THE posse rattled and banged its way through sunrise. Gideon rolled over and pointedly ignored them. They were no longer his concern, only their leaving mattered. He could feel the men moving about and, eventually, heard them ride away. In no particular hurry, he sat up and stretched as best he could. Across from him, a man hunkered by the campfire, its black coals already quenched and cool. The deputy might have been twenty-two or nearer thirty; Gideon had never been good at guessing ages. The man would be tall when he stood and his trim frame suggested good meals balanced with hours of hard work. Light brown hair could not quite decided if might prefer to be blond, yet clearly felt agreeable to being fashionably trimmed. Store bought, dark gray britches— precisely tailored— a green cotton shirt— buttoned down and tucked in— and an unblemished broadcloth coat all pointed to a single verdict: gentleman. The only mar upon this picture of perfection was a cut along one cheek surrounded by a nasty bruise.
“Dodge faster,” Gideon said, unsympathetically.
“Run faster,” the guard countered, and his hazel eyes smirked, though his face showed none of it. “Coffee?”
Gideon didn’t care for the bitter stuff, but it was warm whilst the morning was not. Besides, why not let this fellow get a nice friendly feeling?
Poor innocent, that’s me.
What, when ya were four?
Gideon snorted softly and passed back the tin cup.
“You a-whistlin’ daisies or the real kind?” he asked.
The sheriff’s man frowned. “How’s that?”
“You a-packin’ a star or a-passin’ the time?” Gideon repeated.
“Fulfilling a civic duty.”
“A do-gooder?”
“I suppose you could say that. What’s your name? Come on, everybody has a name,” the man coaxed, stowing the last of his gear. “Well, you’re entitled to keep it. Mine’s Aspen Rivers. You ready to ride?”
“Need to, um, see a man ‘bout a horse,” Gideon stammered, “if’n ya get my meanin’. I’m, uh, kind-a shy.”
Easy, boyo. This fellah mightn’t be entirely addle-headed. Then again. . .
Against all expectation Rivers actually untied Gideon’s wrists and feet. Gideon promptly tucked behind a clump of bushes, giving no regard to the revolver held somewhere close behind him. The day before, he had stumbled upon a steep skree— a nightmare waiting for any luckless soul to fall upon its sharp edged misery. Gideon slipped off his boots and, judging the timing roughly dead on, ran for it. From first to last, his fate rested with the doubtful mercies of the mountain. Although ‘rested’ was far too serene a word for what came next. Sliding, slipping, tumbling, careening— even these descriptions couldn’t quite sum up the adrenalin pumping experience. The net result was that Gideon had become an insignificant bit of flotsam, a play thing for the mountain.
The clatter as several thousand rocks put in their teeth and kicked up their heels, as if they couldn’t wait for the next geological shivaree, left Aspen Rivers without any doubt at as to what had happened. For a fraction of a second he wavered, but there was no decent choice. Circling around would take far too long and standing there hollering politely for his prisoner to stop probably wouldn’t work. Decision forced upon him, Aspen ran.
He reached the skree, stared in momentary horror, and then committed himself to the rocky slope. Within seconds, he too had been hoisted onto ancient granite shoulders and carried will-or-nil into a highly questionable future. It was possible the experience might just be the end of every last bone in his body. It was absolutely definite, should he survive, he would have a few words with his prisoner.
It took an eternity to reach the bottom which, paradoxically, happened in about two great thumping heartbeats. By some miracle, Aspen arrived in one piece and legged it for the thick pine trees stretching out ahead.
Gideon heard the pounding of feet catching him up. He ducked a low branch, hurdled a half decayed tree, and skidded around an inconvenient clump of underbrush.
Left, duck—
Mind the tree!
—swerve—
Jump!
The message reached Gideon’s brain a mite too slowly to do him any good. His foot snagged and the ground rose up to meet him. Arms flailing wildly, he tried to catch himself.
And was too late. Aspen Rivers had done the catching for him. Gideon tugged, twisted and kicked, slipped from his coat and ran again. Whereupon, he was tackled flat.
“Will you stop? You’re hurt,” Aspen tried to talk sense to the madly scrabbling human beneath him and received an elbow in the eye for his troubles. “Oww!! Hold still! You hear me? You’re caught for Pete’s sake!”
Gideon reapplied his elbow, felt it connect, and then felt both arms twisted adroitly up his back. He fought and bucked, but nothing doing. Stuck he was and stuck he stayed. When he finally quit, his breath came in great billowing heaves.
“Worked that out of your system?” the duly deputized nuisance straddling him inquired.
Gideon remained still. The fingers biting into his wrists cautiously eased. The weight on his back lifted. In a sudden burst of energy, he twisted hard and shot up— only to be shoved back down, pinned by Aspen’s knee.
“No, you haven’t. Oh, well.” Aspen tugged loose the handkerchief from around Gideon’s neck. “You don’t mind if I borrow this do you?”
Metal clinked as handcuffs were secured, followed by Gideon’s own kerchief being used to bind his ankles.
That there’s dirty, so it is.
You got you any helpful suggestions?
Don’t get catched?
You’re right funny, you are.
A hand touched Gideon’s right leg and he yanked his feet up to clobber his guard upside the head.
“Try that again and you will be hog tied, my friend,” Aspen said, leaning away from the clumsy blow.
The way Gideon reckoned things, he could just about come to hate Aspen Rivers.
Between the Rivers Page 2
