Private Dicks (23 page)

"Naw," the boy replied hoarsely.

"Me neither." The Gentleman turned his gaze back toward the fire. The flames crackled and danced across the dry brush, giving their home for the night some semblance of warmth and comfort. A sudden idea took hold of him and he turned, saying, "Come over here and keep warm. Sickly kid like you, I figure you need all the warmth you can get."

With no small amount of hesitation and with his eyes constantly chancing a look over his shoulder toward McCoy, the boy obliged, taking a seat at the fire about two arms' lengths away from where the Gentleman sat sprawled against the side of the coulee. He pulled his knees in close to his chest as he had while sleeping, wrapping his arms around them tightly. The two of them sat there, basking in the glow, exchanging small smiles in lieu of conversation for what felt like hours. Finally, curiosity got the better of the Virginia Gentleman and he asked again, "What's your name, anyway?"

The boy stiffened and again looked back to where McCoy slept. His expression was like that of a spooked jackrabbit, unsure whether to run or cower. The Gentleman hadn't expected such a marked response to the question, but then again, he hadn't expected to have the question cut off without being answered at the saloon, either. "Just seems peculiar to keep callin' you 'boy' if you've got a name," he explained.

The boy turned back from the hulking, sleeping giant that was McCoy to look into the fire again. He rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand while the other kept his knees drawn flush with his chest. He flicked his dark-eyed glance toward the Gentleman a half dozen times before keeping it there to answer reluctantly, "Elliot."

A smirk tugged at the corners of the Gentleman's mustache. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No ..."

"Eeellllliot," the Gentleman said, rolling the syllables around his mouth before allowing them to slide off his tongue. It elicited a small smile from the owner of the name, and the Gentleman realized that while it had felt strange to call him "boy," it hadn't been strange to think of him as one. Elliot was fairly slight of frame compared to other men with an innocent-looking, not quite babyish, face. He was old enough to be a man, but a scared little boy still lingered under the surface, hidden by his years. "Awright, Elliot. I asked you a question; now you can ask me one."

With little pause to think the question through, he asked, "How many men have you killed?"

The Gentleman laughed, a single, hearty, heartfelt "Ha!" that rang across the landscape and made him check to make sure he hadn't woken the other two. Wilton sat up briefly, but then lay back down without a word. "Only one you need concern yourself with," he answered in a much quieter voice.

"You got a girl?" Elliot continued.

"Hey now," the Gentleman said. "Don't get ahead of yourself. It's my turn."

"Awright, awright."

The Gentleman looked to the sky for inspiration and scratched at his stubbled chin thoughtfully. There honestly wasn't too awful much he wanted to know about the "boy" beyond his name. But it seemed that there was still a thing or two this Elliot wanted to find out about him. And seeing as how he'd been the one to make their little arrangement of a question for a question, it was only the gentlemanly thing to do to provide his conversation partner with the opportunity to ask such questions. The Gentleman stopped mid-scratch, tilting his head to Elliot. "McCoy your pap?"

Again, he stiffened. "… No," Elliot whispered quietly.

"I didn't figure." Not missing a beat or waiting for the question to be repeated, the Gentleman answered, "I ain't got a girl. Don't have one, don't want one. I appreciate them for what they are and I do enjoy their company on occasion, if you get my meaning. Ain't nobody can cook like a woman, that's for sure. Take care of ya, mother ya. They're good for gettin' things done. Real reliable. But if I have to spend any length of time with someone, I'd prefer it be a man. If you … get my meaning."

Elliot nodded. "Me, too." A small smile once again spread across his face. The Gentleman would have wagered there was the smallest twinkle of life returning to his flat, emotionless eyes, but it was cut short as something rumbled up from deep within his chest cavity: a sputtering, gurgling noise that turned to a dry, dragging hack as it reached the surface. Elliot pulled tight on his knees, keeping them flush with his convulsing ribcage, and covered his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, riding out the fit. His face turned red and his eyes watered as he fought to catch his breath. The Gentleman made a move to try to help him, pat his back or something, but just as suddenly as the episode had begun, it dissipated. Elliot put a hand up as if to say, "Don't worry, I'm fine." A few crackling deep breaths puffed in his chest, returning him to normal. He wiped the tears from his face and leaned toward the Gentleman as if to nudge him across the distance. "Your turn," he croaked.

