Between the Rivers

by Natalie Jayne

ALARMINGLY bright, yellow paint adorned the building across the street. Thick, green letters painted across the frontage declared its function. Illiterate Gideon might have been, but this one he knew. William Tarlston had just gone into the bathhouse.

  Why?

  How’d I know?

  Since ya ain’t never used one?

  Will ya kindly pay ‘tention an’ fig’r out how we’re a-gonna get over there?

  Ya ain’t.

  He sure wasn’t. Right there at the corner of the bathhouse stood Aspen Rivers. Now Gideon had to figure out not only how to get himself in, but how to get Aspen out of the way. Preferably in reverse order.

  Footsteps clattered nearby and Gideon ducked farther into the shadows. A man-shape rolled into the space he had just vacated, radiating a distinct need for an expeditious change of scenery.

  When’d we start a-takin’ in vis’tors?

  Gideon yelped, and then shut himself up in favor of going for his gun.

  Which he still did not have.

  With a grunt of annoyance, he latched on to the struggling collection of limbs that had intruded upon his sub-floor sanctuary and dragged it deeper under the boardinghouse. One arm hooked around a neck, Gideon gripped a fistful of hair and—

  —confronted the kid who had distracted the sheriff.

  What in tarnation is he a-doin’ here?

  Gideon raised an eyebrow and lifted a fist. The boy shook his head; he wasn’t looking for a fight. That suited Gideon, he hadn’t the time anyway. That settled, he scurried back to his post and inched out under the boardwalk. His visitor tagged along and peered out at the street. Mostly people came and went as usual, but a good handful were clearly searching for something and trying not to advertise the fact. Once again, Gideon Fletcher was a wanted man.

  Ever’ day-a the week, boyo.

  True for you.

  A broad shouldered cowboy type sauntered out of the bathhouse, wet hair plastered against his head. It wasn’t Tarlston nor anyone Gideon recognized as having aught to do with that miserable waste of—

  Easy.

  A hand nudged Gideon and he spared half an eye for the boy beside him. A nod towards the street asked what was going on. Gideon was pretty sure he should not answer that question. Misdirecting the sheriff was one thing, Tarlston was another proposition entirely. Across the way, Aspen lingered as if, by waiting for eternity, Gideon might inadvertently walk smack-bang into him. It wasn’t a bad plan, seeing as Aspen could watch most of the street from end to end without even budging.

  Blast it all, Gideon didn’t know what he would do, but the Rivers couldn’t be any part of it. They shouldn’t be— enough innocent people had been killed. If Tarlston got wind that the Rivers were involved, in any way, there’d be trouble. If the Rivers heard Tarlston was in town, there would be trouble. If the Rivers got hold of Gideon, there would be trouble.

  Kind-a runnin’ to a theme, ain’t it?

  Theme? You been a-hangin’ ‘round Aspen too much.

  It’s been a mite better’n gettin’ hung.

  Yeah? Well, we let any-a them Rivers near Tarlston an’ it’s them’ll get hung.

  Gideon couldn’t let it happen again. Not here. Not with these people. If that was justice, life had an almighty dark sense of humor.

  Gideon’s fingers drummed on the dirt. How long could one man bathe? Had Tarlston somehow left without being seen? Gideon took a steadying breath and edged towards the wide-open street. His visitor latched onto him, pointed to himself, then the road.

  Gideon shook his head, not this time.

  His companion made a shooing motion in Aspen’s direction. An objection forming on his lips, Gideon suddenly found he had no choice. The boy had already rolled out of hiding and strolled boldly onto the street. He went straight up to Aspen and pointed urgently away towards the hotel. With one more searching glance, Aspen followed.

  Gideon bolted from cover, dodged under the next set of buildings, chanced a few risky steps across the street and around back of the bathhouse. Cautiously, he peeked through a dust coated window. The washing room was empty. The only sound was the gentle humming of an unseen woman.

  Had he imagined Tarlston? If so, he was going to owe Lee a really big apology. But he hadn’t. Gideon knew he hadn’t. Tarlston was in Caswell Crossing. But where? Suppose the man had business in town? A frightening notion, since someone like that could not possibly be up to anything remotely good. So help him, Gideon would search every alley, building, shed and hen house– twice if necessary. What about the livery? Would Tarlston have the nerve to ride directly into town or would he opt for something more subtle?

  Subtle?

  William Tarlston was about as subtle as a double-jack. He would waltz smack bang into the middle of wherever he pleased, oozing arrogance, and act as though he had a born right to be exactly where he stood. Maybe some folks found what he sold worth buying, but Gideon could live to be a thousand years old and would never find a sufficiency of foul words to do the man proper justice.

