Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.
A Man of Few Words
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"He needs water."
Hopkins looked across the feeble flickering flames he was trying to coax into a campfire. The five men had stopped for the night, earlier than the bounty hunter would have liked. Wildwood was still more than two days ride away. The gunnie was right. Hopkins knew it. Heyes needed water. Kid Curry probably needed water too. A strident voice interrupted the bounty hunter's musings.
"What did you say old man?" called Baxter.
Leroy Hopkins frowned at Baxter's approach. Roping the unconscious Heyes over his chestnut's back this morning was the troublemaker's mistake. Letting him stay that way, just because Hopkins didn't want to knuckle under to Kid Curry's growl of protest, was Hopkins' mistake. They hadn't been riding more than ten minutes when the first bout of upchucking started. Curry had fallen off his horse almost immediately. The bounty hunters dismounted then to regroup. Having Baxter ride double to keep Heyes upright worked until the next round of upchucking. And so, they'd stopped again. Baxter and Jubal traded off carrying Heyes for the rest of the long day. Hopkins wasn't fool enough to put his prisoner's together, and he certainly wasn't going to carry the upchucking man himself. After several more stops, the riders finally decided to settle for the night at this sheltered spot near a creek. Baxter hauled Heyes off his horse and then dragged him beneath a tall Ponderosa pine. The unpleasant man never bothered to check his prisoner's wrist restraints. Not for the first time, Hopkins wondered at Baxter. What kind of bounty hunter doesn't check his prisoners bonds? Hopkins had at least taught Jubal to have some caution. The gangly youth checked Curry's wrist bindings before helping his prisoner down from his mount. Together they staggered to the pines. While Jubal and Baxter took the horses down to the creek, Hopkins shackled the blond. He decided the ropes on Heyes were still tight and would be good enough to hold an unconscious man. Prisoners settled to his satisfaction, Hopkins started the tiny fire. Shaking his head, he answered Baxter's question.
"Wasn't me," Hopkins nodded toward the curly haired prisoner. He fed the fire another twig. "It was him."
"Nah, really?" objected Baxter in a mocking tone. He dropped this saddlebags on the ground with a thump, stirring up a small cloud of dust. Baxter's scalp showed through his thinning, slicked back, wet hair. "Everyone knows his partner is the talker, I didn't think he could speak."
Hopkins bushy eyebrows arched up in surprise.
"You going deaf?" The grizzled bounty hunger reached for another piece of kindling and gingerly placed it on the fire. "As I recall, he didn't take kindly to you hitting Heyes with your rifle butt this morning."
"Huh?" Baxter frowned for a moment, then crooked yellow teeth gleamed beneath his straggly black horseshoe mustache as he remembered. "Oh, you mean when he shouted 'No' at me?"
"Yeah."
"That's just one word!"
Baxter squatted down to kneel beside Hopkins. The brash man added a thicker stick to the struggling fire, nearly putting it out.
"Said two words later," reminded Hopkins. The gruff man batted his assistant's hand away. "And three more just now."
"Three more what?" called Jubal's voice.
The sleeves of Jubal's union suit were pushed up past his elbows. Straps of three canteens looped around his neck, two more draped over his left shoulder along with his wet blue shirt. Jubal held the coffee pot precariously out in front of him. Horses on the picket line nickered as the youth trudged up the pebbled slope.
"Never you mind." Baxter beckoned. "Just bring that water here. And hurry up about it."
Jubal obliged while Baxter moved away from the fire, unfurled his bedroll and proceeded to make himself comfortable. Hopkins took the coffee pot first and then his canteen. Jubal crossed over to set Baxter's canteen down by the recumbent man.
"Quit dripping on me boy," snarled Baxter.
"You're just as wet," protested Jubal. He backed away from Baxter. He took a deep breath and blurted out, "And d… don't call me boy. I'm a grown man!"
"Barely," snorted Baxter.
Jubal stumbled to a stop when his heels touched his saddlebags. The young man lowered his canteen to the ground and then stepped towards the prisoners.
"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Baxter.
Jubal blinked in surprise. He pointed to the two men beneath the pines. The tall blond sat upright beside his unmoving partner. The waning sunlight filtered through the tree branches touching on the reddened bindings on his wrists. Another shaft of light struck the black metal leg irons which glinted like too tight lacings on his brown boots. The upturned face of the unconscious prisoner was starkly white. Riding all day hadn't done him any good.
"They… they need water," answered Jubal.
Hopkins narrowed his eyes, watching the verbal battle. Jubal had quit stuttering about a year or two after his sister's worthless husband had abandoned Edna and the boy. Leroy had taken it upon himself to make sure the abusive wretch never came back. He watched out for family when he could.
"They're outlaws!" exploded Baxter. "The only thing those two need is a cold cell or a rope around the neck."
Jubal blinked at the harsh words. Baxter had been increasingly short tempered with the young man as the long day wore on, but Hopkins was pleased to see his nephew straighten his shoulders and stand his ground.
"In all the banks and trains they robbed…," began Jubal.
A voice cut across the camp.
"Ain't wanted for murder."
Hopkins, Baxter and Jubal turned as one to stare at the men sheltered beneath the pines. Still bound hand and foot, the fair haired man had placed himself between his captors and his partner. Baxter was the first to find his voice.
