Between the Rivers

by Natalie Jayne

CHAPTER 3

  Help Yourself

  Drawing Up Sides

  WITH a start, Gideon awoke. The fire had burned low. When had he dozed off? He should have been gone long since. For several slow seconds he lay still and listened. His guard was asleep. Very carefully Gideon retrieved a small nail he had found lost and forgotten under the bed. He inserted it into the keyhole on the handcuffs. It had been a while, but his teacher had been a good one. The lock gave a frightfully loud, yet enormously satisfying, click.

  He waited, breath held. Aspen did not move.

  Gideon tugged at the kerchief binding his feet, recalled the slip of a knife still hidden on his person, and cursed himself for a fool. Two and a half seconds later he tip-toed to the pile of gear in the corner. Amongst the collection were his own boots, handgun, belt knife— and Aspen’s rifle. Aspen’s very fine rifle.

  Ain’t no sense in a-gettin’ shot in the back.

  True for you.

  Gideon gathered the lot and eased the door open. In the pale light of false dawn, he swung his gun around his hips, stepped into his boots and aimed himself towards a scattered bunch of rustlers who were probably already halfway to Mexico.

  A thought stepped squarely into his path. What about the horse? A traveling man was better off riding than afoot and, where nothing matched his own roan, Aspen’s bay was a likely animal. Gideon swore. He couldn’t do it. Not because a man stealing a horse had best have his marker on order, but because it simply wasn’t in him.

  You’re an idjit, boyo.

  Don’t I know it.

  He gave up the notion and cut a trail towards the sound of water, which turned out to be a wide creek, or possibly a narrow river. Either way, water roared in the chilly air and sloshed over submerged rocks.

  A twig snapped.

  Gideon spun and there was Aspen Rivers. It was a split second decision between hoofing it up the boulder-and-tree mountainside or taking to the water. Of the two, the water seemed slightly more promising.

  That so?

  Compared to gettin’ catched again?

  Crick’s great.

  Icy water stole Gideon’s breath as he was snatched up by the current and hurtled downstream. Unforgiving rocks shouldered him one way and the other. Bumped, pushed, and spun like a top, it was all he could do to keep his feet downstream and his head above water. Once again, he was plummeting out of control.

  Sort-a makin’ a habit, ain’t ya?

  Will ya shutup?

  I’m just a-sayin’.

  Now?!

  ‘Member that there watermelon what felled off-a that wagon? I reckon your head’d look ‘bout the same if’n ya hit one-a them there rocks.

  Why do I take you along?

  For my upliftin’ sense-a humor. Rock!

  Ya reckon we’re gonna like whereall this river goes?

  Could be. Then again, ya might be too dead to care.

  Sometimes a section of riverbed fell away so quickly the shock of it tore a yelp from Gideon’s throat. Water rushed up, lifted its new toy into the air, dropped it over a white foamed ledge and shoved it down beneath the surface. Gideon rolled in the mouth of the river until, having had its taste– and its fun– the rapids spit him out again. Like a pea from a reed, he shot to the surface, quite certain the experience would lodge itself amongst the numerous other nightmares that made themselves to home and stolidly refused eviction.

  A comparatively calm stretch followed in which Gideon caught a blurry, waterlogged view back upstream. There was Aspen, bobbing along at the mercy of the current.

  I’ll be a knock-kneed mule!

  That boy’s plumb off his mental trail.

  A more immediate problem urgently suggested itself to Gideon. The image of a waterfall presented itself and he was pretty sure it was something he would have liked to recall sooner. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. From dry land the falls hadn’t seemed that big.

  An’ from where you’re a-sittin’ now?

  D’ya s’pose water bashes a fellah inta a million tiny pieces or one thin smear?

  As if on cue, Gideon fell.

  The river was briefly replaced by nothing, and then nothing was replaced by pain. Bottomless cold closed in, dark water swirled and Gideon’s mind reeled. Fortunately, his body didn’t need his brain. It took seisin of the arms and legs and began to swim. After what felt like a year, Gideon finally burst to the surface, gasping for breath.

  Alive!

  The word danced across his neurons, picking up momentum. He was alive!! The shore wasn’t far for a strong swimmer and Gideon’s arms, firmly grasping the overall idea, began to paddle. Suddenly he jumped— well, as much as one can whilst chin deep in freezing water. Just to his left was that dirty, no-good, on-demand lawman who had made the recent hours of existence thoroughly unpleasant. He survived the rapids, but now had the distinct appearance of drowning.

  Well?

  Mebbe we could sort-a, ya know, let ‘im be?

  Nope.

  Ya sure?

  Ye-ep.

  Blast.

  Ye-ep.

  Aspen Rivers began to sink below the surface. Gideon grabbed a handful of collar and heaved until, eventually, his toes scraped land. Chest burning, he took Aspen under the arms and dragged him the last few steps to shore, whereupon Aspen promptly coughed up a lungful of water.

  For the next several minutes they remained sprawled as they were, incredulous at finding themselves body and soul together. Then they crawled up to a thin stretch of spring grass and lay in the gentle warmth of the morning sun. They did not rest so much as failed to move. For the time being, merely breathing was sufficient.

  Alright, so you’re a-breathin’. So what? We got places to go, boyo.

  Hmmm?

  Up!