  Speakin’ a justice, ya want some?

  A touch overdue, ain’t it?

  The livery was as good a place to start as any. On the up side, Tarlston would have to go pretty darn carefully if he aimed to start asking questions. An innocent man could save a lot of time and go straight to the sheriff for information. Not Tarlston.

  Gideon skirted along the backs of various buildings, tucked around a shed and waited one long minute behind an outhouse whilst the sheriff’s deputy passed by. That was about as near to association as Gideon wished to come with anyone packing a star. Accordingly, he circled well out of reach of the jail until he was lined up with the livery stable.

  Gideon’s heart skipped a beat and his breath caught fast. His under-building acquaintance was down there, grain sacked over a horse, and Tarlston was swinging up into the saddle.

  That boy dead or out?

  Were he dead, why risk a-takin’ ‘im nowheres?

  Gideon clung to the thought. A likely looking horse had been left tied to the livery’s corral, saddle still on. Even better, the owner had left a rifle in the scabbard. In full possession of the good sense experience had given him, Gideon walked right up to that mare like they were the best of friends, checked the cinch, grabbed hold and swung up.

  D’ya s’pose the fellah what owns this here horse is the un’erstandin’ sort?

  Just in case, let’s hope he’s a lousy shot.

  Who knew what he would do, that depended on what he found when he caught up to Tarlston, but one thing was sure: wasting time running for help from folks who would mill around trying to decide if they ought to form a committee to vote on a committee to assign another committee to ask the properly approved questions, was a sure road to that poor kid ending up dead.

  Gideon cat and moused after Tarlston, following him through a wide stand of pine trees and beyond to where the great red rocks vied for territorial rights.

  Mordaki.

  The thought struck Gideon so forcefully he jerked to a stop, the horse dancing beneath him. Tarlston was a coward. His kind never made a move unless it was a sure bet. And they never worked alone.

  ‘No one’ll work for ‘im, no one’ll kill for ‘im again.’

  Gideon's words to Nelson echoed off his skull, mocking him. Suppose Tarlston did have Mordaki with him? Letting that twisted vulture walk free, unwatched, unchecked, not knowing for dang sure what his next move would be– that would not do. No, sir. That man would go through anything and anyone and not give a tinker’s plugged tin dime. A special fiery corner awaited such men.

  Gideon weighed his options. Should he continue to follow Tarlston or, heaven have mercy on him— because he would need that and more— should he find Mordaki? Did Mordaki know about the Rivers? Did Tarlston? It had to be assumed they did. Was Mordaki even around? That too had to be assumed. Not assuming at least that much was like handing the man a match and a kerosene lamp.

  One battle at a time, boyo.

&nb
sp; He was right. Mordaki was a guess, albeit a good one, but Tarlston was real. Gideon had to do something or that poor kid’s future wouldn’t be worth buffalo spit. When all was said and done, whatever else Tarlston did, he wouldn’t be in favor of leaving any witnesses.

  How far would Tarlston take his hostage? That probably depended on which was stronger: his sense of caution, or his need for revenge. Gideon felt disinclined to place his wager on the side of caution. Accordingly. he shucked the borrowed rifle. One shot. It would have to do. Gideon got the horse moving.

  Would it never end? Not this chase– this whole ugly business. Sometimes it seemed the Tarlstons of the world just kept shoveling it out and, no matter how hard you fought back, they just went and found another shovel.

  Tarlston rode on, weaving between the rocks and scrub brush. The man was still big and broad, but it seemed to Gideon this had less to do with muscle than he had once thought. Had Tarlston changed so much?

  Not bein’ all by our onsey’d sure be nice, hhm?

  Gideon had wished the same thing with every breath since the day he left the Harris place. He would go on wishing in vain. The man ultimately responsible for that was up ahead, well within range.

  The trees parted again, revealing a glimpse of Tarlston and his captive. Relief flooded over Gideon; the boy had moved. He was still alive.

  This here goes south, I ain’t even gonna know what name to put on his grave.

  Gideon Fletcher, you stow that thinkin’. It ain’t gonna help nothin’, not nohow.

  Whilst Gideon was thinking this, and telling himself not to, he was riding plenty careful. A mile or so farther on, Tarlston finally drew up in a half-hearted clearing and let the kid slide to the ground.

