SquidgeWorld Archive

"Damn it, Kid! I can't take this anymore! Over and over, it's the same old thing. You say done, I say don't, you do it anyway. It never changes and it won't change and I can't do it anymore. I won't, I won't do it anymore." Heyes might have softened at that point but Curry rolled his eyes and that was just too much to take on top of everything else. "You think I'm joking?"

"No, I know you're not joking," Curry said patiently as he pulled off his leather gloves finger by finger.

"But you're not taking me seriously!" Heyes took a step closer, fists clenched, jaw set firm like a bear trap ready to snap. "You almost got yourself killed out there."

Curry took off his hat then hung it on the tall post of the hotel bed. "I am taking you seriously and almost doesn't count."

"Well it SHOULD count!" Heyes shouted. "Because one of these days. . . one of these days. . . "

Curry dropped his weight to one hip, cocked his head to the side and said, "one of these days what, Heyes? I'll come up against someone who's faster than me? Yeah, probably. And for once you'll be able to save your breath after a gunfight because I'll be dead and I won't be able to hear you yammering at me."

"Shut up."

Two simple words - but they came out so hard and menacing, Curry was taken aback. "What did you say that for?"

Heyes threw his hands in the air and let out a harsh laugh. "Because I want you to shut up! Because when you're talking, you're not listening - to me! I'm leaving, Kid. I'm done."

"Good idea. Go get a drink, play some poker, calm down and I'll meet you later for dinner."

Heyes ran his hand through his hair as he shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I'm leaving - this hotel, this town - you."

That got through. "Me? What are you talking about?"

Frustration reached the point where it turned to steam and Heyes let it go by kicking over a chair in the corner of the hotel room. Now he really had Curry's attention. Though his partner was given to the occasional outburst - and always after a particularly close call - he rarely resorted to violence even violence committed against a harmless piece of furniture.

"Look," Curry said, backpedaling some. "I know you don't like it when I draw down on a man. I know that it calls attention to me and some people might put the pieces together and realize who we are - and I know that shooting a man, even if I was only protecting myself could jeopardize our amnestyâ€""

"Jeopardize our amnesty? That's what you think this is about?"

"Isn't it?" Curry shot back, his patience wearing through as well. "That's all you ever worry about - don't take the money, Kid, it might ruin our chances at amnesty. Going to have to walk right into that sheriff's office and convince him we didn't do it or there goes out amnesty. Don't drink too much because you might slip and tell someone who we are and then poof - no amnesty."

"Huh," Heyes said as he picked up the chair he had kicked over. "I didn't realize that trying for amnesty was such a burden on you."

"It's not. Not always," Curry said then slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. "It's just, sometimes, I think we're doing all this for nothing. All the running and hiding and being a body that I'm not. . . I do want a clean slate, Heyes and if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't even have a shot at it. If we do make it, it'll be all because of you. I got a temper and a stubborn streak as long as the Mississippi and it ain't easy for me to back down when some flannel-mouth gun wants to prove he's better than me."

Heyes said nothing, simply stood there a moment, staring down at the faded rose pattern on the carpet. Then, suddenly, he was in motion. He grabbed his shaving tools from the top of the dresser, rolled them into a tube of cloth then stuffed the tube into his saddlebag. Then he took his dress shirt and pants out of a drawer and folded them neatly before adding them to the saddlebag.

"What are you doing?" Curry asked, more annoyance than concern in his voice.

"What does it look like I'm doing? Packing. I'm leaving; remember the beginning of this conversation? I can't do this anymore."

"Fine!" Curry yelled. "If amnesty means more to you than our partnership - no, our FRIENDSHIP, then go!"

Heyes whirled on him with a fire in his eyes that Curry had only ever seen a half dozen times and only twice before had that fire been directed at him. "You idiot!"

A saddlebag came flying toward him. It would have missed but Curry dodged it anyway and was immediately hit by a wash of pain. Pain that showed clearly on his boyish face.

"What's the matter," Heyes asked, going from livid to concerned in a matter of seconds.

"Nothing," Curry snapped back, but he was holding himself stiff as he slowly realigned his chest and hips.

"Are you hurt?"

"Will you just get out already," then he mumbled, "throwing things at me. . "

"You are hurt! Let me look." He advanced on Curry but was held off with a deep scowl.

"I don't want you to look. I want you to leave me alone. I want you to stop yelling at me!"

Their eyes met - dark and moody versus brilliant blue. Both of them with jaws set so tight, they'd likely snap a twig in half with very little effort.