  Gideon listened to himself and sat up. Then he swore. Aspen had acquired a long cut near his right temple that dripped blood down his face.

  Well?

  Well what?

  Ya gonna help ‘im or is ya ain’t?

  Hey, we got us places to go, ‘member? I ain’t no nursemaid. ’Sides, he’s a lawman. I ain’t got no call to. . . aw, heck!

  Gideon unbuttoned Aspen’s coat and tugged loose a corner of shirttail. His knife made a soft whistle as it sliced through the thin fabric.

  “Great blue blazes, man, ya do make a habit-a messin’ up my plans,” Gideon grumbled as he worked. “No, don’t move, not ‘til I stop this leak a-yourn. Hold still. Almost. . . hey! That’s ingrat’tude that is!”

  Aspen had grabbed Gideon’s wrist, fastened a handcuff, snatched up the knife and secured the other handcuff to himself all in one very tidy move.

  “Ingratitude?” he echoed. “I have enough bruises thanks to you. I will be grateful not to get any more.”

  Aspen wondered if he might have been better off knocking his contumacious prisoner senseless long ago, but he had been charged with guarding him, not beating him. He wondered wryly if he ought to reconsider.

  “I done saved ya an’ you don’t trust me?”

  Aspen’s expression clearly suggested Gideon could not possibly be serious. Granted he had been hauled out of danger, but who had started this insanity in the first place?

  “Where’s the dang key?” Gideon demanded, rummaging freely through Aspen’s various pockets.

  “Probably at the bottom of the lake,” Aspen chuckled softly, doing nothing to shove off Gideon’s frantic searching.

  All of Gideon's insides wanted to pummel this interfering, self-righteous– he had the fabric of Aspen’s shirtfront twisted between his fingers. The man had no idea the problems he was causing.

  “C’mon, help me up, Governor. You’ve started us a long day.”

  Gideon’s fist hovered, shaking with tension. He put it to his mouth, bit the first knuckle and spun viciously around, putting his back to Aspen. If that man said one word, one word, so help him. . . Gideon yanked off his boots and tipped out enough water to save a parched man in a wide desert. With sharp
movements he crammed the soggy things back on.

  “Give me a hand,” Aspen repeated, trying to sit up.

  “Help your ownself.”

  “If you were my brother—”

  Gideon cut off the threat. “I ain’t an’ ain’t never gonna be.”

  Aspen tried again and made it as far as laying his head on his bent knees and groaning.

  “Oh, for the love-a Paul!” Gideon helped himself to Aspen’s boot, peeled off a sodden sock and flung it at its owner. “Wring that. This too. I ain’t a-gonna do ever’thing for ya.”

  Despite his claims of not helping, Gideon put Aspen’s socks and boots back on as if dressing a child. One hand braced on Gideon’s head, Aspen then climbed unsteadily to his feet, swaying slightly.

  “You ain’t too bright, mister,” Gideon opinioned.

  “I’m not the one arrested for rustling. Let’s go.”

  A long moment passed before Gideon clambered up and slipped Aspen’s arm over his shoulders. They followed the curve of the lakeshore and then Gideon leaned them north.

  “This way,” said Aspen, turning southward.

  “Ain’t there a town up there?”

  “This way.”

  “I should-a let ya drown.”

  As far as Gideon was concerned, a town meant provisions and he would need them because, until he was actually jailed, shot, or hung, he had to keep going. Not that he meant to help himself to any of these cheery eventualities, but wasn’t that what the law had in mind?

  What Aspen had on his mind was his mind. A splitting headache racked his skull and his stomach felt like a rowboat steered by some nutcase who refused to sit down. To distract himself, he thought about his duty. His captive was definitely backways to front. Without a doubt, he was guilty of something, possibly several somethings. But he had also, when in the perfect position to run, decided to save Aspen’s life instead. Twice, if Aspen thought about it. First by dragging him out of the lake and again by not gutting him like the landed fish he was. The thought simply did not appear to have occurred to the boy. Aspen would have to pry a name out of the kid soon. He couldn’t keep thinking of him as ‘the boy’.

  Aspen’s prisoner seemed utterly unconcerned that, once again, he possessed none of the firearms or sharp pointy bits. Of course, since their guns were soaked through, and thereby reduced to blunt instruments best used for inducing a concussion, the point was not one of logic but of observed behavior. A trapped man lashes out or cowers back. Handcuffed to someone head and shoulders taller than himself, and the difference in their weight could make up an entire third person, Aspen’s prisoner did neither. So: not trapped or complete idiot?

  Aspen peeked sideways at the young man supporting him. He was of the growing opinion that, when his new acquaintance felt pushed to it, he would strike with whatever could be fired, swung, grabbed or thrown.

  Guard and guarded walked on. The sun rose across a bright blue sky. Then there was some more blue sky, more warm sun, and more walking. Eventually, the sun reached the point were there was no more ‘more’ to be had and it slowly drifted below the horizon. Bats swooped overhead hunting for insects, their piercing calls sharp on the ear. Stars began to twinkle, followed by a brilliant silver moon that sent gossamer rays to flirt with the pine trees.

  Well into the night, they arrived at a large cabin. To one side stood a barn, out buildings and a corral. Everything was shadows and darkness, but even from where they stood it was obvious the place had been built to last.

  Gideon stopped short. “What’s that?”

  “Home,” said Aspen, and stepped forward.