  Gideon vaulted out of the saddle, rested his rifle on a boulder, sighted down the barrel. . . and took his finger off the trigger. Tarlston had dismounted, obscuring the line of fire. Gideon had no illusions about his marksmanship. If he tried it now, he would likely end up burying the wrong body. He searched for a better spot, a better angle. But moving was risky, it drew attention. A voice bounced up from the rocks, low and mean.

  If’n he’s a-talkin’, you got you some time.

  Gideon reached into the mare’s saddlebags— fortune might not have an eye for him, but he sincerely hoped she at least had an eye for that kid. His hand closed on a Colt. It added five more shots to his limited arsenal, the owner being the careful sort who left the hammer on an empty chamber.

  Fifty feet down the mountain, and considerably closer in, Gideon hunkered down.

  “I hadn’t put everything together until I saw you, boy. Imagine my pleasure. What you did was clever, something I might have done.”

  That pretentious voice carried clearly over the rocks and the months and brought the past along with it. Memories washed over Gideon, memories of events he could not change, ghosts of people he could not save. It ripped open rage and anguish and he struggled to shove the tidal wave aside as Tarlston’s voice continued to pour into his ears.

  “After what you did, I’m going to do this slowly.” Tarlston’s words became venomous and overflowed with arrogance. “Feel free to scream, no one can hear you. You see, unlike you, I’m going to get away with everything. All of it. Including this.”

  Gideon had bought the ticket, but he had to do something quick or that kid would to take the ride in his place— and it would be a one-way trip. He let out his breath and took the slack out of the rifle’s trigger.

  Ya see that?

  Is that boy a-lookin’ at us?

  Gideon’s partner-in-hiding was scared and no mistake, but Tarlston’s gun was coming up, giving him six good reasons to be. There was something else in his expression though. Under the fear, and boiling up, lurked a spit and vinegar how-dare-you gumption that came straight from the bones. The boy shifted his footing and Tarlston mirrored the move, bringing him in line with Gideon’s rifle.

  Gideon hurled a rock as hard as he could to his right. The results were as good as dynamite. Tarlston spun around, the boy leapt out of the way, and Gideon fired. A stain spreading across his sleeve, Tarlston bolted for cover. Gideon grinned darkly. Tarlston's cinch bet had just gone up in smoke. Now he had something to gnaw on: who had shot at him and how many were there?

  Gideon shifted positions and a bullet whined where he had been. At most, Tarlston had five shots left; five shots he had to take with his off hand.

  Where’s the kid?

  Well out-a this if’n he’s got any sense.

  Gideon aimed his Colt at a trouser leg. Dust jumped, but there was no yelp.

  Four rounds left.

  The shrill whistle of metal ricocheting off rock stung Gideon’s ears. He grunted and then somehow his hand was pressing against his right shoulder. Uncomprehendingly, he stared at the blood staining his fingers.

  His blood. He had been hit.

  The idea found little purchase. Then another voice, one with a more realistic approach, took over. It seized him by his metaphorical collar, convinced his hand to shove a handkerchief into the bullet hole, and ordered him to move for pity’s sake. Gideon found a new boulder and leaned his back against the reassuring bulk. What a relief it would be to sit there and let himself go. It would put an end to the inescapable pain that had dogged his every step since that night over a year ago. He could be at rest.

  Rest? Ya don’t deserve rest. You got you a promise to keep an’ dyin’ here ain’t gonna get nothin’ done. You a-list’nin’ to me? Whatall d’ya fig’r’s gonna happen to that kid? Ya gonna let ’im die too? Move, boyo! G’wan.

  Maybe he could toy with Tarlston, get him to exhaust his ammunition. Well, there was no sense dickering the issue until he was a toothless old man. As Gideon began to rise, a movement across the clearing caught his eye. The kid was inching around to get behind Tarlston.

  What on this here great green earth does that fool think he’s a-doin’?

  Gideon willed himself up and crawled through the scrubs to line up a clear shot before that blasted dim-wit got himself planted. A gun roared and a bullet screamed, but Gideon wasn’t the target. Had the kid been spotted?

  Tarlston’s down to three.

  Gideon snaked around a rock and there was Tarlston, revolver in hand, levering back the hammer. In one movement Gideon let out a piercing whistle, stood, and fired. Tarlston turned, gun swinging away from the kid. His shot roared and a vicious tug burned Gideon’s left arm, nearly causing him to lose hold of his gun.

  Two, two.

  Another shot rang out and Gideon fell. He gripped his revolver in both hands, worked the hammer, pulled the trigger. The report was the only sound in the world.

  One, one.