The Gentleman uneasily settled himself back on the ground. Hearing these fits had been torture enough. To see one in action was something else. Seemed to him they could use a woman right about now. "You have the consumption?"

Elliot shook his head. "Nah." One last rattling cough broke the syllable in two. He cleared his throat, easing the hoarseness of his tone. "They said it was pneumonia. I got it a few months back. Never really got over it."

"Don't they put you in the hospital for that?"

"I was. For a little while," Elliot said in a dreamy, far-off sort of way. "I guess it didn't work."

"I guess not." The Gentleman threw a handful of dry branches on the fire, causing it to climb towards the heavens in a burst of dancing light before dying back down to its normal peaks. There was really no call to stoke it further. In a few hours, the sun would rise, and they'd all mount up and start riding north once more, leaving the still smoldering ashes in their wake.

"You always ride alone?"

It was the Gentleman's turn to stiffen in discomfort. He crossed his arms and leaned against the hard, dry side of the coulee, suddenly embarrassed to be speaking on the topic. "Ain't found a man whose company I can stand for any length of time longer than he's useful. That's why I have to look up fellas like you all when I need help on a job." He again looked skyward as he thought on what question he might ask next, trying to think of something to steer their conversation away from the topic. Suddenly overtaken by a fierce yawn, he settled on, "You tired yet?"

"A little." Elliot had wrapped both of his arms around his legs to run his hands against the sleeves of his buckskin coat, blazing a trail from his elbow to his shoulder and back down. Maybe nobody'd ever taught the boy where to sit around a fire and that was how he ended up with his backside exposed to the cool breeze winding its way down the coulee, which might also account for the terrible cough that threatened to tear him apart from the inside. Or maybe he was simply too shy to scoot on around to where the Gentleman had sprawled his own lanky form in the halo of heat the fire had built between itself and the raised wall to the Gentleman's back. Either way, there was only one solution.

"Come on over here," the Gentleman said, pushing himself along the dry ground to make room. He patted his hand at the space beside him. "You'll keep warmer." With long, careful movements and keeping his eyes trained on the Gentleman, Elliot made his way around the fire's edge to sit beside him. Once settled, he pulled his knees to his chest once more and recommenced rubbing his upper arms. "Here." The Gentleman slid his arms out of the sleeves of his duster and offered it up. "Put this on." Elliot made to reach for it, but then he thought better of it and hesitated. "I said take it; now go on."

Elliot took the duster lightly in his grip, part of it slipping onto the ground. He draped it around his shoulders, pulling it tight around him to cover even the fronts of his legs. "Thanks."

The Gentleman nodded. "You're welcome." Settling against the coulee wall, he pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes, re-crossed his arms and set his mind to attempting to doze the few hours or so until sunup.

Before sleep could take him, the Gentleman heard a small voice whisper, "G'night."

The Gentleman smiled under the brim of his hat. "Good night."

*~*~*

Being the last one to fall asleep, it seemed only natural that the Virginia Gentleman was also the last one to wake up the next morning. He'd missed first light by at least half an hour, which he told himself wasn't very leaderly of him, but to hell with it. He doubted these boys could rob so much as a toy train without his guidance, so they'd simply have to wait.

Reaching out to stretch his stiff crossed arms, he found his duster spread over him like a blanket. He grabbed it up and slipped it back on, concealing his trademark six-shooters once more. Tipping his hat back to take a look around, he spotted Elliot with McCoy over by the horses, readying them for departure. Seemed not-papa's "boy" had gone running back to him at some point during the pre-dawn hours.

Wilton stood over him with a hand on one hip, holding a mug in the other. A small kettle sat on the still-crackling fire, giving off the strong odor of coffee. "Time to get started?" he asked. His hair had been freshly slicked back and any stubble he had accumulated last evening had now vanished. The Gentleman wondered for a moment how well-suited Wil might be for life on the trail.

