Two for Home

by Tinnean

  A shadow passed overhead, and Sharps glanced up to see buzzards circling lazily.

  “Reckon it’s time to head out,” he said to the stallion. He shortened the stirrups, since Ezra was taller than him—well, practically everyone was, even the woman who had taken off with his mare.

  He caught up the rope that fashioned the stallion’s reins and stepped into the stirrup, swung a leg over Twilight’s back, and settled himself into the saddle. The pinto was still twitchy, and both horses needed looking after, but not here. He turned Twilight toward the pinto.

  “Where…where you goin’?” Ezra had regained consciousness, and he groaned and clutched his belly. Red seeped through his fingers. “You…can’t go nowhere. You gotta help me.”

  “Why would you think that, Wilson?”

  “How…how do you know my name?”

  “Do you remember the Second Battle of Bull Run? Your company was camped near my regiment, and you and your brothers came on by.”

  “We’re…we’re pards then.” His breathing became ragged.

  “Not likely. You tried to make me suck your prick.” Then the four of them would have taken turns at him. At twelve he hadn’t understood how they could, since he wasn’t a woman—he shook his head at how innocent he’d been—but now, at nineteen, he knew what their intentions had been.

  “What’s a…a little fun between friends?” Ezra managed to gasp out with a weak smile that quickly turned to a grimace.

  Sharps shook his head. Either Ezra had no memory of the incident, or he remembered it the way he chose to. There wouldn’t have been any “fun,” not for Sharps.

  He nudged gray’s side with his heel and guided him toward where the pinto had calmed enough to graze.

  Even the stallion seemed better-tempered without the harsh bit cutting at the tender corners of his mouth.

  “Where…where you going?” Ezra flopped over onto his side.

  “It’ll be nightfall in an hour or so. I need to find someplace to bed down.” Sharps leaned forward and gathered the pinto’s reins.

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “You can’t leave me here.” He peeked beneath where his hands pressed on his belly and moaned. “I…I need a sawbones.”

  Sharps didn’t think one would help. “Nearest town’s about three hundred miles southeast of here.”

  “No, there’s one sixty…sixty miles west.”

  “The direction you were riding from? But you said there wasn’t any town that way.”

  Ezra’s smile was weaker than before. “I was just…just funnin’ you.”

  “Yeah? You’ve got a strange sense of humor.”

  “Look, get me up on my…my horse and tie me to it. Eli needs to be buried, too.”

  “I don’t reckon so. The lady and the kid took off with my mare. And daylight’s fading fast. I don’t have time to bury your brother.”

  “You’re a hard man.”

  “You should have realized that sooner.”

  “Okay…okay, fine. I can ride Eli’s horse. And I reckon critters gotta eat same’s worms do. But you gotta help me!” Ezra took one of his hands from his belly wound and scrabbled for something on the ground.

  “You looking for this?” Sharps held up the Colt, then tucked it into his belt again.

  “You can’t leave me here like this,” Ezra whined. “Not without a weapon or a horse!”

  “You keep telling me all the things I can’t do. Let me tell you what I can do. I can leave you here for the buzzards.”

  “No! Why’re you doing this?” Ezra struggled to sit up but had to be satisfied with leaning on an elbow. “We’re pards!” he whined again.

  He could tell Ezra he was doing this for the little gal who never had regained consciousness, but considering the trail of blood and pain the Wilson brothers had left behind them, he doubted Ezra even remembered her.

  “Let’s just say I’m keeping a promise a good man made.” He began riding away, while Ezra swore after him, casting doubt on his parentage going back to the Garden, his father’s honor and his mother’s chastity, Sharps’s taste for fucking any available animal or any sex. It was some of the worst, most colorful language Sharps had ever heard. He grinned at Ezra over his shoulder. “Well, now, I will have to remember that.”

  Ezra’s response was more furious cussing.

  Sharps shook his head and continued on his way. He hadn’t gotten more than half a mile when the screams started in earnest. He pulled up the horses and drummed his fingertips against his thigh.