"Ooh," mocked the mustached bounty hunter. "Now we got him talking! Four words."
Hopkins stiffened at Baxter's taunt. Although Hopkins knew Curry hadn't said 'yet', he recognized the menace in his prisoner's quiet demeanor. Didn't Baxter? The soft spoken prisoner now had his lips pressed shut in a thin tight line. The glare in his eyes spoke for him. Hopkins had been chasing down dangerous men for a lot of years. He wasn't one for letting prisoners get away. The bounty hunter pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it at Curry.
"Baxter, check his shackles, then haul him back up to the tree. Tie him to it this time," ordered the older man. "Then put shackles on the other fella too…"
"Me? Why me?" protested Baxter.
Hopkins turned his glare on Baxter, the weapon in his hand now pointed at the scoundrel.
"Because if he makes a wrong move, I won't mind shooting either one of you," seethed Hopkins.
Uncharacteristically subdued, Baxter made quick work of checking Curry's restraints. He pulled the muscular man back to the base of the big old pine and roped the prisoner to the trunk as well. As Baxter knelt beside Heyes' motionless form he looked back at Hopkins.
"Do you really think we need leg irons on him too?"
"Get 'em," growled Hopkins.
"Why?" Baxter sounded surprised. "You can't really think he's playing possum..."
"Remember all those hidden pockets and what he had in them?" retorted Hopkins. "Heyes is a tricky one."
Hopkins didn't really think the injured man was faking. Earlier, when he searched Heyes' coat he'd confiscated a skeleton key, six different sized lock picks, a knife and a folding metal gadget marked with lines and numbers. It worried him that he still had no idea what that folding metal doohickey was for or why it was in Heyes' boot. Baxter hadn't found anything more dangerous than a bag of peppermints and a lace trimmed handkerchief in Curry's coat. Nervous at Curry's implied threat, Hopkins wasn't going to chance an unfettered Heyes coming to in the middle of the night.
"Be quick about it now," prodded Hopkins.
Baxter hurriedly retrieved the other set of shackles. When he finally stepped away from the prisoners, Hopkins gestured to Jubal to move forward.
"Now, they need water," declared Hopkins.
The lanky young man settled one canteen into Curry's hands. The former outlaw's bound wrists made it awkward to hold the container. His long slender fingers splayed wide, grasping, but the fair haired man didn't drink. His expressive blue eyes had Jubal nodding.
"Yeah, I'll make sure he swallows some."
Jubal began tending Heyes. From one of his pockets, the youth retrieved a clean handkerchief. Jubal dabbled it with water and began to scrub the inert man's face. Baxter moved back to his bedroll. Hopkins returned his gaze to the fire, prodding the tiny flames, carefully adding slightly larger pieces of kindling. The sound of a sudden coughing fit jerked his head up in alarm. Hopkins fully expected to see his nephew being throttled, but it was just Curry coughing. Jubal was fine. He had one long arm supporting Heyes' shoulders. With his other hand, Jubal held the canteen as he tried to pour water into Heyes' mouth.
"It's gonna get chilly when the sun goes down," reminded Jubal. "Most likely they're gonna need their bedrolls and coats."
Jubal's gaze settled on Baxter. While Hopkins had returned Heyes' empty coat to the former outlaw's saddlebags, Baxter kept Curry's coat. The soft, warm sheepskin now lay folded beneath Baxter's head.
"Phht, I ain't gonna mollycoddle the likes of them outlaws," snorted Baxter. "Their bedrolls are with the rest of the gear, near the horses."
"They need something to keep warm," protested Jubal.
"Bedrolls, yes," Hopkins grudgingly agreed with a nod to Jubal. "But unroll them first, shake 'em out and check them for anything that ain't blanket."
By the time Jubal got back with the bedding, Baxter had tugged his hat over his eyes. Hopkins had the small fire at a steady glow. He settled the coffee pot. His stomach rumbled, a reminder that it had been a long time since he'd finished the last of his jerky. Hardtack and beans didn't sound appetizing. They should have done some hunting along the ride today, but they were too wound up tending to their prisoners. The others would have to feed themselves tonight. Hopkins wasn't cooking. The bounty hunter leaned back, feeling every year in his bones. He rolled his shoulders trying to unkink tired muscles. Tomorrow would be another long day.
"Jubal, you've got first watch," announced Hopkins. "Wake Rufus for the next one, then I'll take third watch."
"Sure thing," agreed Jubal as he finished spreading blankets over the prisoners.
The young man returned to the campfire while Hopkins clambered onto his bedroll and stretched out. Jubal pulled a harmonica out of his pocket before seating himself by the fire. The mouth organ had almost reached his lips when Hopkins spoke again.
"No harmonica playing tonight!"
"But..."
"Not tonight Jubal! I'm going to sleep, I want some peace and quiet," snarled Hopkins. Jubal's head bobbed up and down. "And make sure to save me some coffee."
From beneath the pines, a soft voice spoke.
"No music and no supper?"
Hopkins curled his lips up into a harsh frown as he answered the blond. Each word rolled out hard and heavy, thudding like rocks in an avalanche.
"No music. No supper. And most especially no escaping."
"But they ain't even tried…" began Jubal.
"Prisoners always try to escape!" roared Hopkins. "You can count on it!"
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