Between the Rivers

by Natalie Jayne

IT wasn’t fair, it certainly wasn’t nice, but the headache wouldn’t last. Gideon would be shut of his even sooner. He tied up the littlest Rivers, twitched a blanket over his unconscious form, and checked the bump destined to become a painful lesson in carelessness. Ember’s skull wasn’t cracked and the kid was breathing.

  Good ‘nough an’ done, boyo.

  Gideon tossed a hasty apology over his shoulder and lit. He took nothing that was not his– not so much as a pair of socks or the pay Rivers had given him. Consequently, his saddle bags were weighed down with a whole lot of nothing much. The one exception had been Ember’s gun. Gideon’s had been permanently relocated, so swapping would have to suffice. Ember sure hadn’t voiced any objections.

  Aspen was halfway home when Fort rode up to him, explanations falling rapidly from his lips.

  “I’ll kill him,” Aspen swore.

  “Ember didn’t—”

  “Not him! Gideon! Who’s with Ember?”

  “Cricket, and Lee will–” Fort didn’t bother finishing, Aspen had already put heels to his bay.

  Aspen was in no kind of a mood. When he caught up with Gideon that boy was going to be in seven kinds of now-get-this-straight. Fort nudged his own horse to keep pace, unsure if he intended to protect Gideon or throttle the scrawny little misguided fool.

  Where would he go? Much of tracking a man lay in predicting what he would need, how he would think. Gideon would want distance and he would know their knowledge of the area was superior. Would he head for the road to make time or cut across country? They hedged their bets and split up.

  What Gideon planned was to be half out of the territory before a single ray of light so much as touched the western horizon. For preference, he would have headed straight over the mountains for the simple reason that no one would expect him to take the hardest route. But, with the passes still knee deep in snow, that was not a good option.

  Gideon urged his horse to a lope. Aspen was no half-wit; he was back there somewhere, and probably catching up. Gideon wound into a stream, followed it for the better part of an hour and came out onto bare rock. A pine grove hugged the sloping contour of the mountains. Near the bottom stretched forty or fifty feet of loose dirt and rock, the remains of some landslide or long ago gully-washer. Henry confidently picked his way down and his rider leaned back in the saddle to counter the steep terrain. When they reached level ground, Gideon drew up sharply.

  Confound an’ blast it!

  With the slope behind, and Aspen in front, Gideon wheeled along the narrow ribbon of grassland left to him. Aspen took the diagonal, clearly intent on heading him off. Henry spun on a dime and it was as pretty a turn as the best cutting horse on the Rolling Rivers. Suddenly, Aspen was bringing up the rear.

  A gully raced up and Gideon knew there was absolutely no possibility they were going to do anything but jump it. Henry’s muscles bunched and, though he’d never tell a soul, Gideon grabbed leather. Someday he would wonder how wide that gully had been. This was not that day. They flew on, feet pounding and hearts racing. Rock walls rose up and Gideon did not like it. He liked it less when the walls narrowed and liked it not all when they rose up before him. A box canyon.

  Gideon swore and drew up so fast Henry's backside touched the ground. They were going to get clear. He didn’t want to shoot Aspen, but he didn’t mind causing some doubt about this. He fired into the air, jammed the gun into his waistband and tore back the way he had come.

  There are times when determination and the right attitude will see you through. There are other times when determination can become a blind. Gideon never saw the narrow crack in the wall. Aspen just appeared, knee to knee, dragging him from the saddle.

  Gideon kicked and twisted, slipped free, landed in a heap and sprung up, a windmill of arms and legs. He tried to whistle for his horse, but at a full run his lungs were already working to capacity. Behind him came the drumming of hooves, and then feet, and then Gideon was face down in the sparse grass of the natural cul-de-sac. Aspen hauled him up by britches and collar until Gideon’s toes barely kept the slightest acquaintance with the ground. Water became a prominent feature, as did a fair amount of yelling, splashing and gurgling.

  “Don’t you ever hit anyone in this family again,” Aspen growled, dunking Gideon repeatedly to emphasize his point. “Is that understood?”

  Gideon gasped for breath and took a blind swing, lost his balance and found himself submerged again.

  “Is that understood?” Aspen repeated, his tone, already leaning towards ice, suggested the sort of storm that brought hail the size of walnuts, pulverized crops and sent intelligent creatures running for cover.

  Gideon found it hard to think with water pouring down his face and sloshing about in his lungs. Aspen gave him a shake, a precursor to another good dunking, and Gideon found his voice in a hurry.

  “Alright! Alright! I hear ya!”

  “Promise!” Aspen demanded.

  There was nothing terribly difficult in such a promise; Gideon didn’t plan to stick around to keep it.

  “I promise!” he hollered.

  Aspen dragged his reluctant new family member back to shore and let go so quickly Gideon stumbled.

  “You ain’t a-takin’ me back,” said Gideon, catching his breath.

  “This is not a debate,” Aspen warned, and the aforesaid intelligent creatures scurried deeper into their holes. “Like it or not, you belong on the Rolling Rivers.”

  Gideon stood his soggy ground. His dark scowl came, partly from injured pride, but mostly because he had fought unseen enemies for so long, he could see nothing else. Once again, Aspen Rivers had put himself in the way. Gideon would not go back. He could not. Not that he consciously thought any of these things. He did not consciously think anything. His temper simply went to pieces.

  He reached for his gun, came up empty, grabbed for Ember’s, and came up empty again. A guttural roar tore from his throat and, with no good sense, Gideon charged.

  Chest deep in his own anger, Aspen at least had the sense to realize that Gideon had, between one blink and the next, gone strange. A breath before he leapt, Aspen sidestepped like a Spanish bullfighter, tripped him up and twisted both arms up his back. Gideon was beyond reason, beyond Aspen, beyond himself. It did not matter that he couldn’t break free; it only mattered that he fought.

  Somewhere on the far side of rage and beyond awareness, Aspen murmured soft nonsense as if to a fractious horse. Eventually Gideon ceased to struggle and still Aspen continued his soothing susurration until all the tension left Gideon’s muscles.

  “Easy, I just need to let Fort know we’re headed home,” said Aspen, and fired two shots into the air.

  He helped Gideon to his feet— and then helped him not fall flat over. Gideon wasn’t exactly unconscious, and yet he really could not be called ‘at home’ either.

  Aspen eased him back down and went to catch up their horses. Gideon’s roan had a personality to match its rider, though, and did not look favorably upon being caught. Aspen gave up. The roan had sense enough to know where the grain was, even if his rider did not.