  One bullet each. Tarlston was running towards him and Gideon pulled back the hammer—

  — and knew this was his last chance, for everything he still had to do and for that kid he had dragged into this. It was up to him whose name ended up on a marker. Tarlston stood over him, larger, older, stronger whilst he, Gideon, lay bleeding from his failures. Was it true that a man with right on his side could not be stopped? Did Tarlston really believe he was right? How sure was he? He hadn’t come here for a fight, he had expected to have it all his own way and walk calmly away with no one the wiser. Now he had this.

  Gideon lay in the red dirt, aware of his pain, the breath heavy in his lungs, the burning in his body, the feel of the gun in his hands, and the blood on Tarlston’s shirt. Had Tarlston ever bled for his own fight before?

  Gideon had.

  —click.

  Gideon’s hands jumped with the recoil and Tarlston fell. He did not move.

  Gideon looked up at the impossibly blue sky, his life slipping away into the dry earth, and the past flashing before him in a twisted juxtaposition of realities. A boy, close beside him, revolver in hand, firing over his chest. He knew he might take lead, had accepted the possibility, only he hadn’t figured things would turn out like this.

  The reasonable voice in G
ideon’s head snapped him out of it and declared martial law. His arm would keep, the hole in his side would not. He fumbled with his handkerchief, trying to rip the fabric with his teeth. Town wasn’t far, first he had stop the bleeding. . .

  Mordaki. What of Mordaki? Was he in town? Did he know of the Rivers?

  Gideon was spinning, slipping into a place that was oddly grey and increasingly irrelevant. And then the kid was there taking the cloth and doing everything needful.

  I am asking you a question.”

  Well, that sheriff sure enough was, only Gideon had no idea how to answer. He was still in bed with a headache, two holes and a pretty good nick, but the fever had finally broken. He wouldn’t be standing in line for wings just yet.

  The moment he had awoken, and knew himself for awake, Gideon had asked about Mordaki. Did the Rivers know about him? Had he come?

  “You told us,” Lee had assured him. “The entire time you were out, you kept telling us and we told Luke. When Mordaki showed up, we were ready.”

  Gideon looked at each of the Rivers, they were all there. Everyone. They had been ready. Gideon remembered trying to tell them, needing to, but the world had seemed so far away.

  So he had done it. . . and so had they.

  How could something— so devastating before— now come to nothing? That big glacier of a man, born without a heart and a mind twisted inside out, was gone. A sad way to live, that when you died the world was better for your absence, but it was true, the world was better. Mordaki had been ruthless. Had come on the Rivers without warning. . . it was a thought Gideon determinedly pushed away. It hadn’t happened, not this time.

  “Mordaki worked for Tarlston,” Aspen suggested, laying a path for Gideon to answer the sheriff.

  Gideon shifted slightly and gritted his teeth against the injudicious movement. There was little he could move or feel or twitch that did not hurt.

  “Worst of-a bad lot,” he agreed.

  “And the man who shot you?” Gandy asked.

  Gideon lifted his eyes over Aspen’s shoulder to the waiting sheriff. There was that jail cell riding on the horizon again. He could hear the clang of the door. On the up side, his stay would likely be a short one. On the down side, it would be made short by an engagement with a rope. Stealing cattle, Gideon had never been a part of that, but this– this time he was up to his neck.

  “I am asking you a question,” Gandy insisted, disliking the need.

  He would have rather held off, but he had a job to do and he knew darn well, if he gave Gideon too much room to maneuver, the best he would get was a carefully shaded version of the facts.

  Gideon found it hard to think. Surely they could guess what happened? They must have questioned that kid.

  Why’d s’pose lawmen ask questions when they already know the answers?

  You can ask ‘im, right after he locks us up.

  Gideon tried to sort out the what-ifs and where-fors. There had to be a way out of this fix, only thinking required an enormous amount of effort and the pieces all seemed to slip from his grasp. He was adrift, lost without a map.

  Aspen put a hand on Gideon’s chest. His hazel eyes said volumes in an instant and Gideon found he could read every unspoken sentence. It was like that business with Sally's beau, those eyes that knew and understood. All at once, Gideon was too exhausted to dissemble.

  “I see’d ‘im in town. The man as shot me,” he said, taking his time. No one rushed him. “That’s why I runned, Couldn’t let ‘im see y’all nowheres near me.”

  Gideon told the details as if to Aspen, instead of the lawman. Truth and justice were not the same and Gideon figured, justice being out of reach, he would have to settle for truth. The only thing he omitted was the ride back to town, because all he could recall was an alarmingly blue sky and the momentary flicker of a pine tree. It was an odd thing to have noticed, given his condition at the time, and hardly seemed the sort of thing that would sway a jury.