Effort - that's what it took for Heyes to speak - to say what he'd wanted to say since they started this ridiculous row but it wasn't stubbornness that stopped him as it was in Kid's case. It was the boulder-sized rock that was stuck in his throat. With hands fisted and eyes still locked on his partner's Heyes forced out the words - harsh and shaky.

"I don't want to watch you die."

Curry opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"That's what this is about," Heyes continued, spurred on by the relief of finally saying the words aloud. "It's not about the amnesty. It's about the sinking feeling I get in my stomach every time I see you go for your gun. In the split second it takes for you to shoot, I see it all - and it's not good. I see you hesitate - probably because of me. Probably because I've pounded into you that we can't be involved. That we have to be careful, that you can't show off your skill and not have someone recognize us. And so you hesitate and that's the end - the other guy's bullet goes tearing through your chest then you're lying on the ground drowning in your own blood and there's NOTHING I can do about it except stand there and watch you die! And I WON'T do it! I can't do it! I can't!" Heyes reached for his saddlebag, but Curry grabbed it first. There was a small tug of war then suddenly Curry let go, the color draining from his face.

"You really are hurt." Heyes let the saddlebag fall to the floor then sat down on the side of the bed. The way Curry was holding himself, led him to his left side. Heyes lifted the hem of Curry's leather vest and this time there was no resistance. Underneath the vest, just under his arm along the rib line, the red of Curry's shirt was stained a darker red. "You got shot!"

"Possibly," Curry said. "I didn't feel it at first. But I feel it now."

"That's because you're all hyped up before and after a shooting. It's that rush that you enjoy." Gently, Heyes slipped Curry's vest off of his shoulders then tugged his shirt loose from his pants.

"I don't enjoy shooting people, Heyes," Curry said, somewhat petulant.

"I know you don't." He pulled the shirt up as high as possible with it still buttoned and got a good look at the trench engraved in Curry's side. "Just grazed, I think."

"Just?" Curry replied, the depth of the pain really starting to seep through, now.

"Take your shirt off." Heyes got up from the bed, picked up a towel and the full washbasin from the dresser then brought them back to the bedside table.

Curry had only managed to undo two buttons in that time.

"Let me," Heyes pushed his hands away then made quick work of the last four buttons. He remembered to undo the ones on the sleeve cuffs, then carefully pushed the shirt over Kid's shoulders and down off of his arms. And then he was too struck to move - not by the bloody wound in flesh - but by the well-tanned, well-turned muscles of Curry's chest. The last time Heyes had noticed, Curry was so skinny you could see his collar bones poking through the skin and the faintest outline of his ribs around his middle. But not now - now it was all solid muscle, no doubt due to their sudden spate of physically demanding jobs like mining and cow-punching. Not a boy anymore, a man and somehow he hadn't noticed.

"Lordy, is it that bad?" Curry asked, mesmerized by the expression on his friend's face.

"No. I don't know. Lie down on your side so I can have a better look."

Suspicious but willing, Curry laid down as instructed with his legs pulled up on to the bed, and arm lifted high up and out of the way.

Heyes dipped the towel into the water basin, then sat down on the bed. Working carefully with small, gentle pats, he washed away the blood from the wound, then frowned when it immediately rose back up again.

"How bad?" Curry asked, beginning to doubt his own initial assessment of his condition.

"I think it's just a crease. I'll have to press a little harder to see if there's a bullet under the skin."

It wasn't a question; so Curry had no choice but to take a deep breath then wait for the pain. The initial stab came quickly as Heyes pushed his bare fingers into tender flesh. After that came the dull, throbbing ache that would stay with him for a while.

"No bullet," Heyes announced. "But the wound is kind of long and ragged. I'd like to stitch it up."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't like it. So just pack a cloth over it and use my belt or something for pressure and I'll be fine."

"You are the stubbornest mule I've ever met." He pressed harder on the cloth.

***

Curry drew in a sharp breath, body jerking just once before he got hold of himself. "I think you're enjoying my pain."

"Well, you want to play gunfighter, this is what you have to endure."

"I'm not playing at it, Heyes," Curry replied, not quite able to get the push that he wanted behind his words. "I don't go looking for trouble," then, before Heyes could respond, he repeated. "I DON'T!"

Heyes frowned at the sight of blood seeping up through the cloth he had pressed against the wound. Sighing loudly for effect, he grabbed Curry's hand then used it to replace his own. "Hold this a second."

Curry allowed the switch to happen, but couldn't bring himself to exert the same kind of painful pressure on his wound. It was really starting to get to him now, the warm woozy sensation that came with blood loss, the shakes, the dull ache that emanated from his side but ran out to all parts of his body.

