "Yeah, I suppose, he's down there in the hothouse with everyone else."

Lobo asked, "should we wait?"

"Don't feel like waiting." Wheat headed for his own horse, "Where would a person get honey?"

Lobo replied, "Reckon the mercantile."

"It'd be closed too." Kyle put in.

Grabbing up his reins, Wheat grunted, "Well, damnation," and swung onto his horse.

Looking up, Lobo squinted at the bright sunlight, "Maybe, he went to the Cat House?"

"Nah, Heyes, don't like that place." Wheat replied absently, studying at what he could see of Tin.

"You sure, " Lobo went on, "he most definitely likes the action at the Chicken Ranch."

"That's Lotties. He doesn't like Ruby's, says it's the type of place a man goes if'n he wants to catch something."

Kyle's mouth dropped open, "that true?"

"Ain't inspected it, Kyle. Always figured I'd just take'em at his word."

By this time, the three of them were mounted and staring blankly at Tin.

"Druggist closed, so the mercs, Cat House is a no…" Lobo mumbled, "think he got himself in an all-night poker game?"

A smile appeared on Kyle's face, "Yeah, maybe we oughts to check the saloons. We could even get one of'em 'bustle warmer' drinks, ya had, Wheat."

Wheat looked hard enough over at his pal, Kyle sunk into his shoulders, "but, ya said it were good."

Closing his eyes, Wheat snorted, turning from Kyle, "Nope, he came down here in a hurry 'for Kid. He wouldn't play poker, nope, he'd want to hustle right back to The Hole."

"Too bad ol' Clay can't tell us where he is."

This time Wheat did not even bother to respond to his pal, but Lobo said, "Hell, he couldn't if he could, he was way back in the barn, and the doors were closed."

"I got it!" Wheat smiled, "only one place that could keep him from returning." Then the smile was gone.

Lobo's brow furrowed, and he scratched at the stubble along his jaw, asking, "how we gonna get him out of jail?"

Goosing his horse, Wheat drawled, "Suppose we best ascertain he is there first."