  Well, I reckon Pa would want me to do the right thing. And so would Captain Marriott. He dropped the pinto’s reins, leaving the gelding ground tied once again. Sharps knew that would see he stayed put until Sharps came back for him.

  He turned Twilight and rode back at a walk. There was no reason to push the stallion.

  A flock of buzzards hid Eli, but others of them darted toward Ezra. When Sharps got close enough, he could see the damage they’d done. An ear had been torn off, an eye was missing, and half of Ezra’s nose was gone. His clothes had been shredded, and the buzzards had started on his innards.

  Sharps took out his Remington and drew back the hammer. The screams were becoming muted and wet now—Ezra should have kept his mouth shut. Sharps tightened his finger on the trigger, and then the afternoon quiet was shattered by the roar of his gun. A small black hole appeared between Ezra’s eyes. The screams stopped, and he went limp. The buzzards squawked and hopped off, but not far enough that they gave up their meal.

  “And just be thankful I didn’t leave you out here to take your time dying, you son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 7

  The outlaws’ horses were too tired and it was growing too late in the day to continue on to the town, even if it was sixty miles away, as Ezra had said.

  Sharps found a good campsite near a small stream, gathered some buffalo chips—the brothers didn’t seem to carry any kindling—and started a cookfire. While he waited for the fire to become hot enough to make a pot of coffee, he watered the horses, made a halter for the pinto, and then stripped off their saddles, which he left on the ground. Once he picketed the horses so they could graze, he moved the saddles closer to the campfire.

  As the stallion and the gelding enjoyed the sweet grass, Sharps thought wistfully of the venison he’d cut from the buck he’d shot earlier in the day. He’d tucked the strips into one of his own saddlebags. Well, there was no point in bemoaning the loss of his meal. He’d see what the Wilsons carried.

  He leaned the banjo against Ezra’s saddle before he went through the saddlebags. The older Wilson’s contained hardtack and beef jerky, tobacco, coffee, a tin cup and a pot, and a couple of cans of beans. Sharps wasn’t really surprised there was no grain for his horse, no currycomb or hoof pick, although he supposed Ezra could have used his knife.

  He was surprised to find a wad of bills tucked away at the bottom of the saddlebag. His jaw dropped at the amount. Had they robbed a bank? However they’d gotten it, he had no qualms pocketing it.

  Beneath the cash was a telegram—why would men like these be getting telegrams from back East?

  Sharps put it in his shirt pocket. He’d read it later.

  He started a pot of coffee, then set aside Ezra’s saddlebag and went to Eli’s, which held whiskey, a can of peaches, hardtack, jerky, and a fancy, red silk dress. For the woman? It didn’t seem something she would wear.

  He fastened the saddlebags to the Wilsons’ saddles and crossed the camp to where the horses grazed. Twilight needed the least care, so Sharps gave him a pat, soothed the welts as best he could, and checked the stallion’s feet. Surprisingly, they were in good shape.

  The same couldn’t be said for the pinto, but what seemed to be causing him the most discomfort was a stone wedged in the soft part of his hoof. Once Sharps had used his knife to work it out, the pinto seemed relieved, and Sharps ran his palm over the black and white hide. What a pity it had been marre
d by the welts and cuts caused by a quirt.

  “You may not be mine for long, but you need a name.” Sharps studied him as he cared for the welts in the pinto’s hide. “You surely do look sorrowful.” He couldn’t help grinning. “I reckon you’ve got a name now, Sorrowful.”

  Sharps returned to the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was strong enough to float a horseshoe, and it worked just as well to soften some of Ezra’s hardtack. He ate it along with a handful of jerky.

  “Just like in the army,” he muttered to himself, right down to the stale coffee.

  * * * *

  The horses were fed and watered, and he was as well. As he finished the last of the coffee, he took out the telegram and studied it in the light of his campfire. Some of it was obviously in code, but those years with Colonel Sebring had taught Sharps quite a few things.

  “Deal with P. as you see fit,” the telegram began. “Bring the children to me. Keep his woman for yourselves.”

  It didn’t take Sharps long to decipher the lines in code that followed, and cold fury ran through his veins as he read what this Lewis St. Claire had planned for the woman and the kid.