Heyes scooped his saddlebags up off the floor then got up from the bed and went to the table in the corner of the room. He tossed the leather pouch on top, unbuckled one side then began to fish around inside.

"Heyes," Curry said softly. "You're not really going to leave, are you? I'm wounded here. You wouldn't leave a wounded man behind, would you?"

Heyes just kept on searching the bags. He pulled out a dark blue bandana and finally a small cowhide pouch. With just these items, he returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Think of everything we've been through together," Curry continued, rattled by the lack of response from his now compulsively cool partner. "Thick and thin, remember? That was the promise we made to each other. Granted we haven't had much thick lately, but we're. . ." He stopped as Heyes began removing objects from the small pouch. A card of dark thread, a long needle. . . "I said I didn't want you to do that!" Curry snapped, keeping his hand protectively pressed to his side.

"I know what you said, but it has to be done. The tear's too big; the bleeding isn't going to stop unless I stitch you up. Now don't be such a baby." Heyes began folding the bandana into a tight little square.

"I'm not afraid. It's just that I've seen the results of your handiwork - like that time you sewed up my hat in Santa Marta and my britches after I got them caught on that fence. Stitches all crooked and pulled up tight. Sewing is not one of your talents."

"Bite this." Heyes pushed the bandana square into Curry's mouth.

Curry pulled it back out. "I don't want you to do this, Heyes!"

"If you bite your tongue, that'll bleed worse than the wound in your side and I'll have to stitch that up, too."

With an angry glare, Curry put the bandana back into his mouth, then clamped his teeth down - hard. The look he was getting from Heyes was pure punishment - a vapid visual reminder that Curry had gotten himself into this mess and now he was going to suffer the consequences of his ill-thought out actions.

Heyes' eyes lowered to the needle in his hand. Squinting through one eye, he passed the thread through the hole, then knotted it on the end.

This time when he looked up, there was something altogether different on his face. There was pain - agony over what he was about to do. "I'll make it fast." Holding the needle in his left hand, Heyes dragged the thread across his tongue to wet it with saliva. Then he tore his eyes off of Curry's face, needing to concentrate fully on the chore.

First, he lifted Curry's own hand off of the wound, then the bloody towel was set aside. Almost instantly, a bubble of blood rose to the surface and a second later it was a like a river swelling its banks. Moving quickly now, Heyes got on to his knees on the bed, he straddled Curry's hip, effectively pinning his lower half. He wished for a way to restrain his friend's shoulders so that he couldn't twist away when the stitching began but it was what it was, nothing more to be done about it now.

The sharp point of the needle pierced the skin but he didn't go deep enough so he had to pull it out and try again. So much for quick. On the second try, the needle passed cleanly through, but pulling thread through skin wasn't like working on fabric, it tugged and stuck forcing Heyes to be more aggressive than he felt comfortable with. Curry's body jerked as he completed the first stitch. He glanced up, saw his friend's hand wrap around the bedpost up and to the right of his head. The next two stitches were quick work but all the pushing and pulling was causing the wound to bleed even more than before. Heyes grabbed the towel and used it to mop up the wound so he could see what he was doing. He tried to keep his mind on his work but Curry's muffled moans and shaky movements distracted him.

"Almost there," Heyes said, even though there was still plenty more to do. The next stitch went in easy but on the next he came up short again, tearing the skin instead of catching it in the needle. He was about to try again, when Curry's left hand bumped against his - looking to push him away? Looking for something to hang on to? Heyes grabbed hold and squeezed but then he needed his hand back and Curry didn't want to let go. Okay, okay. He could make the next stitch with only his right hand, but when he pulled the thread tight he needed his left to keep the skin from rising up along with the thread.

"I'm gonna need my hand back, buddy. Just let me finish this, then I'll hang on to you, all you want. Okay?" Heyes wiggled his hand loose, then took Curry's arm by the wrist and moved it down in front of his body. "I know it's hard, but you have to keep your hand away or you're going mess this up. And I'm sure you don't want me starting all over again."

Curry's chest heaved in response.

"Okay. Okay," was all Heyes could manage himself. He tore his eyes off of his friend's flushed and sweating face, funneling all of his concentration on to his makeshift doctoring. Another swipe with the cloth, then two more stitches and it was done. Heyes fished his pocketknife out of his pants, cut the thread just below the needle, then climbed off the bed. "Done."

Curry rolled to his back, his body nearly overcome with the shakes, right hand still clutching the bedpost with a grip that seemed capable of snapping the post in two.

