Between the Rivers

by Natalie Jayne

BIRDS sang, insects buzzed, and Gideon Fletcher silently cursed the world. He lay over Aspen’s horse like a sack of grain, only presumably grain did not feel the discomforts of traveling in such a fashion. The rocking of the horse, on top of bruises and cuts, beat cadence with the pounding in his head. An eon ago they stopped at a stream, where Aspen insisted upon tending the gash on his prisoner’s leg. Gideon would have rather the infernal man jumped off a cliff. Twice, just for good measure. No such luck prevailed, this not being Gideon’s year for luck.

  He had gotten a bit of his own eventually and grinned at the memory. Aspen had reached out to toss him back on the horse and Gideon had reached out with the only weapon left to him: his teeth.

  Now, hours later, Aspen rode along no obvious trail, humming softly to himself, apparently pleased with the world and every little thing in it. Gideon could have kicked him. Well, metaphorically anyway. He may not have been on speaking terms with comfort, but he and his imagination were getting along very well indeed and filled the miles by contemplating what exactly might be done to Aspen Rivers.

  The sheriff’s man attempted conversation off and on, questions or comments meant to prize out information, but Gideon would have none of it. He knew money determined truth— and right— and the more money involved the more the rule held.

  The average human had a horrible habit of believing in fancy clothes and let themselves do as they were told without bothering to stoke up a fire in their own brains. They would think themselves safe, for one misconceived reason or another, and then, when things really went south, they would wake up to find they were no longer invited to think, nor the least bit safe. Stupidly, they would be amazed to discover the person to whom they had handed over all their free will and say-so was disinclined to give it back, no matter how nicely one asked. That was if they ever woke up at all. A fearful lot of folks went around letting other men do their thinking from cradle to grave.

  Aspen had the markings of money: well spoken, well dressed, well mounted. The same could be said for that other gent, the one who started the argument with Herrick, Aspen’s father if Gideon read the signs right. There was nothing remarkably ostentatious about either, yet they carried themselves with an assumption of authority. These men could say the word and less powerful men would hang. Gideon was not in a hurry to become one of those lessers.

  As the light began to fade, taking the temperature with it, a rough, one-room cabin came into view. A meager corral joined up with the back wall and, somewhere nearby, was the sound of swift moving water. Amber sunlight danced across the treetops. It was a time when everything seemed richer, stronger, a time in which Gideon usually found solace. All he wanted right then was off that danged horse.

  Coincidentally, Aspen picked that very moment to dump his passenger unceremoniously to the ground. Without so much as a glance, he walked his horse over to the corral, swung down and pulled off the saddle. He rubbed the bay down. He checked his feet for stones. He ran a careful hand over the horse looking for sores. Finally, Aspen turned the bay out to eat the wild grass growing within the enclosure. Then he went back to his charge.

  “Well,” he said, standing over Gideon, “how yet resolves the governor of the town? This is the latest parley we will admit.”

  Despite himself, Gideon returned Aspen’s ghost of a grin and said, “Therefore to our best mercy give yourself?”

  Aspen blinked. Not a crumb of conversation does he get all day, not a single word, and now Shakespeare?

  “Or like men proud of destruction,” he replied, picking up the next line, “defy us to our worst.”

  Gideon tipped his head to look up at the civic-minded do-gooder. It took some doing— six foot four measures a fair distance when you’re the one sitting in the dirt. He gave a shrug that was half a nod and generally meant, for the time being, he could consent to being agreeable.

  Aspen knelt down, eye to eye with him.

  “If you run,” he promised, “I will shoot you.”

  “Nah,” Gideon replied, utterly failing to be intimidated. “Wounded man’s too much bother.”

  Inside the cabin, Aspen secured his prisoner to the rail of a rope frame bed— there was nothing else of substance. Two stools hunkered under a table barely big enough to hold a checkerboard. A fireplace stood beside the bed and a rickety shelf on the left-hand wall proved to hold flour, sugar and a few mason jars of beans and peaches.

  "When did you read Henry the Fifth?” Aspen asked, as he began preparing supper.

  Leave it to a rich man to think someone like us couldn’t possibly.

  “Books get ‘round,” Gideon answered short.

  Aspen eyed him sidelong and decided to make use of the leverage he had been given.

  “Henry was a pretty hard walker,” he suggested mildly. “England wasn’t big enough for him, so he gathered up an army and declared war on France.”

  Gideon studied the middle distance.

  “You disagree?” Aspen pressed.

  “Mister, that copy a-yourn must’ve lost a page.”

  Aspen stuck a glob of biscuit dough on the end of a stick and held it near the fire.

  “Oh?” he said, inviting further comment.

  “Henry done checked his brand.”

  Aspen tried to draw out more, but Gideon clammed up again and resisted all nudging. When biscuits and beans had been placed upon the table, a second spoon scrounged up, and a single dented plate located, Aspen fetched his prisoner. Gideon could hardly believe it. Granted Aspen handcuffed them together, a proximity much closer than suited, but food was definitely in the offering. Unexpected or not, Gideon took the plate he was given and had at it without ceremony. He could scarcely remember the last time he had forked a decent meal.

  Aspen was amazed. He had never shared a table with anyone who could swallow entire mouthfuls without chewing and utterly flunked Silverware Techniques For The Complete Beginner.

  At a more decorous pace, Aspen ate his own supper and thought about the young man in his custody. His cheeks were too hollow, his frame too thin. He was strong, no question, but there was nothing extra about him. Worn out boots circled at the ankles by homemade straps, a work coat barely holding itself together— even the patches had patches— and britches that were both too short and torn at the knees. A rough cotton shirt, several sizes too large, held a multitude of unspeakable stains. The whole discordant collage was topped by a thatch of wild auburn hair that was neither brown nor red, curly nor straight.

  No harm in any of this, only. . . Aspen was the curious sort and couldn't help but wonder why. What was his story? Where was he from? What had entangled him with rustlers? And why wouldn’t he say? Silence held until they turned to the peaches and then Gideon spoke out of the blue and around a mouthful of fruit.

  “Real crim’nals were Henry’s council,” he declared. “They done did set him up. Henry were. . . kind-a like a rancher a-sortin’ out his prop’ty line. Din’t mean to crowd no one, only keep what were his. Can’t fault that.”

  “I suppose you weren’t crowding anyone either,” Aspen suggested conversationally, “just taking what should have been yours?”

  Gideon speared a peach and threw the accusation back. “I s’pose you live mighty comf’table on what ya done tooked an’ decided were yourn.”

  “Meaning?” Aspen prompted.

  “You’re an edgicated boy, fig’r it out.”

  “Alright, I think you’re packing a grudge. You believe the whole world owes you. Well let me tell you, boy, if you collect in other men’s property you will end up hung.”

  Gideon shook his head. “Lots-a folk steal beef, mister. Only the hind most is left to dry.”

  “How old are you?”

  Aspen received no answer and didn’t figure he was likely to. Nobody that young should be that bitter. Or that stubborn. He returned Gideon to the bed, locked the handcuffs and tidied up the dishes. One thing the cabin did have in ample supply was woolen blankets. Aspen took a generous arm full and t
ossed them to Gideon. He then added logs to the fire and stretched out on the bed.

  “We have a long ride tomorrow, sleep well.”

  “Reckon I’d do that better if’n ya undid these,” Gideon pointed out, rattling the handcuffs.

  “Sorry,” Aspen replied, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “I’m under strict orders regarding that subject.”

  Gideon had not expected to be released, but it would have saved some effort and you never knew– the world was full of people who couldn’t track a bed-wagon through a bog hole. He spread a couple of blankets out on the floor and bided his time.