  “Before you kill P., inform him his sisters and brother will belong to me, and the two younger ones will be sent to a whore house, as I’d promised.”

  Those poor little ones. Sharps hoped they were all right. He didn’t have much hope for P., whoever he was. Knowing the Wilson brothers, Sharps was certain he was dead. And before he died, it had probably torn his heart out to think of his sisters and brother in the hands of such a bastard.

  Well, Sharps reckoned he’d see about that. Maybe he’d head back East and pay St. Claire a visit after he got Salida back and found Captain Marriott.

  He folded the telegram and put it into a pocket, banked the fire, and went to check the horses one last time. He ran his hands over their necks and shoulders with a gentle touch. The telegram changed things. Once he had Salida again, he’d consider keeping them. He’d never had a remuda, and he liked the idea of being able to change horses for each day’s ride.

  He picketed them on a fresh stretch of grass, then took off his boots and placed them upside down to keep curious critters out of them. He made himself a bed out of the horses’ blankets—the Wilson brothers each had a bedroll, but he’d be damned if he used them. God alone knew what could be living in them.

  He’d be up before daybreak the next morning, and after he and the horses were fed, he’d head for town. It would have taken Salida three and a half hours to cover the sixty mile trip at a trot, less at a canter, but given the overall condition of the stallion and the gelding, Sharps didn’t want to push them. At a walk, he was looking at six hours at the least.

  It was a cloudless, moonless night and the sky was spangled with stars. An occasional shooting star streaked across the sky.

  I surely do hope that woman makes it to town all right and that I’ll find Salida when I get there.

  He thought idly of the two men he’d left dead on the prairie. The first time he’d killed a man—that Rebel colonel—he’d been unable to sleep well for days.

  He angled his hat so his face was covered and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping that night.

  Chapter 8

  It was past high noon when Sharps rode into the little town. Sweat pooled under his arms, trickled down his back, and dampened the ends of his hair. He wasn’t too surprised the main street was deserted—the sun was beating down unforgivingly, and anyone with a lick of sense would be indoors.

  He hoped he’d find Salida here. Until he did, he’d get the stallion and the gelding looked after. Then he’d see about a bath.

  He rode the stallion to the saloon, dismounted, and looped his reins and the pinto’s around the hitching rail. He didn’t plan to be in the saloon long, just until he got some information.

  After a pat to Twilight’s neck and a stroke to Sorrowful’s shoulder, Sharps adjusted the banjo case so it rested more comfortably against his back and entered the saloon.

  It was cooler inside, although not by much. Two men sat at a table studying the cards in their hands. Coins were scattered at the center of the table, and at their elbows were glasses half-filled with an amber liquid he assumed was whiskey.

  The barkeep stood behind the bar, wiping the counter with a bar towel. He had an apron tied high around his waist and wore a stained shirt that had seen better days. “How do, stranger. Welcome to Willow Crick.”

  Sharps nodded at the barkeep. “Howdy.” He hadn’t seen any willows, and while he’d crossed a creek, it was no more than a dried-up gully.

  “What can I get for you?”

  Sharps didn’t want anything—the saloon was dirty, the mirror behind the bar fly-specked, and although there were spittoons scattered around the bar, it was obvious from the condition of the sawdust on the floor that those who used them had poor aim. However, he didn’t want to cause a ruckus if he didn’t have to. “I’ll have a beer.”

  “That’ll be two bits.”

  Sharps raised an eyebrow but fished the coin from a pocket and put it on the counter.

  The barkeep took a none-too-clean glass from beneath the bar, filled it, and slid it across to Sharps. He narrowed his gaze. “What’s that you’re carrying?”

  Sharps reached behind him and stroked the case-enclosed neck of the banjo as it rose above his head. “Banjo.”

  “You gonna be in town long, stranger?” The barkeep raised his hands and shied back when he saw the look in Sharps’s eyes. “I was gonna say you might be interested in playing at the next square dance.”

  “I don’t play.”

  “Huh? Oh…uh…no offense.”