Heyes removed the folded bandana from Curry's mouth, rinsed it in the basin of water then used the thin cloth to wipe Curry's face. "I'm sorry," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed once more. "I didn't mean to suggest that you deserved that."

"Probably did," Curry said, finding his voice. "You're right. I need to learn how to turn the other cheek."

"Sure. You did it that time we were working for Big Mac," Heyes said, trying to sound encouraging. Even though, in the end, Curry had shot the man - only in the arm. But then there was Danny Bilson - one of The Kid's few clean kills. As much as Bilson was asking to be shot - begging for it, really, Heyes hadn't enjoyed his death one little bit. And it wasn't that he felt bad for Bilson. He felt bad for Curry - knowing that having one more body on his conscience would weigh on him like a sack of potatoes - slowly dragging him down and down.

And that was the real paradox of Kid Curry. He hated killing. Never wished for it. Never went looking for it and yet time and time again, he went for his gun and Heyes knew that no amount of lecturing from him would ever stop it from happening again.

"It's selfish, I know." Heyes spoke aloud without meaning to, his eyes focused on Curry's chest instead of his face, hand softly stroking the length of his arm. "I was always supposed to take care of you, but I can't save you."

"You save me every day. From the posses and the card sharks and the boredom and the loneliness. . . and the fear."

Their hands met, clasped, Heyes squeezing tighter just as he had promised before. "An inch to the left and that bullet would have been lodged in your stomach. A couple of inches higher and it would have torn through your heart. How can I get up each day knowing that the only reason you're still with me is because of fate was off by a couple of inches?"

"Isn't it just fate that keeps us one step ahead of the law, the wild animals, the accidents? And let's not even talk about five years of watching you pour nitro into a funnel just inches from your face." Curry took a deep breath and winced at the pain it caused. "You're not the only one who worries, Heyes. How many times have I seen a poker player draw on you because he can't understand skill, only cheating? Cons that got a little to tense? A smart remark spoken to the wrong man at the wrong time? I've been watching your back for six solid years and you don't think I've imagine what it would be like if I messed up and you got hurt or killed?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Heyes said softly, absently drawing circles on Curry's bare arm. "But I just don't know how much more I can take, Kid. See, I understand odds and how they work. Used to be you had a better than 80% chance of taken anybody who was dumb enough to call you out. But that's changing."

"Why?"

"Because we've changed - we're getting older."

Curry laughed at that and was sorry as soon as he felt the accompanying pain. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts. Makes the stitches pull."

"Useless conversation," Heyes muttered, then he stood but Curry grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.

"Heyes?"

"Hmm?"

"Look at me," Curry demanded.

Heyes turned only his head, his body still ready to bolt.

"I don't want you to leave me alone, Heyes. I've only ever been alone a couple of times in my life and I don't like it." Curry took a deep breath, pushing down the overwhelming feeling that came with speaking those words out loud. "When we were children, when the raiders cameâ€""

Heyes sighed, his gaze dropping to Curry's fingers wrapped so tightly around his arm. "Don't."

"We made a promise to look after each other, always and I know that when you add up all the years since that day, you've spent a lot more time looking after me than me after you - but it wasn't for lack of want. It was just that you were older and smarter and more able than me. About the only thing that you weren't was dangerous - so that's what I had to be. My fists and my gun and after awhile, my reputation - that was the only way I knew to look after you - so I could make good on that promise."

Heyes shook loose of Curry's grip. "I don't understand you sometimes. I really don't." He wandered back to the table. Put the sewing pouch back into the saddlebag. Picked it then threw it over his shoulder. Silently, he walked to the door.

"Heyes, you're not really going to leave, are you?"

He looked back over his shoulder, saw Curry struggling to sit. The effort was killing him, but still he pushed and wiggled until his back was against the headboard, one arm wrapped protectively around his aching chest. The man he had seen sitting there just a few minutes ago had turned back into the boy, big round eyes begging not to be left alone. And in that instant he was back at the ranch burying the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Curry and little Annabelle while Jedediah knelt in the dirt sobbing for the loss of his family, his innocence.

It had been such a long time since he had thought of him as Jed. Weary of life, Heyes wandered back to the table, let his saddlebags drop to the floor then set himself in the chair. "No, I guess I'm not leaving. Not this time but I can't make any promises about next time."

"There won't be a next time," Curry replied, his voice choked with a sudden wash of emotion. "I promise."

Heyes simply nodded, knowing full well, that it was a promise Curry wouldn't be able to keep.

Until next time.