  “Can you identify the body?” Sheriff Gandy asked, only it had the feeling of being another question to which he already knew the answer.

  Gideon’s eyelids lowered heavily. The body. A simple request with complicated consequences.

  “William,” he sighed. “William E. Tarlston.”

  And with that confession he had probably sealed his fate. When the judge heard that name. . . Tarlston had come looking for it and he had found it. No one, but no one, would believe Gideon was one smidge reluctant. He hadn’t been. That was the simple truth. If he had been, that kid would be dead. No, Gideon didn’t have any regrets, not about Tarlston, and yet he would have expected to feel. . .

  Tarlston and Mordaki were gone. For all that Gideon had lived and breathed vengeance, crossed mountains, endured deserts, gone hungry, given over everything he was. . . shouldn’t he feel relieved or happy or something?

  He felt worn out.

  In keeping that boy alive he could find satisfaction. In the Rivers ranged around him, men alive and well with a ranch to return to, not a charred ruin but buildings and grass and a house they called home, that was worthwhile.

  Pain and exhaustion were catching Gideon up. His last thought before sleep reclaimed him was that here were four brothers, a father and an uncle who still had each other.

  This time, he had done enough.

  *****

  INDEBTED PREVIEW

  (Rivers Series #2)

  “Knock it off, will you?”

  Gideon turned curiously, his hands continuing to mind their own business, as sure in their touch as if the lock to the judge’s chambers were dismantled and sitting on a workbench in front of him, spilling all its secrets.

  “Thought you wanted in?” he asked.

  “The humming,” Peter clarified, his voice rough with nervousness. “You’ll get us caught.”

  Gideon hadn’t realized. The law dodger who taught him said humming helped him focus. Perhaps—

  Click.

  Peter froze. Gideon gently turned the knob.

  No details of the office could be made out, only vague shapes and shadows filled with deeper shadows. No matter, this room was no stranger to Gideon. To the right a window covered in lace curtains afforded some privacy whilst letting in the light. On this moonless night all that filtered through was more dark. Heavy bookshelves held sentry against the far wall. On the left, across from the window, hunkered a large oak desk and, behind it, four tall filing cabinets stood like soldiers keeping silent vigil.

  Peter tried a drawer and stood aside. Twelve seconds later Gideon had it unlocked.

  “What would you do without me?” he boasted.

  Peter considered living a long, uneventful life free from the threat of apoplexy would not be a bad thing.

  He picked up a lamp. “Open the others.”

  “What’re ya doin?” Gideon hissed.

  “You don’t expect me to read in the dark, do you?” Peter lit the wick, trimmed it to its very dimmest and tucked the lamp behind the desk for good measure. “Go on, open them.”

  “Ain’t your deed in here?” Gideon demanded, pointing to the open drawer.

  “How should I know?”

  “You picked this here drawer!”

  “So what?”

  A thought took hold of Gideon: inept. Utterly, completely inept. That’s what Peter was. The plan had been to grab Peter’s documents and skadaddle. Now the simple retrieval job had turned into a flaming blind hunt with Peter fixing to read every last scrap of writing the local yokels had ever shoved in a filing cabinet.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?!” Gideon said, maximum vexation filling every barely hushed syllable. “An’ you thought you’d do this all by your onesy? A-jumpin’ at shadows, don’t know where you’re a-goin’, an’ now—”

  The outburst turned to muted mumbling as Peter clamped a hand over his friend’s mouth.

  “Shhh! This was your idea. I distinctly said you were off your rocker.”

  “Mmm?! Mmm mm mmm!” Gideon protes
ted.

  “Can we please just finish this and get out of here?”

  Peter may have been pathetically, inexcusably inept but, as far as Gideon was concerned, a better idea there could not be.

  *****

  'Writing the about the Rivers makes my blood sing, my heart laugh and my soul. . .

  at home.' 

   

  Natalie Jayne seeks out the far and away places. She particularly enjoys going walkabout in the remote corners of her own imagination. Now if only the dang magpies would quit eating the bread crumbs.

  Other great Rivers stories available through

  Two Square Books Publishing

   

  Natalie Jayne

  (Fiction / Informative)

   

  Gideon’s Way (Short Story Intro)

  Between the Rivers (#1)

  Indebted (#2)

  Chicanery (#3)

  Redemption (#4)

  Book #5 (Under construction)