Their horses' ears twitched curiously at the steady stream of pioneers, merchants, and soldiers moving about outside Fort Laramie's perimeter like bees at a hive.
Kid Curry sat loose in his saddle; his posture relaxed. Yet, beneath the brim of his low-pulled hat, his steely gaze scanned every detail with caution outlaw life had trained into him.
Riding alongside him, Heyes brightly wore his easy grin.
But Wilkinson saw a tension there, subtle yet unmistakable, after following the man these past days. He also suspected the man he knew as Hawk was not feeling as relaxed as he was presenting.
When a sharp sound caught Heyes' attention, his head snapped around, and Wilkinson's suspicion was confirmed. The dark eyes were calculating and missing nothing.
In an unspoken agreement, the leaders turned their horses to a space along a corral and dismounted. The men followed, moving as if they were an extension of their leaders as they, too, dismounted.
Curry and Heyes exchanged a stiff look, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Neither of them ever went out of their way to brush elbows with soldiers. The uniforms invariably stirred up memories they favored, leaving buried. Worse still, military personnel were near the top of the judicial system. Which was far closer to the law than either of them liked being.
Still, the Fort, specifically the businesses that congregated near it, had their advantages: food not cooked over an open fire, whiskey that came from Back East in bottles with authentic labels and recognizable names. Of course, it also offered the entire reason they had reined toward Fort Laramie, and that was restock to fill the paniers lugged by the gang's pack horses.
Before the silent discussion finished, Preacher coughed and, with the full resonance of his deep voice, intoned. "Verily, y'all, would not deny us, humble poor souls, a drink, perhaps two, from the saloon that has sprung from the goodness of this Fort."
"Humble, poor souls," snorted Heyes. "How do you keep from getting struck with lightning by the Lord you speak so highly of?"
Leaning his long arms across his saddle seat, Preacher beamed at Heyes, lines of laughter carving up his face. "Why, Hawk, but our Savior is known to watch over children, but he also holds a soft spot for the simple-minded and those who stray from his righteous path."
Snorting again with a shake of his head, Heyes loosened Striga's girth strap, saying, "Lead on, Preacher. I wouldn't mind a few drinks to wash the dirt from my throat, either."
Trailing after the Devil's Hold Gang and Doc, Heyes leaned to his cousin, saying low, "You figure all the hardships we run upon are ill luck or 'cause we have strayed from his righteous path?"
Kid bumped against Heyes with a toothy smile that crinkled his eyes. "More like we aren't simple-minded enough to be watched over."
Chuckling, Heyes responded, "So, nothing to do with straying from the righteous path?"
"Pretty sure that is true for you," Kid answered. "Me, I take pleasure in assisting, even guarding over, ladies, the aged, and children." He slapped an arm about his cousin's shoulder. "Your luck might improve if you walk a bit of the path as I do."
Heyes humphed, shrugging out from under the arm, feeling it was weighing him down as much as some of Kid's side excursions in the past to aid others had.
The Saloon, which did not even boast a name outside, teetered on being as terrible as those they visited in Hell on Wheels camps. It sat upon boot-hardened bare dirt; its unseasoned boards, slapped so hastily up, had warped to the point that harsh stripes of daylight pierced the murk.
Scattered across the floor were five tables, no more than boards nailed to barrels, and about them slumped poker players. Across the ceiling pooled cigar smoke, hanging heavy and wafting lazily. Scanning the room with a practiced eye, Heyes stepped to a bar as ramshackle as the entire place. His group of thirsty men were already pressed in shoulder to shoulder, and making himself a spot next to Kid, he propped his arms on the bar's rough wood surface.
Tossing back a shot of rye, Kid Curry set it down with a quick nod to the bartender to fill 'er up again.
Seeing Wilkinson had not touched his shot, Kyle nudged the man with a toothy, tobacco-stained smile; he gushed, "Drink up, Doc." Gulping his whiskey, he set his glass down for another, saying, "We ain't goin' be here long." He nodded toward Heyes and Curry, not when they wear that look.
Wilkinson took a thoughtful sip, leaning forward to study the pair of men he had come to see as an enticing puzzle. They looked as casual as they had riding up to the Fort, all smiles and light-hearted joking, but their knife-edged glances about the Saloon betrayed a vigilance no amount of charm could conceal. When their gazes swept the room, they would linger on their so-called "pals." After the first day of travel, Wilkinson noted how the pair watched over their companions, snipping at them with the precision of a Collie guarding its flock. It also had not escaped him that these "pals," every last one of them, deferred to Hawk and Jackson with the sullen, sometimes cheerful obedience of privates to officers.
"Wheat, move the horses to the Stutler, buy enough supplies for us to follow the Powder up to the Yellowstone River; figure we can pace it on into Montana," Heyes quietly said, pulling bills and handing them to Wheat, laying another on the bartop. "Get the boys at it, and if anyone asks, we're a surveyor team investigating mineral samples. And, Wheat," his soft tone picking up a burr, "Keep it simple. Do not add anything to make our group sound important. I want us to be on no consequence. Am I clear?"