  “None taken. Shouldn’t be here long. I’m looking for a woman—”

  “We’re all looking for a woman,” one of the card players said, and he gave a snort of laughter.

  Not Sharps, although he wouldn’t mention he preferred men, and one man in particular. He’d come to accept that notion over the years since he’d last seen Captain Marriott, and he regretted he’d never got the chance to do anything with him.

  “—riding a buckskin mare,” he finished easily. Maybe once he’d delivered the banjo, he’d see if the captain might be interested in having Sharps travel with him. If the captain was, Sharps promised himself he wouldn’t ask for more.

  Meanwhile, the barkeep said, “On a buckskin mare, you say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We ain’t seen neither, have we, boys?”

  The card players shook their heads without bothering to look up.

  “She was real pretty, with black hair and blue eyes.” From what Sharps could tell, this was the only town around for miles and what trail he’d been able to follow seemed to lead in this direction. It wasn’t likely there would be two such women in the vicinity.

  “That’s the thing about living in a town like Willow Crick where there ain’t many women,” one of the card players observed with a grin. “They all look pretty.”

  “It’s bad enough we got to partner with other men at the square dances,” the other one said. “Ain’t that right, Lem?”

  “Yeah, Zeke.”

  “No one asks to partner me.” The barkeep frowned at the two, then turned to Sharps. “There used to be some whores over to Miss Sadie’s Cat House, but they got disgusted when Mr. Weatherford kept upping his cut, and they took off. Some of the town’s best moneymakers. You ain’t looking for a whore, are you, stranger?”

  “No. Can you tell me where the livery stable is?”

  The barkeep’s mouth twisted, and he spit out a stream of tobacco juice. From the sound of it, his aim was better than most. “Sure. Why not? That’s where everyone else is today.”

  “Hey,” the first card player objected. “We’re here, Rufe.”

  “Yeah, Lem,” the barkeep agreed sourly. “You are.”

  “Horace Weatherford runs this town. Right, Zeke?”

  “Yeah.” Zeke gave a snort of
laughter. “And whatever he says goes, don’t it?”

  “That doesn’t explain why everyone is at the livery stable.” Sharps took a sip of the beer, then set it down. It was warm and sour and a waste of twenty-five cents.

  “See, Mr. Weatherford don’t like trouble,” Zeke said.

  “Unless it’s him or his men causing it.”

  “Shut up, Lem,” the barkeep growled. “You want to get us all thrown in the pokey with those other fellers?”

  “It ain’t like they’re gonna be there long.” Lem grumbled but subsided.

  “There’s gonna be a lynching…Say, I can’t keep calling you stranger. What’s your handle?”

  Sharps raised his head and gave the man a cool gaze. Then he lowered his head again, raised the glass of beer, and pretended to take another sip.

  “Uh…no offense, stranger,” the barkeep said again.

  “Hey, Rufe,” Lem sang out. “How’s about another whiskey?” He held up his empty glass and waggled it. Zeke copied his motion.

  The barkeep retrieved a bottle and went around the end of the bar.

  “Why is there going to be a lynching?” Sharps asked.

  The barkeep kept his gaze on the glasses as he refilled them. “There was a shooting early yesterday, and the sheriff arrested the two men that done it. Mr. Weatherford don’t like shooting going on in his town.”

  “Unless his men are the ones doing the shooting,” Zeke muttered.

  “Yeah,” Lem said. “See, what Mr. Weatherford says, goes.”

  “I said that,” Zeke muttered.

  Lem ignored him. “And if anyone tries to buck him—well, he’s got men to take care of that for him.”

  The barkeep picked up Lem’s hat and hit him over the head with it.

  “Hey!”

  “You talk too much, you damned fool.”

  Lem scowled at him.

  “What was the shooting about?” Sharps asked.

  “Dunno, really.”

  “Yeah, we all missed it,” Zeke said as he peered into his glass. He stuck his finger in the amber liquor, pulled it out, and frowned at whatever was there. It didn’t stop him from downing his drink. He blinked and gave Sharps a somewhat tipsy grin. “We was here the whole time.”