"First things first, Wil," the Gentleman said as he stood to bend backwards and crack his back, which did so in a series of consecutive pops. He gave a small sigh of relief. "I gotta take a piss." He clapped a hand on Wilton's shoulder to push him gently aside. "'Scuse me."

Just up the coulee was a small stand of brush that he bow-leggedly ambled up to in order to relieve himself. Tending to his business at the bushes, he looked about again at his hastily assembled crew. Wilton poured himself another mug of coffee and kicked at the coals on the edges of the fire. McCoy and Elliot spoke in low whispers to one another, McCoy doing most of the whispering while Elliot gave one- or two-syllable replies. Elliot petted his horse's nose gently, the paint leaning into the touch. McCoy tightened and retightened his saddle straps, checked that his revolver was still safely inside its saddle bag, and then checked his straps again.

"Mornin'," the Gentleman called out to them.

Elliot lifted his head to look at him dead-eyed once more. McCoy simply scowled as he continued with his work. "Scowl all you want, you ugly son of a bitch," the Gentleman whispered to himself, smiling and waving at the pair. "In a few days I'll never have to see you again." Tucking himself back into his pants, he headed towards the horses, saying more audibly, "We've got a long ways ahead of us, boys. I hope y'all're up for it."

Wilton turned from the fire, doing a double-take to retrieve his coffee kettle before joining the others. "Will we make it to Laurel today?"

The Gentleman tightened his own saddle straps, just once, and then pulled the reins back over his gray-dappled mount's head. "I highly doubt it. But we'll make it as far as we can. Should be a place up the creek where we can get some supplies." He pulled himself into the saddle, his mare prancing in half circles as his weight once more pressed down on her back. No matter how tightly he tried to rein her in, she continued to step restlessly, turning this way and that. "C'mon, boys. Don't let no grass grow under your feet. We gotta get a move on."

With the slightest nudge and a soft "hya!" the Gentleman's mare bolted, carrying him halfway to the horizon before any of the others could so much as get their foot in a stirrup. Elliot mounted up with ease, throwing his leg across the back of his brown and white paint as if he'd been born to do it, and then waited for McCoy to do likewise. The tall bay McCoy rode seemed better suited for drawing a wagon than carrying a passenger, but any other horse would have seemed dwarfed by his sheer mass. Once in the saddle, he loomed over all creation, towering over the other riders by nearly three feet. With the both of them mounted up, they set off at a trot, bouncing up and down with their horses' gaits to catch up with the Gentleman' mare.

Wilton stood with his mug and coffee kettle in his hands, unsure of how to proceed. "C'mon, Wil!" the Gentleman hollered back.

"Yes! Yes! I'm coming!" He transferred his mug and kettle to the same hand in order to put the reins over his tall black gelding's head. Then, holding onto his saddle horn with his empty hand and slipping one foot into its stirrup, he made a few preliminary half-starts. He counted to himself, "One, two—" On "three!" he pulled with all the strength he could muster and successfully made his way into his saddle. The coffee in his mug spilled all over himself and his horse in the meantime, causing Wilton to swear and the horse to rear. But in the end, Wilton was on his way.

A few hours before midday, they came upon a cluster of gray-tinged houses along the creek bed that boasted a small general store. It wasn't more than a storage shed with a carefully painted sign hanging above the door, but it boasted "food," and "food" was what they would need. The Gentleman fished in his pockets for his money purse and pulled a few well-worn bills from it. He turned his horse around, steering her toward Elliot's dopey-looking, white-faced paint, which brought up the rear of their riding party. "Here. See if you can't buy us some grub."

Elliot grew flustered, looking from the offered money to McCoy, who sat half-turned in his saddle. "But … I won't know what to get. I won't—"

"Get whatever." The Gentleman took one of Elliot's hands from the reins and folded the money into its grip. "Remember we'll need some for our return trip as well, so get whatever they'll let you have for that." He then gave the paint a light slap on the rear to hurry it along, giving Elliot no choice but to do as he was told.

Not facing any resistance but continuing to look over his shoulder to see if there were any, Elliot rode along the narrow dirt path that led into what was passing for a town. He dismounted and pulled the reins to tie his horse to a little rail outside the store. Then, with his head lowered, he let himself into the building, casting one final glance back before closing the door behind himself.