"Course you are," Wheat answered with a winey snarl. "Don't know why you suppose I would go buildin' us all up, anyhows."
Heyes turned to face Wheat straight on. "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes. We know each other far too well."
Finishing his drink, Wheat thumped the glass on the bar, bellowing, "Boys, we got supplies to load." Without any further ado, he stalked out the gaping front door, the bright sunlight taking him as Kyle, Lobo, Hardcase, Preacher, Hank, and Haig trailed in his wake.
Sidling down to Wilkinson, Heyes opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the Doctor began leveling a case for staying at least one night. Only Heyes interrupted, shooting down his rationales without an ounce of consideration.
Swallowing the last of his drink, Wilkinson told himself, Time again, Old Boy, to set aside your comfort. Remember, the task at hand transcends personal pleasure and ease; it is not only for yourself that you suffer but also for the betterment of the world. Lightly placing the shot glass down, Wilkinson turned to Heyes, brightly saying, "Hawk, I—"
Only Heyes shook his head, shooting down the last of his whiskey. "Sorry, Doc, my mind is set."
"Oh, I am quite aware of that," Wilkinson continued, his tone precise and speech impeccably articulated. "However, I wish to discuss the markings along the left margin of the map. I consider—"
"Save it for the road, Doc," Curry said low and hushed, his focus fixed on the far corner of the room. With calm ease, he shifted to square himself toward the threat, his right hand hanging loose at his side. A subtle tilt of his head pointed out a foursome of hard-faced men, their poker game forgotten, and attention fully on Curry and his companions. "We're just passin' though," he stated, the weight of the words carrying more warning than explanation.
"Doc," Heyes said, calm and cool, "Let's go!" With a firm, controlled push, he guided Wilkinson for the door. Once outside, the air about Heyes seemed to hum with urgency, and he shoved Wilkinson more roughly to the left, commanding, "Stay there!" Drawing his Schofield, he moved back to the doorframe, listening to the approaching footsteps.
Kid Curry emerged, stepping backward with deliberate caution. "They made no moves," he informed, his voice low and measured. He, too, stepped to the left, out of the door's opening. "But I know their mold—they'll come after us."
With purposeful strides, they walked for the Sutlers, where their Gang was busy loading supplies. Kid led the way, with Heyes a step behind Wilkinson. Both outlaws scanned possible hiding spots, each keenly feeling they were being watched. The tension grew, tightening with every step, a low thrum of anxiety pushing them ever faster.
"Halt!" rang out right as they began to angle toward the Sutler, their horses, and their men.
Kid and Heyes turned as one, expecting to see the glint of metal on the man's chest who had shouted; instead, their tight gazes landed on Mason Sinclair, flanked by his hired men.
Dr. Elias Wilkinson froze between them, his pulse stuttering when Sinclair's glare landed on him. It felt like a physical blow, the intensity suffocating…even scalding. All Hawk and Jackson had been saying about this man was snapped into place. Sinclair was not here to uncover the past's secrets. He was here to plunder them for his own gain. And the cost, even if it meant killing, weighed naught on his conscience. Wilkinson realized a chilling truth: he was nothing more than a tool, a pawn to be used. Sinclair would make him a puppet on a string, and he would be forced to dance for the man's pleasure.
"Fancy meeting you so far from Cheyenne," Heyes lightly played out.
"We rode fast along the Cheyenne-Deadwood Stage road, expecting to catch up with you," Sinclair said, his voice smooth but edged with malice. "Imagine our surprise when we arrived and no one had seen you…or any of your crew, Heyes." He leaned in slightly, the words dripping cold sarcasm. "I imagine your men are worth more to you than the map, so go on and hand it over." He smiled, and it held as much violence as a snarl. "Oh, and the Professor?"
"That isn't happening," Heyes responded. He and Kid moving in front of Wilkinson.
Raising his chin, Kid surveyed Sinclair's men.
Holding his hands out, Sinclair took a step toward Heyes, his voice deceptively soft, almost musical. "I must admit, Heyes, I'm surprised by how little you seemed to value our... friendship. You knew I'd had too much to drink the night of our game."
Heyes tilted his head slightly. "A man ought to know when he's too drunk to play. Isn't the duty of another to steer him clear."
Sinclair's smile tightened, still laced with something darker. "Perhaps. But I never imagined you'd be the type to take advantage of an inebriated man."
Heyes' eyes never wavered as he responded, smooth and steady, "And you'd be correct. Cause you weren't as deep in your cups as you have convinced yourself and others."
Sinclair's next words sliced through the air. "No! You knew I was drunk, and still, you took the map from me. It chaffed my ass you did that, Heyes. But I consoled myself with the knowledge I could win it back off you another night. Then I hear about this lecture, about how the Professor here," he motioned to Wilkinson, "knows everything there is about Vikings. His reaction to the map proved it was worth following, and you took off with the Professor in tow."
Heyes remained unmoved. But Wilkinson's mind spun. So, is he Hawk or Heyes? Why has he been pretending to be someone else? Wilkison shook off that thought for now. I am not ready to walk away just yet…too much is at stake.
Sinclair's eyes narrowed, the pressure mounting.
Wilkinson fought to keep his composure, thinking, This man is dangerous.
"None of that matters now…I want my map and the Professor. Hand them over, or I will take them!"
Without sparing a glance at him, Kid Curry firmly said, "Doc, get on your horse."
Sinclair's face twisted, turning red as coal embers, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. "Now, Kid, I respect your skills," he said, his eyes flicking from one man to the other. "Although, you are outnumbered. Would it not be a crying shame for Heyes here to have you taken down for such a trivial detail…especially with the reputation you have."
The Devil's Hole Gang closed in, edging up and expanding like wolves about prey.
Rushing past them, Doc scrambled onto his horse.
Sinclair took in the men now backing Heyes and Curry, the air growing heavier by the second.
Any about went into hiding, fully knowing curiosity was a fast way to catch stray lead.
Through it all, Curry had never moved. He had chosen his first target.
Sinclair took a slow step back, his words dark and final. "So be it."
The man Kid had singled out jerked his Colt, but before it fully cleared the holster, a round of hot lead smashed into his hand, sending his weapon tumbling to the ground.
Gunfire exploded, bullets zipping past shooters like wasps. Dropping into low crouches, Heyes and Curry, revolvers blazing, they picked off two of Sinclair's lackeys. They crumpled, crippled with wounds that would have them out of action until mid-summer if the infection did not put them in a six-by-six hole.
Mason Sinclair dove behind a barrel, the gleam of his pistol flashing in the sunlight as he raised it and took a shot.
A bullet spit up dirt by Kid Curry's boot.
The blue eyes narrowed, and Kid did not hesitate. With a smooth, deadly motion, he shifted his aim, squeezing the trigger.
Sinclair yelped, falling behind the barrel, dropping his revolver to cradle his forearm. Desperation, tightening his voice, he shouted. "Get Kid! And anyone else in the way!"
Sinclair's men surged, weapons drawn, but the battle had shifted, and Sinclair's men underestimated Hannibal Heyes' value and devotion.
Heyes fired off a round, hitting Sinclair's closest man in the chest, and he went down with a strangled cry, his weapon hitting the dirt. A cold rush of remorse mixed with satisfaction surged through Heyes, but there was no time to reconcile. Saving Kid was more important than the outcome as Sinclair's men, and he had more of them than he had realized, and they were closing in fast.
Keeping his movements precise, Curry took a step back, then another, aiming at a man creeping around the side of a two-wheel cart. A single shot rang out, striking the man, and he fell back, cursing.
Both shots bought Heyes and Curry time to slip back so they were no longer targets before their own gang, and the eight men opened fire.
Sinclair's men hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to press their attack or retreat.
Heyes shouted, "Kid, end this." He fired another fast shot. "Sinclair's not the sort to let this go."
Understanding the stakes, Kid Curry gave him a nod. Standing tall, he extended his revolver, and then, after a moment that to Heyes felt was an hour, he fired.
Sinclair, who had risen to urge his men forward, was flung back, a bullet tearing through his shoulder.
His hired men wavered, glancing uncertainly between their injured leader and the men across from them. They took a step back, then another, until they were slinking away. Their retreat was punctuated by the low murmurs of the curious who saw the skirmish was done and were emerging.
Only when a man assisted Sinclar away did Curry slide his nickel-plated Colt back into his holster, letting out a long, steadying breath.
Heyes called out, "Everyone in your saddles."
Those of the Devil's Hole Gang who had not broken formation already, made for their horses.
Swinging on his big bay, Curry said, "We'll move fast and keep at till we're in the clear."
A restrained yelp of pain barked, and as one, the Gang turned to discover Wheat had been struck. Blood trailed down his side, across his holster, to drip to the ground as he struggled to get himself on his horse.
"Wheat!" Curry shouted, pulling his horse to a halt.
"I'm fine," Wheat gritted, one foot in the stirrup and taking another hopping jump as his horse circled. "Stand still, damn you! Go on… I'll keep up."
Heyes' eyes darted to Fort Laramie's gate, scanning for signs of soldiers coming to investigate. Swearing under his breath, he darted to Wheat. Getting behind him, Heyes released a grunt as he all but threw Wheat up onto his mare.
"Don't fall behind," Heyes ordered, swiping the mare's backside so she took off after the others already kicking up dust.
Holding his reins tight, Doc sat watching the retreating Sinclair's men, taking in the marks of violence on them as he breathed in the coppery scent of blood and lingering gunpowder. Avidly comparing what he witnessed to the battles he had read about.
"Doc, move it!" Heyes barked, snagging Striga's reins from the hitching post.
"I was comparing—"
"Not now, move it! Before these soldiers make history of us."
Kicking his horse into motion, Doc followed his trail companions.
As Heyes swung the off rein about Striga's neck, her head darted, and she snagged his shirt sleeve. "Damn it, Girl, we have no time for this." He tore the sleeve, taking it from her, and catching hold of his saddle, leapt aboard without bothering with the stirrup.